Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 38

Chapter 38: Let Me Take Absolute Responsibility

For five years, mornings had been a cold, uniform routine for Dorrent—a calculated transition from the quiet numbness of his private quarters to the absolute, ironclad control of his executive boardroom.

But today, the air inside the palace felt thick and lively with the residual, invisible static of the previous night’s biological cataclysm.

Dorrent strode down the sweeping grand staircase, his silk robe billowing slightly behind his towering, muscular frame. His eyes immediately swept the vast expanse of the dining hall, instinctively seeking the far corner of the table where the pale, sharp-tongued herbalist usually sat. For the past month, despite his structural avoidance of her, Jannah had maintained a rigid, defiant presence at dawn, nursing her bitter morning tea while staring out the window like a caged bird plotting its escape.

The chair was empty.

A pristine, untouched porcelain cup sat on the silver tray, the water long since grown cold. A sudden, sharp prickle of irritation—flared deep within Dorrent’s chest. His jaw clenched. After the explosive, unhinged declarations she had thrown into his face before slamming his bedroom door, he half-expected her to be packed and standing at the estate gates, foolishly attempting to honor her desperate gamble.

He turned on his heel, his long strides carrying him swiftly through the winding corridors of the East Wing until he stood before the doors of her private quarters. He didn’t knock. With the absolute, intrusive authority of a predator who owned every square inch of the ground she walked on, he pushed the door open.

The bedroom was drenched in a suffocating, freezing silence. The duvet was messy, thrown completely to one side of the mattress, but the sheets themselves were entirely vacant.

"Jannah," Dorrent called out, his deep voice dropping into a rough, commanding rasp that echoed uselessly off the walls.

No answer.

His eyes tracked a narrow trail of discarded, damp cotton threads on the floorboards, leading toward the frosted-glass door of the adjacent bathroom. A faint, continuous hum of running water vibrated through the frame. Dorrent strode forward, his hand clamping onto the brass handle, throwing the door open with a sudden, impatient force.

The sight inside froze the blood in his veins.

Jannah had fallen completely onto the freezing marble floorboards, her small, delicate frame huddled tightly against the base of the tub. The shower head above was dripping cold droplets, but she had clearly lost the strength to turn it fully off. She was stark naked, completely limp, and shivering so violently that her teeth were clicking together in a frantic, hollow rhythm. Her long, dark hair was a tangled, soaking wet mass, plastered across her pale face and shivering shoulders like a shroud.

And then there were the marks.

In the unforgiving, sterile light of the morning, her pale skin was a graphic, undeniable canvas of how brutally he had treated her hours prior. The dark, deep purple finger prints from his ironclad grip were permanently pressed into her narrow waist; her hips bore the brilliant, angry red blush of his palms, and the delicate skin of her inner thighs was completely covered in the dark, telling bruises of his fierce, unyielding dominance. It was a terrifyingly vivid reminder of the beast she had awakened—a visual map of an S-tier Alpha’s total, unbridled indulgence.

"Jannah!"

Dorrent dropped to his knees, his expensive silk robe dragging through the shallow pool of water on the floor as he reached down. The moment his hands made contact with her skin, his brow furrowed in deep concern. She was burning hot to the touch, yet her flesh was covered in a cold, clammy sweat. Her muscles were entirely unresponsive, dangling completely limp as he hoisted her fragile weight into his arms, lifting her against his chest.

He carried her out of the cold bathroom and laid her burning naked body down onto the center of her bed. He immediately grabbed a thick, plush linen towel from the rack and began to aggressively but carefully dry her skin, wrapping her in the warmth of the fabric.

He pressed his palm against her forehead. The heat radiating from her skin was alarming. She was experiencing a severe, acute fever—a direct physical reaction to the sudden, ruthless velocity of his coupling. Her virgin body, completely untouched by the raw, heavy weight of an elite predator’s biology, had simply broken down under the continuous, hours-long onslaught of his passion.

Dorrent’s hand wiped the water from her throat. He had not spared her at all. In his manic, desperate frenzy to prove his own masculinity, to drown out the memory of five years of numbness, he had driven himself into her narrow, unyielding core over and over again without a single shred of mercy.

As he dragged the thick towel down her torso, he arrived at her breasts, pressing the heavy linen over the swollen, sensitive mounds to absorb the moisture.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify