Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

The world tilted, the dizzying swirl of shattered mirror and the shocking, impossible glimpse of her face – Katerina’s face – still imprinted behind my eyes.

Then, hard hands closed around my waist, lifting me clear off the bloody floor like I weighed nothing. My injured hand screamed in protest, a fresh jolt of agony slicing through the numbness.

"Stay there," Nicolas growled, the command vibrating with barely leashed fury.

"But—" My voice was a broken rasp, lost in the tempest of his presence and my own spiraling thoughts.

He turned. Slowly. Deliberately. His green eyes, still flecked with the remnants of anger’s storm, locked onto me. They weren’t black now, but they held no less danger. They were predatory. Focused.

The primal awareness of him, of *Alpha*, filled the room, pressing down on me.

His lips curved. Not a smile. A baring of teeth. A hunter’s grim satisfaction seeing its prey cornered.

His hand shot out, not rough, but unyielding. His fingers circled my ankle.

"No!" The word burst out, raw and desperate. I kicked instinctively, a feeble resistance against an immovable force.

He didn’t flinch. His grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the delicate bone.

He dragged me towards him effortlessly, my body sliding over the smooth sheets until my legs dangled off the edge of the massive bed, his large frame looming over me.

His free hand came up, fingers brushing against the loose neckline of my dress. I stiffened, every muscle locking. His fingers didn’t go to my throat. They traced the edge of the fabric, rough skin catching slightly on the cotton.

The touch was light, almost curious, but it burned. It felt like a brand. My skin prickled beneath it, a confusing mix of revulsion and unwanted awareness. He was studying me. Assessing what he owned. The possessiveness in his gaze was scalding.

He leaned down, bringing his face closer to mine. His breath was warm against my lips. The pull intensified, a physical ache in my chest and lower, a desperate yearning that warred with the icy terror.

My body betrayed me further, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping my lips. It wasn’t just fear. It was need. Shame washed over me, hot and immediate.

The sound seemed to ignite something in him. The remaining control snapped. The predatory focus sharpened into something ravenous. He didn’t kiss me. He descended.

One large hand fisted in the front of my dress. With a brutal, tearing sound, the fabric ripped apart down the middle. Cool air hit my bare skin – my breasts, my stomach.

I gasped, a sound of pure shock and violation, instinctively crossing my arms over myself, trying to cover my nudity, my vulnerability. The sight of the thin cotton shift I wore underneath offered little comfort.

His hand closed over my hip, his thumb digging possessively into the dip of bone. It hurt. The other hand easily pried my arms away from my chest, pinning my wrists above my head with one crushing grip.

His knee pressed between my thighs, forcing my legs apart. The rough fabric of his trousers scraped against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. Helplessness washed over me, cold and final. Pinned like a butterfly, exposed, vulnerable. The fear was a suffocating blanket. Yet, beneath the terror, a traitorous heat pooled low in my belly, reacting to the dominance, to the raw, unleashed power that held me captive. My body arched involuntarily, a small gasp escaping me as the apex of my thighs brushed against his hard thigh. I hated it. I hated myself.

I was wet. Shamefully, traitorously wet. My body’s betrayal was complete. He grunted, a sound of dark satisfaction.

His fingers curled, pressing hard against the damp fabric, against the sensitive nub beneath. My hips bucked against the pressure, seeking more and recoiling simultaneously. "Stop!" I sobbed, tears blurring my vision. "Please, don’t!"

He ignored my plea. His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear and shift together. With one brutal wrench, he ripped them away, the fabric tearing like paper. Utterly exposed now. The cool air was a shock against my bare sex. I squeezed my eyes shut, humiliation a burning tide. But he wasn’t done.

The hand holding my wrists tightened impossibly, grinding the bones. My cry of pain was choked. His other hand pushed between my thighs again, fingers delving through coarse curls to find bare, slick flesh. One thick finger pushed inside me without warning. It wasn’t gentle. It was an invasion, a claiming.

I cried out, my body clamping down instinctively, tight and unyielding. The stretch burned. He hissed, whether in frustration or pleasure I couldn’t tell. He withdrew the finger almost immediately. Before I could draw a ragged breath, I heard the rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric.

My eyes flew open. He was shoving his trousers and underwear down just enough to free himself. My gaze locked on the rigid length of his cock. Thick, veined, the head flushed a dark, angry red. A primal fear, deeper than anything before, lanced through me. It looked impossibly large. Destructive. He was going to tear me apart. Maxim’s face flashed before my eyes again – the pain, the humiliation. Panic seized me in an icy grip.

"No! Nicolas, please!" I thrashed wildly, bucking against his weight, trying to twist my wrists free. "Don’t do this! Please! I can’t!" Tears streamed down my face, hot and desperate.

"Then get used to it," he snarled, his voice harsh and ragged. "Because it’s happening. Now."

He shifted his weight, his broad hips settling more firmly between my splayed thighs. One hand remained locked on my wrists above my head, a steel manacle. The other gripped his cock, positioning the swollen, blunt head at my entrance. I felt the hard, insistent pressure against folds that were slick with fear and unwanted arousal but still clenched tight with resistance.

He thrust.

A jagged cry ripped from my throat. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding, radiating from the point of invasion through my entire body. My back arched off the bed, muscles locking rigidly. Tears blurred everything. The sound that escaped me next was a broken whimper.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t give me a moment to adjust. The moment he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside me, he pulled back and slammed forward again. Harder. Deeper. The force drove the air from my lungs. My inner muscles convulsed around him, a pathetic attempt at resistance that only made the friction burn hotter.

"Ah!" The cry was punched out of me with each powerful thrust. My body jolted on the bed with the force of his movements. The pain was a living thing, a searing brand deep inside. I tried to twist away, to escape the relentless pounding, but his grip on my wrists was iron, pinning me in place. His weight pressed me into the mattress, stealing my breath.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against mine. His breath was hot and ragged against my ear. "Feel it," he commanded, his voice thick and guttural. "Feel me inside you. Where I belong. You’re mine, Irina. Mine."

My body arched again, not in pain this time, but in a spasm of pure, involuntary reaction. A choked cry escaped me, half sob, half gasp.

My body convulsed. Violently. A silent scream tore through me as a shockwave of pure, blinding sensation ripped through my core. My inner muscles clamped down on him in a series of frantic, uncontrollable spasms.

He roared. A sound of pure, savage triumph. His hips slammed into mine one final, devastating time, burying himself to the hilt. I felt him pulse deep inside me, a hot, liquid rush that seemed to sear my very core.

The white light at the edges of my vision exploded, consuming everything. The world tilted violently. The last thing I felt was the searing heat of his release inside me.