"Hurt" by Johnny Cash
Coming out from the bathroom, I was met with the unexpected sight of Apollo.
There he was, the very picture of contrast and rebellion, a black suit hugging his frame, its formality undone by the absence of a tie and a few open buttons at his collar. The glimpse of inked skin beneath the parted shirt added a hint of wildness to his attire. In his hands, he held a wedding dress, a silent offering that bridged the gap between his untamed edges and the sanctity of vows.
"Sabrina destroyed your clothes, so I had Jimmy got this dress for you."
His unexpected thoughtfulness made me blush.
"Thank you, that's very considerate."
"See you later," he said, hurrying out, leaving me to ponder the surreal turn my life had taken.
I carefully removed the plastic shielding the dress and found myself genuinely surprised by his taste. As I slowly slipped into the dress, I savored every moment, attempting to delay the reality of my current situation. Yet, I couldn't help but stand there, gazing at my reflection in the mirror – a beautiful bride-to-be, devoid of love, but heavy with remorse.
"Today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow will be better than today," I whispered to myself.
A solitary tear escaped, trailing down my cheek.
My mother would never witness this moment, where I stood on the precipice of matrimony, not that she would have approved of my current circumstances or my future spouse.
She had been an old-fashioned believer in true love.
Still, I hoped that from her place in heaven, she was watching, and I prayed that she would be proud of the lengths I had gone to protect Rose.
I went down the stairs and walked through the hallway, where Apollo stood by the window with the priest. As I approached, he turned toward me and extended his hand, waiting for me to join him.
"I assume this is the bride," the priest remarked.
Apollo remained silent, his expression unreadable, though his eyes hinted at something deeper.
He extended his hand, guiding me under his arm as we walked towards a wedding pavilion set up by the pool.
At the part to exchange vows, Apollo instructed, "Skip this part."
But I interjected, "I want to say mine."
The priest glanced between us, sensing the tension. Apollo, however, remained stoic, his demeanor icy.
"Go ahead," he finally said.
I looked into his eyes, and instead of seeing the Beast, I saw a man trapped within his own world. The vows that spontaneously formed in my mind found their way to my lips.
"I may not know you, but I know what I've seen: a man who is neither a prince nor a beast, but a man who needs love. I hope you find healing for your scars, just as I will heal from the moment you took my freedom."
"And what do you need, Belle?" he asked.
Silence hung in the air as we locked eyes.
I was lost, but in that moment, I found myself.
Is it love I truly needed, too?
Apollo smiled, his response laced with sarcasm.
"Touching."
I had hoped for more than his cold words, but he said nothing further, only signaling the priest to continue.
As we pronounced our 'I dos,' the priest departed.
Apollo then faced me, his words unexpectedly sincere, "My vow, my only wish for you is to forgive me whatever I'll ever do to you."
His words struck a chord deep within me, and for the first time in a long while, I found myself moved to tears.
Left alone by the pool, my thoughts swirled in the aftermath of the surreal ceremony. Jimmy approached, sitting beside me with a concerned look.
"You alright?" he inquired.
"I've been better," I admitted.
Jimmy's expression softened.
"You know, the boss saw all kinds of shit, but I never saw him look at anyone as he looks at you."
I brushed away a tear, feeling the weight of his words.
"He's not just any man, Jimmy."
Jimmy offered a half-smile.
"Aren't we all just men?"
His perspective brought a small comfort.
"You have a point."
He stood up, extending a hand to help me up.
"The boss saved my life more times than I can count. He might not be a saint, but he's always been true to his intentions."
"So, if he kills me, it's an honest kill?"
Jimmy chuckled.
"Something like that."
Heading inside, I retreated upstairs, shedding the day's events along with my clothes, down to my underwear.
The sound of Apollo's footsteps signaled his approach.
"I can hear you, Apollo," I called out, not turning to face him.
He spun me around, his eyes intense.
"You're driving me crazy," he confessed.
I stepped back.
"I'm not in the mood."
But he was relentless, his grip strong as he pulled me close, a raw intensity between us. He pushed me onto the bed, and before I could protest, my wrists were bound with a tie, one after the other, stretching me across the bed.
"Apollo!" I screamed, my voice a mix of fear and confusion.
"You can't leave me like this."
He silenced my protests with a kiss, then stepped back, leaving me there, exposed, and vulnerable.
"I'm not in the mood," echoed as he left, closing the door behind him.
The lingering taste of his lips remained, a ghost of sensation even as an hour slipped by before the door creaked open once more. Apollo entered, nudging it shut with his back while balancing a wooden tray in his hands.
The aroma of grilled salmon and vegetables enveloped the room, mingling with the enticing scent of fish soup that already had my mouth watering.
Taking a seat beside me, he carefully set the tray down on the bed, his eyes softening as they met mine.
"Do you want to eat?" he offered, holding a spoonful of soup near my face.
"I want you to untie me!" I demanded, turning my head away in defiance.
"Suit yourself," he shrugged, nonchalantly starting to eat the soup himself.
My stomach betrayed me, growling with hunger as I watched him eat. The smell of the salmon steak he cut into was tantalizing.
"Are you sure?" he asked again, a hint of tease in his voice.
Reluctantly, I gave in.
"Fine," I conceded.
Slicing a small piece of grilled salmon, he dipped it into a savory sauce before bringing it teasingly close to my lips. With a gentle touch, he placed it in my mouth, attentively wiping away a trail of sauce from my lips with his thumb as I chewed. The process continued, piece by piece, until the entire plate lay empty. A satisfied smile graced his lips as I finished. He even poured water into a glass, lifting it to my lips for me to drink.
"When are you going to untie me?" I asked, a note of frustration in my voice.
"When I get in the mood," he replied, a playful smirk on his face.
I rolled my eyes, my voice laced with sarcasm.
"I'm touched. Did I hurt your feelings because I don't want to sleep with you?"
His laughter filled the room.
"No, Bellissima, you didn't hurt my feelings," he assured me, his amusement clear.
Leaning back, he picked up the tray and set it on the nightstand. His hand then found its way to my inner thigh, his fingers involuntarily sending shivers down my spine.
He observed my reaction, a curious arch in his brow.
"Does that feel good?" he inquired, his voice a mix of challenge and curiosity.
In response, I nodded, my eyes closing in anticipation of his next move.
His fingers traced a delicate path from my thigh, down to my lower lips, engaging in a subtle dance of playfulness and teasing that stirred anticipation within me.
Bound and unable to dig my nails into his hair as my desire dictated, all I could manage was to bite down on my lip before a soft moan escaped.
His fingers traced intricate circles, evoking a cascade of emotions that sent tingles racing through my body, quickening the beat of my heart.
As he eased his finger inside me, my breaths deepened, syncing with the unhurried rhythm of his finger, gently moving in and out, while his palm pulsed against me.
"Are you still not in the mood?" he inquired.
I nodded, asserting, "I'm in the mood."
Retracting his finger slowly, he replaced it with two, smoothly sliding back into me. With a gentle twist of his wrist, he curled his fingers like a hook, pressing his palm against me, setting a rapid pace that sent waves of pleasure coursing through me. I surrendered to the sensation, my body arched, drawing closer to his hand as my desire surged.
As I danced on his fingers, my eyes fluttered shut, soft moans escaping my lips, each movement driving me closer to the edge. But just as I neared the peak, he halted, withdrawing his fingers, his eyes meeting mine.
Placing his fingers against my lips, he stroked them gently, coaxing a glossiness as if to mirror the sheen of desire reflected in our eyes.
"Bellissima, I'm not in the mood," he said with a hint of smugness flickering in his eyes.
"Apollo!" I pleaded, desperation resonating in my voice.
He paused; his back turned to me.
"I have some urgent business to attend to. I'll return shortly."
"Apollo, you better release me," I demanded, frustration seeping through my tone.
Silence lingered until he reached the door.
Without looking back, he said coolly, "I warned you your sharp tongue