They Thought I Was Just Staff

Ciara’s POV

I was the good girl. The virgin mafia princess locked in her tower, pure as fresh snow, promised since birth to a man I’d barely kissed.

My whole life has been lessons in obedience, legs closed, eyes down, smiles sweet. No touch below the waist, no dirty thoughts, no freedom. Purity was my crown, my cage, and my currency.

But here I was, getting absolutely fucking banged like a cheap whore against cold stone.

His cock hammered into me without mercy, thick and ridged, stretching my untouched...well, formerly untouched cunt until I thought I’d split in half.

Every thrust slammed my back harder against the rough wall, scraped skin raw, drove him so deep I felt him in my throat.

I couldn’t see his face, just shadows and those burning gold eyes that promised ruin, fangs flashing when he snarled low against my neck.

One massive hand clamped around my neck, thumb grinding into my pulse until black spots danced, while the other crushed both my wrists above my head like I was nothing, like I was his to break.

“This virgin pussy’s weeping for my dick,” he growled, voice dark

“Good little princess, huh? Legs spread wide for the first stranger who smells how bad you need to be bred raw....I’m flooding this tight hole so deep you’ll feel me leaking out of you on your wedding day.”

I tried to deny it, tried to cling to the lie of who I was supposed to be, but he pounded harder, vicious, and claiming and the words dissolved into a desperate, slutty whine.

My thighs quivered around his hips, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper even as tears stung my eyes from the burn. Slick gushed out of me, soaked us both, turned every savage slide into filthy wet slaps that echoed like sins.

His teeth grazed my ear, biting hard enough to mark.

“Cum on this cock, you lying little virgin bitch. Squeeze me like the greedy cumdump you’ve always been underneath all that lace... I’m gonna flood your womb so deep you’ll carry my seeds while you swear forever to another man.”

The filthy truth shattered me. My body betrayed everything I’d been taught, arched hard, nails scraping uselessly at his grip and the orgasm ripped through me, violent and unforgiving, wrenching a scream from my throat as my walls milked him desperately, and shamelessly.

He growled in dark triumph, hips stuttering, and then I felt it, a scorching heat pumping into me, thick pulse after thick pulse , marking me, claiming and owning me.

I was still convulsing, still stuffed full and leaking his seed, when... the bedroom door exploded open.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ciara, you sound like you’re getting murdered by orgasm in here.” Inara’s voice slashed through the dream, wicked and laughing.

“Who’s destroying that precious virgin cunt in your twisted little brain on your wedding day... your spineless groom-to-be or the savage beast who actually turned you into a cum-soaked mess at the club?”

I jolted awake, silk sheets twisted around my sweat-soaked thighs, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.

The dream’s heat still throbbed between my legs cause my panties were ruined, absolutely fucking soaked, phantom cum sliding down my skin even though it wasn’t real. I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide with pure terror.

“Close your filthy fucking mouth,” I hissed, voice shaking. “You want them to hear? You want them to drag me out and check if I’m still ‘pure’ enough for the alliance?”

Inara sprawled across my bed like she owned it, coffee in hand and a lethal smirk plastered on her face.

“Relax your clenched asshole, virgin queen. Guards are downstairs jerking off to their own reflections after hearing your moans but holy shit...those screams? Thought you were getting your throat rawed by a demon or filming porno."

I sighed cause yeah, this bitch was trouble

"Spill it. Was it the club monster from a month ago? Dreaming about that hung bastard who popped your cherry and pumped you so full you limped for days?”

Heat flooded my face, my cunt clenching traitorously at the memory. I yanked the covers higher, like silk could hide how ruined I still felt.

“I barely remember his face,” I muttered, throat dry. “Just… the way he felt. Like he was punishing me for being good my whole life.”

Inara laughed “Punishing you? Babygirl, he fucked you like he was claiming territory. Bet that ‘good virgin’ pussy’s still aching for round two, huh?" She asked and I scoffed at her

"Well, too bad tonight you’re handing it over gift-wrapped to Jasper... the mafia boss who’ll probably come in thirty seconds and call it passion. Sneaking you out was the best decision of my life.”

I chucked a pillow at her head, hard. “I hate your guts.”

“Liar,” she purred, dodging with ease. “You love me because I’m the only one who knows what a depraved little breeding slut lives under that perfect princess mask. The only one who watched you beg a stranger to wreck your virginity and thank him for every drop of cum he left inside you.”

I buried my face in my hands, but the truth burned and I was about to say more when the door swung open and everything froze.

Inara rolled off the bed like she’d been caught committing a felony, coffee abandoned, mouth snapping shut. The air shifted so fast it felt physical, heavy and cold, like laughter had never existed in this room.

My mother walked in first, calm and sharp, followed by attendants who already knew what to do. The air stiffened, and even Inara stopped breathing like herself. Two women carried in my wedding dress, and set it down.

My mother’s eyes landed on me, then on Inara, then back on me.

“Ciara,” she said, and then switched to Italian without pause, “Non hai ancora fatto il bagno? Sei impazzita? Oggi ti sposi, non stai andando a una festa di strada.”

(You haven’t even bathed yet? Have you lost your mind? You’re getting married today, not going to some street party.)

I opened my mouth to answer, but she raised a hand.

“And you,” she added, looking at Inara with thin patience, “Basta giocare. Vai a prepararti. Subito.”

(Enough playing. Go and prepare yourself. Now.)

Inara rolled her eyes just enough to be disrespectful but not suicidal. She leaned in and whispered, “Try not to faint before I come back,” then slipped past my mother before she could say anything worse.

My mother watched her leave with clear dislike. She had never liked Inara.

Said she's too loud, too free and too uncontrollable but Inara was family, tied by blood and alliance, so my mother tolerated her like one tolerates bad weather.

She turned back to me.

“Take her to the bath,” she ordered the servants. “A proper one. She smells like sleep and nonsense.”

I didn’t argue. I rarely did.

The bathroom was marble and steam and quiet hands. They undressed me without ceremony, helped me step into warm water, and washed my hair slowly, carefully. I let them. I closed my eyes and stood still, calm on the outside, thoughts racing neatly in lines inside my head.

This was my daily life, being handled and prepared.

After the bath, they dried me, lotioned my skin, brushed my hair until it fell smoothly down my back. By the time they laced me into the first layers of the dress, I felt distant from myself, like I was watching someone else being assembled.

My mother returned when they were almost done.

She stood behind me as I faced the mirror, her reflection sharp beside mine.

“You look beautiful,” she said, then corrected herself, “Sei pronta.”(You are ready.)

I stared at my reflection. Same face, eyes and girl who had been protected, indulged, spoiled like a princess until my brother died and everything changed.

My mother spoke again, her voice lower now. “The world you are marrying into is cold, Ciara. Men smile and plan your burial at the same time. Affection is currency. Marriage is power. Love, if it comes, is a luxury.”

She met my eyes in the mirror.

“You are not marrying because you want to,” she continued. “You are marrying because the Dagon family needs stability. Because without your brother, the eyes turned to you and alliances do not wait for grief.”

There was no cruelty in her tone. Just truth.

She softened slightly then, brushed invisible dust from my shoulder.

“I know you think I have changed,” she said. “But I am protecting you in the only way that matters now. Being soft will get you eaten.”

I nodded. I understood. I really did.

She had loved me like a princess when there was room for softness. Now there wasn’t.

“Ricordati chi sei,” she murmured. (Remember who you are.)

“I know,” I said softly.

She studied my reflection, then nodded once.

“Good. Today is not about feelings. It is about legacy.”

“Comportati bene,” she added quietly. (Behave well.)

And with that, she left and it was just me and the mirror.

I studied my face again, searching for something I couldn’t name. Confidence, maybe. Certainty but instead, a thought slipped in, unwanted and sharp as my stomach turned again.

What if I was pregnant?

My chest tightened. My fingers curled against the silk.

One night. One mistake. One month ago.

The fear rose fast, hot and ugly, but I pushed it down just as quickly. No. I refused it. I had no proof. No sign. Just nerves and memory and imagination.

Jasper loved me.

He was gentle, patient and handsome in a controlled, reassuring way. He sent gifts constantly, never missing a day, like proof measured in objects. He had never once raised his voice at me, rushed me or made me feel small in public.

Men who did not care did not bother to be careful.

I placed a hand over my stomach, then dropped it, annoyed at myself for thinking stupidly cause nothing could go wrong now.

I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and met my own eyes in the mirror.

I was ready.