The room was too quiet.
Roman sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the sleeping girl whose body he knew too well. Serene. His wife. His prisoner. His obsession.
She looked peaceful now — the way her lashes curled softly against her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep, the faint shadow of the bruises he left last night marking her thighs like ownership. But peace was an illusion. She wasn't his yet. Not fully.
Not the way he needed.
Because no matter how many times he touched her, took her, kissed her until she sobbed and moaned and broke — her body refused him.
No pregnancy.
No growth beneath her belly.
No seed accepted.
It was starting to gnaw at him.
At first, Roman thought it was timing. Then fate. But now… now the rage had become unbearable. Every morning, he waited for signs. Every night, he poured himself into her like a madman — only to be met with nothing but emptiness.
And that was when he remembered.
The pills.
His jaw clenched so tightly it popped.
That morning — the morning she came back from school with that glassy-eyed fear, lips trembling, guilt painted all over her — he saw the signs. He just didn't want to believe it.
She'd been swallowing birth control behind his back. Every damn day. She was killing their future. Killing their child. Every. Single. Day.
A sharp breath hissed between his teeth.
Roman rose to his feet slowly, towering over the woman who had dared to deny him his legacy.
It wasn't enough to just stop the pills. No. The damage was already done. Her body was poisoned, saturated, defiled with that disgusting drug. And time? He had no time.
She needed to be cleansed.
Purified.
He grabbed his phone and called his private physician — the one who owed him more than a few favors.
"I want her blood cleaned. All of it. The pills. The hormones. Every trace gone," Roman growled.
There was silence on the other end before a hesitant voice replied, "You mean a full detox? That's… intense. Painful. Risky."
Roman's voice turned to ice. "She's not allowed to die. But she'll scream. And I'll be there to hear every sound."
He hung up.
By noon, the machines arrived. State-of-the-art. Quiet. Cold. Clinical. Just like Roman's rage. The medical team came dressed in white, setting everything up in the room Roman chose — their room.
Serene was dragged awake.
"W-What's happening?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and dread. Her wrists were already tied. She was used to it now.
Roman knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"My love," he said gently, "you've been so sick. Taking things that hurt us. So now, Daddy's going to fix you."
Serene's eyes widened. Her chest rose and fell with sharp breaths.
"Don't do this…"
"You brought this on yourself." He stood, gesturing to the nurses. "Strap her down."
"No! Please, please I won't—! I'll stop! I swear!"
Roman didn't even look at her as she screamed. His eyes were on the IV tubes, the screens, the slow drip of cleansing fluids entering her veins. This wasn't punishment. This was salvation.
She fought. She cried. Her body thrashed as the process began — the slow detoxification. Blood, flushed. Hormones, reset. Her womb, scrubbed clean from the war she waged inside herself.
Roman watched it all with silent fascination.
It went on for hours.
By the end of it, Serene was limp. Pale. Eyes glassy. Her voice was gone, throat raw from begging.
And Roman finally smiled.
He reached for her hand — bruised from the struggle — and kissed her knuckles.
"You're clean now," he whispered. "Now you can finally carry what belongs to me."
He bent lower, pressing his lips to her belly.
"I'll fill you again tonight. But this time, there'll be no poison left to fight me."
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