The morning light filtered through heavy velvet curtains, casting thin, dusty beams across the bridal chamber.

King Jungkook stirred first, his massive body still pinning Y/N to the mattress, his naked skin fused to hers with dried sweat and the evidence of his conquest. He groaned—a low, rumbling sound of satisfaction—and opened his eyes.

Beneath him, Y/N slept fitfully, her face streaked with dried tears, her lips parted in silent distress. The sight of her—so vulnerable, so thoroughly ruined—sent a fresh surge of lust through his veins. His morning arousal throbbed in her pussy, hard,heavy and insistent.

He licked his lips, his gaze raking over her naked form—the bruises he had left on her breasts, the marks on her throat, the way her legs were still slightly parted from his use. Without waking her, he started thrust forward in brutal stroke.

Y/N's eyes snapped open, her scream tearing through the morning silence—a raw, agonized sound as he filled her sore, abused channel without preparation. She thrashed beneath him, her bound wrists from the night before now freed but her body too weak to fight.

"Stop," she sobbed, her voice hoarse from last night's screaming. "Please, Your Majesty... let me go... I want to go home... please..."

Her begging fell on deaf ears. Jungkook was already moving, his hips pumping with relentless force, railing her into the mattress with the same savage hunger as the night before. He grunted with each thrust, his eyes rolling back in pleasure, ignoring her tears and her clawing hands against his chest.

"Your home is beneath me," he growled, pinning her wrists above her head. "Your home is wherever I decide to fuck you."

For two hours, he took her again—morning light shifting across their joined bodies as he used her without mercy, changing angles to find the deepest penetration, forcing her legs over his shoulders to drive harder into her weeping center. When he finally spent himself with a guttural roar, filling her with his seed once more, he pulled out and dressed himself without a backward glance.

He left her there—naked, trembling, his essence leaking down her thighs.

Y/N lay still for long moments, her body a landscape of pain. Then the sobs came—wracking, desperate cries that shook her entire frame. She cried until her throat burned, until no more tears would come. Slowly, painfully, she limped to the attached washroom, her legs barely supporting her weight.

She scrubbed herself raw under cold water, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain—blood and him, mixed together. She scrubbed until her skin was red and burning, trying to wash away the feel of his hands, his mouth, his invasion. But the marks remained, dark and vivid against her pale flesh.

When she emerged an hour later, wrapped in a fresh robe, she froze in the doorway. The bed had been changed—fresh silk sheets, jasmine flowers arranged in vases, the room smelling of perfume instead of sex. And sitting on the edge of the bed was Prince Jeon, her husband, his head bowed, his hands clasped between his knees.

He looked up as she entered, and the shame in his eyes was devastating. He knew. Of course he knew. The whole palace knew.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking.

She stood frozen, clutching her robe tighter, unable to meet his gaze. The evidence of her ruin was written all over her—the limp, the bruises visible at her collarbone, the way she moved like a broken doll.

Prince Jeon approached her slowly, his steps hesitant, his face a mask of anguish and helplessness. He reached out to touch her shoulder, then pulled back, as if unworthy.

"Father is... supreme," he said softly, his voice trembling. "He is the Kingdom. No one dares speak against him. Not Mother. Not me. Not the guards. He is... he is absolute power."

He looked down at his feet, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his cowardice.

"As my bride," he continued, his voice barely audible, "you must bear it. You must endure. There is no other way. To defy him is death. For you. For me. For your family. We are all... we are all his subjects."

Y/N stared at him, shock rendering her speechless. She had hoped—foolishly, desperately—that her husband might protect her, might fight for her. But looking at him now, seeing the fear that lived in his eyes, the same fear she had seen in Queen Myung's face, she understood. Jungkook had broken them all long ago.

She said nothing. What could she say? He was right. The King was ruthless. Merciless. Supreme.

That night, Prince Jeon made love to her with a gentleness that felt almost like an apology. He was careful, caring, his touch soft and trembling, whispering sweet words into her hair as he moved within her with a slow, tender rhythm. It was over quickly—one round—and he held her afterward, stroking her hair until she fell into an exhausted sleep, his lovemaking a small balm against the horror of his father's brutality.

The next night, they did not touch at all. They lay side by side like children, like friends, speaking of their childhoods—his in the palace under the shadow of a terrifying father, hers in a modest home with parents who had sold her to royalty without understanding the price. They talked until dawn, finding small comfort in shared loneliness.

But on the fourth evening, as the sun bled red across the horizon, the summons came.

King Jungkook sat in his study, sprawled on a throne-like chair behind a massive desk of black oak. Before him stood Prince Jeon, his head bowed in submission, his spine curved in that permanent posture of fear and respect that Jungkook had beaten into him over decades.

"Bring her," Jungkook commanded, his voice like thunder in the quiet room.

A maid scurried away, and moments later, Y/N entered. She wore a simple hanbok, her hair braided down her back, her face pale with terror. She saw her husband first—saw his bowed head, his trembling hands—and instinctively moved toward him, seeking protection.

"Come to me, little bride," Jungkook barked.

Y/N flinched as if struck, freezing mid-step. Her eyes darted to her husband, but he didn't move, didn't speak, didn't dare look up. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

Whimpering, Y/N turned and walked toward the King on shaking legs. Jungkook watched her approach with predatory satisfaction, his hand already reaching for her. When she stood before him, he gripped her waist and pulled her down onto his lap, positioning her so she straddled him, her back to his chest.

Prince Jeon remained standing, his head bowed, his neck exposed in a posture of complete submission.

"Look at your husband," Jungkook murmured against Y/N's ear, his hands moving to the front of her blouse. "See how he knows his place."

He began undoing her buttons, one by one, exposing her chest to the cool air of the study. Y/N begged, tears streaming down her face, her hands trying to cover herself, but he captured her wrists and held them at her back.

"Please... Your Majesty... not in front of him... please..."

"I want to suck your boobies," Jungkook announced crudely, his voice carrying across the room. "I want to taste what's mine while my son remembers who owns this palace. Who owns everything in it."

He squeezed her breasts hard, making her cry out, then pulled the fabric aside to expose her nipples—still bruised from his previous attentions. He lowered his head, his mouth finding her flesh with a wet, hungry sound.

The slurping noises filled the chamber—obscene, shameless, deliberate. He sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing, while his free hand kneaded her other breast with brutal possessiveness. Y/N sobbed, her body shaking with humiliation and unwanted sensation, her eyes fixed on her husband who stood there, head bowed, neck bent, unable—or unwilling—to meet her gaze as his father feasted on his bride.

For hours, Jungkook used his mouth on her, switching from one breast to the other, leaving them glistening and swollen, the nipples erect and throbbing, while Prince Jeon remained frozen in his posture of fearful respect, the ultimate display of the King's absolute power over them all.