Forced to Become His Hucow (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #3)

Chapter 1

Mariya

I stood outside my father’s study in shock.

The way my family has been kissing the Chartwells’ asses lately, I should have seen this coming.

The hints my mother made, my older brother being nice to me for a change and my simpleton father who thought I would agree to this madness.

Owen Chartwell was a well-known dickhead, and there was no way on this earth that I would marry him.

I wouldn't want his diseased dick anywhere near me.

Unfortunately for my family, I had been planning my escape for quite some time, since my mid-teens.

My brother was the heir to a crumbling estate and a nonexistent empire, while I had been making money by betting options on the markets and stashing away my profits in Bitcoin.

It was the only way to hide my funds from them.

Most people had some semblance of a normal family, but mine was an entirely dysfunctional one.

I almost felt normal some days, but those were the no-contact days.

It was challenging to have a no-contact policy when I lived with them.

I made a break for my room because it was time to accelerate my plans.

***

I sat at the dinner table to watch the clown show—the show of wealth, gluttony and vulgar words about their mutual associates.

Owen’s hand moved under the table to rest on my thigh.

My eye twitched, and I looked at the silver knife on the table, wondering if it was sharp enough to slice through his diseased dick.

“Do you like your ring?”

I lifted my hand to see the tiny rock surrounded by gold and even smaller diamonds around it. If I were to estimate the ring's price, it wouldn't be any more than ￡200.

“It’s beautiful,”

I said with a smile.

His hand tightened on my leg, and he leaned close.

“Why don't we go upstairs and have a—private chat?”

“I’m sorry, Owen, that wouldn't be appropriate,”

I said demurely.

When his hand moved further up my leg, inching between my thighs, I abruptly stood up.

“Please excuse me for a moment.”

I walked through the kitchen, picking up a knife, and went around the house to the back door until I reached the garden. The warm evening air and complete silence were what I needed.

Once I had taken a few long breaths, I snuck around the house and stabbed the knife into Owen’s tyre before deciding to fuck up some of the paintwork at the rear bumper.

Somewhere, he wouldn't notice for a few days.

His Mazda sports car was as cheap as his ring. I took my time, enjoying each knife scrape against the paintwork.

Feeling somewhat better after my spur-of-the-moment destructive artwork, I returned to the house, dumping the knife in the kitchen sink and returning to the room full of laughing hyenas.

I sat beside my lecherous fiancé to enjoy our engagement party.

***

“Owen was furious someone drew a phallus into the paintwork of his car,”

my mother said to my father. “What is this world coming to?”

“People are simply jealous when others do well,”

he said, sniffing his nose before reaching for the teapot.

I kept my eyes down since I was tempted to roll my eyes. All they had done last night was bitch about people who were doing better than them. I could have left in the previous year but decided there was no harm in living in their house while I built more wealth for the real world. My educational and freeloading days were over.

“You’re quiet,”

my brother said to me, which would have been sweet, but for the fact that he didn’t care.

I shrugged my shoulders.

If I was lucky, I could go for a full day without speaking to any of them.

From the age of fifteen, I realised fighting with them didn’t resolve anything because they would never acknowledge how toxic they were.

The only way I avoided getting sucked into how they chose to exist was to separate myself from them emotionally and physically.

Little did any of them know the sheer excitement bubbling away inside of me, desperate to spill out into the open.

I wanted to laugh at their insipid conversation.

There would be no marriage to Owen, and my parents remain broke.

The incubator, the sperm donor, and their precious dickhead of a son could beg, borrow, or steal.

I was not going to be sold off like a fucking Victorian-era package deal bride because of my father’s gambling, my mother's shopping and my precious brother’s needs being fulfilled.

They had a useless aristocratic title but not a single pot to piss in.

“We have a wedding to plan,”

the incubator said.

“Make it small,”

the sperm donor said.

I glanced at Julian, who side-eyed me with a smirk.

I was under no delusion. My family was my greatest enemy. Fate must fucking love me.

***

“May I sit here?”

“As long as you don't expect me to talk to you,”

I said, not looking away from my phone but tapping my tablet’s screen, which lay on the table to check for the additional information I needed. I barely noticed the scrape of the chair or the shadow that fell over the table.

A low chuckle rumbled in response. “Such strict terms,”

the man said, his voice carrying a faint Russian accent. “But what if I came here just to talk to you?”

“Did I not clarify my terms before you sat down?”

I snapped before finally looking up at the irritant.

He was leaning back in his chair, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his dark shirt. His hair was a tousled mess of dark brown, catching the light in a way that made it look almost liquid.

But it was his eyes that held me captive—pale blue, icy and piercing, like the heart of a glacier.

His jawline was sharp, his features carved with the precision of a sculptor, and a faint smirk played on his lips as if he knew precisely the effect he had on me.

Cocky.

I gave him another once over before deciding to give myself a victory gift. He looked nothing like Owen, the very opposite of my former fiancé. It worked in his favour.

“Technical or fundamental analysis?”

he asked, but when I stared blankly at him, he nodded to my tablet.

“Both.”

“You don’t like to take a risk with technical analysis alone?”

“I like to be sure about everything before I place a bet,”

I said with my eyes flicking to his lips.

This was a man who knew how to fuck. Everything about him screamed sexual domination. I calculated when it was the last time I had sex. Two years, three months and six days. The last person I fucked was in University.

“I’ve not fucked for over two years. Show me some proof that you’re disease-free and have some condoms, then we can forgo this part of the ritual and go upstairs to your room,”

I said, lowering my phone.

His smirk vanished, and his mouth dropped open, but those cold blue eyes searched my face for the truth. This is why I didn’t speak. People talk about truth, honesty and transparency, yet most can’t handle the raw truth.

“You don’t even know my name,”

he murmured, but his eyes rested on the open buttons of my shirt.

“Is that relevant to your performance?”

I asked curiously.

As I had suspected, my family and Owen had put out a missing person’s report. Before I left the country, I needed to deal with the police. My problem was that Owen was a stalking, obsessive bastard and had been since I was sixteen years old. A delusional bastard who seemed to think I was in love with him.

The man’s eyes narrowed on me. He was used to control, and I was done being controlled, rotting in my parent's estate.

“It is not relevant at all,”

he said before pulling his phone out.

While he tapped away on his phone, I came to the conclusion the man was extremely wealthy.

The suit was exclusively tailored to a muscular body, the Rolex on his wrist wasn’t fake, and his nails were professionally managed.

I waved the waiter over.

“I’d like a Screaming Orgasm in a tall glass, please,”

I said as the waiter grinned at me.

“Coming right up. Will there be anything for you, sir?”

he asked my fuck buddy for the night.

When I looked at him, he was staring at me.

“Can you get me a pint of fresh beetroot juice?”

he asked without taking his eyes off me.

My brain whirred at the information, and for the first time that night, I almost smiled.

He knew the mission and had accepted my challenge.

Beets and vodka were a given for Russians, but beetroot juice before exertion meant longevity for the imminent exercise. I hoped his dick was as good as he thought it was.

With any luck, I would be having several screaming orgasms tonight.