Chapter 9
Nine
Kaden
Istand on the other side of the door, my back pressed against the cool wood, listening. I hear nothing. No crying, no attempts to break things, no frantic scrabbling at the windows. Just silence. It’s a silence that unnerves me more than any screaming would.
I left the tray on a console table in the hall, the clatter of the plate and cutlery sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet wing of the house. My house. My wing. A place where, until today, the only sounds were my own footsteps and the low crackle of the fire.
She ate. I watched her, and for a few bizarre moments, I wasn't the head of the Alaskan Mafia.
I was just a man, watching a woman eat a meal I had provided, and the simple, domestic act felt more profound than closing a multimillion-dollar deal or eliminating a rival.
It was a primal satisfaction. The act of providing. The act of owning.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Alrik. I ignore it. Nothing is more important than what is happening within this mansion.
I walk down the hall to my office, a room adjacent to the bedroom suite. From a security monitor, I can see a thermal view of the bedroom. She’s moving. She walked to the windows, and now she’s heading for the bathroom. Good.
On another screen, I pull up the security feed for the main gate. A black SUV is arriving. I zoom in on the license plate. It’s the vehicle I assigned to this task.
I press the intercom on my desk. “Alrik.”
“Sir,” his voice comes through instantly, crisp and professional. “I was just about to call again.”
“The package has arrived. Bring it to my suite. Use the service entrance. No one sees it.”
“Understood.”
“And Alrik,” I add, my voice dropping. “Find out who her personal maid was at the Blanc estate. The one she was speaking to at the party. Emily, I think her name was. Find out everything about her. Where she lives, her family, her routine. I want a complete file by noon.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Sir… is she a threat?”
“No,” I say, my eyes fixed on the thermal image of Wynter in the bathroom. “She’s a friend. And I want to know everything about my girl’s friends.”
I cut the connection. Knowledge is power, and I will have all the power. I will know every secret, every weakness, every person who matters to her. They will all become either assets to use or liabilities to control.
I return to the bedroom, standing outside the bathroom door.
I can hear the shower running. The thought of her in there, naked, washing away the grime of her old life, sends a jolt of raw, possessive lust through me.
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to open the door, to join her, to press her against the cold marble and claim her right now.
But that would be too easy. It would be a release for me, but it wouldn't serve my purpose. I don’t want to just break her body; I want to own her soul. And that requires patience. A slow, meticulous dismantling of her will.
There’s a soft knock on the main bedroom door. I open it to find Alrik holding several large, expensive-looking shopping bags from an exclusive boutique in Anchorage.
“Leave them,” I command, gesturing to the foot of the bed.
He places the bags down silently, his eyes carefully averted from the bathroom door, as if he can feel the dangerous territory he’s on. He turns to leave.
“The file on the maid?” I ask.
“My team is already on it. You’ll have it by noon,” he confirms, before slipping out of the room as silently as he entered.
I open one of the bags. Inside is soft, cashmere loungewear, delicate lace underwear, and silk pajamas.
Nothing provocative. Nothing but the finest, most comfortable materials.
She will be wrapped in luxury. She will learn that her comfort and pleasure are my primary concern, even as her freedom is utterly revoked.
It’s a powerful form of psychological warfare.
I lay a soft gray cashmere sweater and matching pants on the bed, along with a set of black lace underwear. Then I wait.
The shower turns off. The silence that follows is thick with anticipation. Minutes stretch into an eternity. Finally, the bathroom door creaks open.
She steps out, wrapped in one of my large, black bath towels. Her dark hair is wet, slicked back from her face, making her eyes seem enormous. Her skin is flushed from the heat, and droplets of water trace paths down her neck, over her collarbones. She is the most exquisite thing I have ever seen.
She freezes when she sees me, clutching the towel tighter. Her eyes dart to the clothes laid out on the bed, then back to me, full of suspicion.
“Your dress was ruined,” I state simply, my voice a low rumble.
She doesn’t respond. She just stands there, a beautiful, defiant statue.
“Get dressed, Wynter,” I say, my patience wearing thin. The sight of her, so vulnerable and yet so proud, is pushing my control to its absolute limit. “Or I will dress you myself.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. A spark of fire in her eyes. “Turn around,” she demands.
I almost laugh. The audacity. She is a captive in my home, wearing my towel, and she is giving me orders. It’s magnificent.
But for now, I will grant her this small illusion of control. It will make it all the sweeter when I take it away.
I turn my back to her, facing the windows.
I can see her reflection in the dark glass, a faint, ghostly image.
I watch as she hesitantly drops the towel.
My cock hardens, straining against my jeans.
I watch her pick up the lace panties, stepping into them.
I watch her pull the soft cashmere sweater over her head, her back a pale, perfect curve.
She thinks she has privacy. She thinks she has won a small victory.
She has no idea that I am always watching. And I always will be.