Chapter 27
Twenty Seven
Wynter
Iwake to the unfamiliar sensation of being alone in the vast bed. My eyes flutter open, and for a blissful, ignorant second, I am simply a woman waking in a luxurious room. Then, memory crashes down like an avalanche.
The pain. The pleasure. The shame.
My body feels alien, a territory that has been brutally conquered and colonized.
A deep, throbbing ache has settled between my legs, a constant, physical reminder of his claim.
But beneath the soreness, a traitorous hum of remembered pleasure lingers, a low thrum of electricity that makes my skin prickle with heat.
A hot tide of shame washes over me, so potent it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I cried out his name. I arched into his touch. I surrendered.
I push myself into a sitting position, my muscles protesting. The sheets are a tangled mess, a testament to the night's violence and passion. The air is thick with the lingering, musky scent of him, of us. It’s suffocating.
He's gone. A wave of relief, so intense it makes me dizzy, washes over me. But it's fleeting. He isn't gone; he is merely absent. This is his room, his bed, his world. He could walk through the door at any moment.
I slip out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the foot of the mattress and wrapping it tightly around myself, a flimsy shield against my own vulnerability. I need a shower. I need to wash him off me, to scrub away the memory of his hands, his mouth, his body.
But before I can take a step, a soft knock sounds at the door. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.
The door opens, and one of the uniformed women enters, pushing a breakfast trolley.
She doesn't meet my eyes, her movements quiet and efficient as she sets a small table near the window.
She arranges the plates, pours a cup of tea, and then, with a small, respectful bow, she leaves, closing the door behind her.
I stare at the tray. It’s another feast. Eggs, toast, a small pot of jam. And a crystal bowl filled to the brim with perfect, glistening raspberries.
My breath catches.
Raspberries. My favorite. A secret I haven’t shared with anyone since I was a little girl, picking them with my mother in the gardens of our old estate. A memory so private, so precious, it feels like a violation for him to know it.
How does he know? The realization dawns, cold and sickening. He must have had me investigated. He didn't just research my life; he excavated it, stealing even the most innocent, buried treasures of my past.
The act is so much more insidious than force. It’s a calculated, intimate cruelty. A demonstration that there is no part of me, not even my childhood memories, that he cannot touch, cannot claim. It’s the poisoned apple, offered not by a wicked queen, but by a dark king who knows my every weakness.
The door opens again. It’s Kaden.
He’s dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit, looking every inch the ruthless king of his empire.
But his eyes… his eyes are different. They aren't just possessive; they are searching.
He looks at me, then at the bowl of raspberries, and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. Satisfaction?
“Is the breakfast to your liking, Snowflake?” he asks, his voice a low, even rumble.
A cold, hard fury solidifies in my chest, burning away the shame and confusion. He thinks this is a game he can win with calculated kindness and stolen memories. He thinks that because he conquered my body, my will is next.
He is wrong.
I walk to the table, my movements deliberate, my gaze locked with his. I pick up the crystal bowl of raspberries. It’s heavy in my hands. His eyes follow my every move, a hint of confusion entering his expression.
I walk past him to the small, elegant waste bin near his desk.
I hold his gaze, a silent challenge. Then, slowly, I tip the bowl, emptying the entire contents into the trash.
The soft thud of the perfect, glistening fruit hitting the bottom is the only sound in the room. It’s the sound of a battle cry.
I place the empty bowl back on the trolley with a soft click. I turn back to him, my chin high, my eyes blazing with a fire I thought he had extinguished.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, my voice low and shaking with rage. “You don’t get to dig up my past and serve it to me on a silver platter like it’s some kind of prize.”
His face hardens, the searching softness in his eyes vanishing, replaced by a cold, dangerous stillness.
“You can take my body,” I continue, taking a step toward him, fueled by a righteous fury. “You can lock me in this room. You can own me like one of your possessions. But you do not get to have my memories. You do not get to have my soul. That is not yours to touch.”
I stop directly in front of him, forcing him to look down at me.
“I am not your Snowflake,” I spit, the name tasting like poison. “I am not some fairytale princess you can lock in your castle. I am Wynter Blanc. And you would do well to remember that.”
The air in the room crackles, thick with unspoken threats.
Kaden’s eyes, which had been a cold, dangerous blue, now darken to an almost black intensity.
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek.
The stillness that descends upon him is more terrifying than any shout.
It’s the stillness of a predator about to strike.
He moves. Not with a shout, not with a lunge, but with a terrifying, controlled speed. One moment, he’s standing across from me; the next, he’s directly in front of me, his body a solid wall, blocking out the light.
My breath catches in my throat. I try to step back, but he’s too fast. His hand shoots out, not to my arm, not to my waist, but to my throat. His fingers, strong and unyielding, wrap around my neck, not quite cutting off my air, but making the act of breathing a conscious, desperate effort.
He shoves me back, hard. My spine slams against the cold, unyielding wall, the impact jarring my teeth. The silk robe gapes open, exposing the bare skin beneath, a fresh wave of vulnerability washing over me.
His face is inches from mine, his eyes burning with a primal rage that makes my blood run cold. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the raw power thrumming beneath his skin.
“You think you know me, Wynter Blanc?” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through my bones. “You think you know what I am? What I’m capable of?”
His thumb presses against my pulse point, a silent, chilling reminder of the power he holds over my life. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his skin, a desperate drumbeat of fear.
“You think you can defy me?” he continues, his voice laced with a dangerous amusement that makes my stomach clench. “You think a few pretty words, a little temper, will change anything?”
I struggle against his grip, my hands coming up to push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. He’s a mountain, immovable, implacable.
“Let go,” I gasp, the words a thin, reedy sound against the pressure on my throat.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something dark and possessive entering their depths. “Let go?” he repeats, his voice a silken threat. “Never. You are mine, Snowflake. Every breath you take. Every thought in that stubborn head. Every beat of that defiant heart. It all belongs to me.”
He leans in closer, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver through me. “And if you ever, ever defy me like that again, if you ever challenge my authority in my own home, in my own bed…”
His grip on my throat tightens, just enough to send a jolt of pure terror through me. My vision blurs at the edges.
“I will remind you,” he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “exactly who you belong to. And it won’t be with raspberries, cara.”
He pulls back, releasing my throat. I gasp, sucking in a ragged breath, my lungs burning. My hand flies to my neck, massaging the tender skin, trying to erase the phantom pressure of his fingers.
He steps back, his eyes still fixed on me, a chilling triumph in their depths. He has made his point. He has reasserted his dominance.
He walks to the breakfast trolley, picks up a single, perfect raspberry from the untouched bowl, and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Now,” he says, his voice calm, as if nothing has happened. “Eat your breakfast, Wynter. We have a long day ahead of us. And you will need your strength.
He turns and walks out of the room, leaving me leaning against the cold wall, trembling, gasping for air, the taste of fear and the lingering phantom of his touch a bitter taste in my mouth.
He thinks he has broken me. He thinks he has won. But as I stare at the untouched breakfast, a new resolve hardens within me. He may control my body, but he will never control my mind. And one day, I will make him pay for every breath he stole.