Chapter Six
Killian
Step one: remind Lyra that she belongs to me, and she always has. Her body is as good a place to start as any.
It also wouldn’t be amiss for us to have a conversation regarding my expectations of her. I don’t really see a reason why we can’t engage in both at the same time. She does become far more compliant after I’ve warmed her ass and played her body like my favorite instrument.
Instead of the master bedroom, I find my Little Bird holed up in a guest bedroom when I return home. There’s a lot on my mind—Silas, The Eyes, how I’m going to navigate the coming shitshow—and I’m in the mood to get some of my turmoil out of my system.
I don’t bother knocking on the door, because this is my house. But when I turn the handle, I find it locked.
It’ll be a battle at every turn. I’m actually quite looking forward to seeing how our war progresses.
I retrieve the master key from our bedroom, where I should have found her, and open the door to the guest room.
She’s seated on the bed, with a notepad and pen in front of her, scribbling away at something. I tilt my head to the side. Where did she get those? Probably charmed my housekeeper. I don’t mind her having hobbies or pastimes, so long as they don’t interfere with my time with her.
“In the future, please don’t lock doors in our home.”
Her eyes flash up. “This is not my home.”
Yes it is. It’s best if she accepts that right away.
“Your home is with me, and this is where I live. Ergo…”
“I know your ego might not be able to take this, Killian, but my home will never be with you. You kidnapped me—”
“Persuaded you,” I correct mildly.
“—Spanked me—”
“Turned you on and made up for a fraction of the time we missed while you had your tantrum,” I interject.
“—and locked me in your penthouse!”
“Our penthouse.” I glance around the room. King-sized bed, velvet curtains, en-suite bathroom, wardrobe instead of walk in closet. “If you don’t like the décor, redo it. Add your touches to the place. I don’t mind.”
She stares at me with open confusion. “You really are insane,” she whispers. “You’re a fucking sociopath.”
“That’s a bit harsh. Maybe I have some sociopathic traits, but I also have a range of emotions.”
She snorts. “Sure.”
I think this is what I’ve missed about her the most. The way she gives as good as she gets.
Her invigorating fight, followed by her sweet surrender.
The fact that she, a virtual ant, can and does stand up to me.
Anyone else I would crush without a second thought, but I’d never crush her. Only contain her.
I roll up one of my sleeves. Her eyes track the gesture, growing wide.
“How’s your ass?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Yes, she has. She has a wonderful pain tolerance that enables me to occasionally unleash the full force of my newly discovered sadism on her. Not too often, though.
“You deserved every spank.” And then some.
“Remind me, what crime did I commit to invite such a punishment?”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Do you really need to ask, Little Bird? You fucking left me.”
“And how is that considered a crime?”
My jaw tenses. “You were pregnant with our child. We were about to get engaged, and start planning a wedding. We were set to take steps towards a future—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “You were going to do all those things. I had no fucking say in it. I would’ve been trapped here, barefoot and pregnant, locked up and only carted out for social events and galas. You were going to ruin my fucking life. You did ruin my fucking life!”
“We can agree to disagree.”
“Sure. As long as we both acknowledge that I’m right.”
I’m done with this line of conversation for now.
There are more pressing topics to cover.
“Is it safe to assume you’re not currently on any form of birth control?
” Knocking her up was a compulsion before, but after my conversation with the Herald, it’s morphed into a necessity.
The Eyes would have a much harder time disputing that Lyra’s my fiancée, and therefore Silas attacked me through her, if I get her pregnant.
I also don’t mind the idea of permanently binding her to me. It might make her give up on the ridiculous notion of escape.
“I’m not answering that question.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have a doctor check you over tomorrow. In the meantime, take off your clothes.”
She swallows. “I’m going to tell you something I know you’re unaccustomed to hearing: no.”
“I’m actually quite used to hearing that from you. I just don’t care. And I don’t think you know your own mind nearly as well as you wish you did.”
Her jaw tightens. The gesture is oddly cute, like a kitten’s fur standing on end. “I’m not playing this game with you.”
My hands land on my belt. “This is not a game, Lyra. I wish it were; I wish we could afford a mental game of chess, but there are forces beyond either of us at play. Now, you can take your clothes off, or I can spank you some more and tear them off you. Dealer’s choice.”
She winces. Then, ever so slowly and reluctantly, she begins removing her clothing one item at a time.
I relax and enjoy the show as inch after inch of skin is exposed.
She’s developed a tan during her time away from me; her pale skin is a few shades deeper.
But her hip bones jut out unpleasantly, and her ribs are visible.
She stops undressing when she’s down to her bra and panties. I arch an eyebrow at her. “I don’t think you’re done.”
“Killian, I don’t… want this.”
“You don’t know what you want,” I retort seriously. “Tell me, Lyra. Did you enjoy being on the run?”
Her gaze lowers, and that’s all the answer I require.
“Of course you didn’t. Did you enjoy losing your chance at a book deal? At being revered as one of the most influential women in high society?”
“I don’t care about power.”
Ah, but she does mourn the loss of the career I would’ve—and still gladly will—kickstart for her. “Of course not.” I allow my tone to be patronizing. “Finish undressing or I’ll do it for you, after I’ve reminded you why I don’t like issuing orders more than once.”
“I don’t understand. You could have anyone—literally anyone—in the world. What’s your interest in me?”
Yes, I could have anyone. But Lyra’s the one I want. “You’re singular. Unique. Not just a rare find, but one of a kind. I’d be stupid to let you go.”
Her breath hitches, and she gives me a wide-eyed glance filled with vulnerability and uncertainty. I almost forgot just how susceptible she is to being wanted and cared for. Truly cared for, I mean. That’s a glaring weakness of hers—a void left by a childhood and lifetime spent catering to others.
Slowly, her fingers hook in the waistband of her panties, and she pulls them down her legs. Then, she strips out of her bra, but folds her arms across her chest.
“No.” I shake my head. “None of that. Let me see you.”
Her entire face burns with shame as she lowers her arms. Posture stiff, jaw tense, eyes filled with humiliation… but nipples hard. I can’t see for sure, but I suspect that she’s already wet.
“You can fuck me as much as you want. It won’t stop me from hating you.”
“That’s fine,” I say carelessly. It’s not fine, but I won’t give her the power of knowing that.
“You might hate me, but I distinctly recall you didn’t hate my body.
Or my cock. Or my tongue.” I unwind my belt, striding forward and setting it on the edge of the bed, leaving the threat out in the open.
Lyra watches me with a skittish look as I strip out of my pants and step out of my boxers.
Only then does her gaze pointedly avert, and she turns an even brighter shade of red.
“Lay back.” I climb onto the bed, watching as she obeys me without questions for once. Her temper often comes into check once she’s naked, exposed, and knows she’s about to be fucked.
“Thighs spread.” She inhales a long breath before following instructions, turning her head away to avoid my eyes.
When I see the glisten at her center, I understand why.
Something about this—probably the power imbalance—has gotten her wet.
Lyra always did enjoy acting prim and proper even though what she really enjoys is being pinned down and fucked to within an inch of her life. I am more than happy to oblige her.
She jumps when I rub my fingers through her slit.
I didn’t let her come earlier—I wasn’t exactly in the mood to make her feel good.
Now, though, she’s endured enough punishment.
Her winces of discomfort tell me all I need to know about the state of her ass; laying down like this isn’t pleasant for her.
If I was slightly less sadistic, I’d turn her over and fuck her from behind, but I have no urge to make this easy for her.
“I have a very serious question for you,” I say, spreading her wetness up and rolling the pad of my tongue over her clit.
Playing with her is like riding a bike; I already learned all her sensitive parts of her body, everything that makes her squirm or cry or come, and I intend to use that knowledge to my advantage.
“Were there any other men while you were gone?”
She blinks several times, looking a bit dazed.
I helpfully pinch her clit between my forefinger and thumb, reminding her why she should answer. This encounter can be extremely pleasurable or extremely painful; I don’t much care either way.
“N-none,” she whispers.
“None,” I repeat slowly. “And you pretend you aren’t mine.”
Her eyes flash with rage. “I moved every few weeks. If I’d stayed in one place, you can bet that I’d have taken a love—”
I snap my hand around her throat. She doesn’t get to say that to me. Even though I’m certain she’s talking out of her ass, the thought of another man touching what’s mine is enough to drive me half out of my mind.
I pinch her clit hard, rolling it between my fingers. She gasps, and her eyes roll in the back of her head.
“Do not provoke me,” I growl. “You’ve already done that enough for several lifetimes. Trust me, Lyra, you don’t want to make me any more upset than I already am.”
I take her lack of response as agreement.
I spread her legs a bit wider with my thighs, settling myself between them. My hand remains around her throat, but my grip loosens. I’m warning her, not actually restricting her air. If she decides to get bratty, though, I’ll respond in turn.
“Deep breath,” I instruct her. “This next part might hurt a bit.”