Chapter Seven #2
I’m jetlagged from forty-eight hours of travel leading up to my return from the states, still battling the weakness from sepsis even though it was months ago, underfed, and overstimulated on literally every single front.
Killian doesn’t ask me what I want to eat. Instead, he sets about pulling a large plate from an overhead cupboard and filling it with heaping portions of everything. Then, he takes a seat at the breakfast bar and fixes his gaze on me. “Come here.”
“Should I make myself a plate?” Why the hell am I asking? Probably because everything about this man does, and always had, put me off balance.
His lips twitch at the corners, but he chooses not to comment on me asking for permission. “No. We’ll be sharing.” His gaze hardens. “I won’t repeat myself again.”
I close the distance between us, pulling out a chair that’s two seats away from me, but he stops me with a gesture of his hand.
“No.” He shakes his head. “On my lap.”
“Excuse me?” My brows furrow. He thinks I want to sit on his lap after… everything?
“You heard me. On my lap.” He lifts a shoulder. “Or kneel on the floor.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he says drily. “Choose. Now.”
I don’t like either choice. Sitting on his lap is a concession; kneeling on the floor is a demeaning, subservient position. Why can’t I sit like a normal fucking person?
The answer to that is obvious; because nothing about Killian ever has been or ever will be normal, least of all our relationship. He doesn’t take my preferences or comfort into account. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and expects the entire world to cater to him.
Worst of all, everyone does. He’s gorgeous, charming, charismatic, and richer than God.
He circles my wrist with his fingers and yanks me down on his lap. I gasp and try to stand; he pulls me straight back down again, pitilessly. “No,” he says mildly. “You stay where I put you. Got it?”
“I changed my mind; I choose the floor.”
“Too late.” He sounds almost cheerful. “I’m sure I don’t really need to tell you as much, but if you struggle, that will result in me bending you over the counter and spanking you into compliance.”
My thighs clench, and my face heats with humiliation at my body’s response. How can I find his threats arousing? I’m still pretty sure he’s going to kill me at some point.
“Maybe you like that idea a little too much,” Killian speculates.
He gives me a squeeze to warn me to stay still, picks up his fork and knife, and cuts into the steak.
I watch docilely, knowing that any resistance I present right now will only end up hurting me.
My ass already burns and my pussy feels sore; I don’t think provoking him more tonight will do me any favors.
He holds the bite of steak up to my lips. I close my eyes and accept the morsel of my food, hating myself for complying, him for putting me in this position, and the universe for hating me this fucking much.
What have I done to earn the obsession of a man like Killian King?
“Good?” he asks.
I didn’t even taste it. “Yes.”
He either buys my lie or doesn’t care, because he continues feeding me, bite after bite.
For every three bites I take, he gets one.
It would almost be considerate if I’d consented to it.
I don’t know what the intent is behind this little exercise; building dependency?
It won’t work, only piss me off. Building trust?
I’d sooner go a few rounds with a shark than put an ounce of faith into him.
Making me see just how much power he has over me?
That was never in question. He always found ways to control what I did.
What he could never quite manage to control is what I felt or how I coped.
And I know that continues to infuriate him.
This sadistic little ritual continues until my stomach is full, the plate is empty, and my eyes are drooping with exhaustion.
I expect Killian to fuck me before bed again, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he picks me up and carries me to the master bedroom.
I’m so tired, I barely take in the ridiculously large bed, familiar dark bedding, ottoman at the foot of the bedframe, velvet curtains shading the windows, and all the other luxurious amenities he surrounds himself with.
He lowers me onto the soft bedding and strips me out of the short robe. Again, I expect him to fuck me, and again, he disappoints.
Disappoints? The fuck?
“You’ve been a relatively good girl for me today,” he comments.
“All things considered, I expected much more of a battle. I’m impressed.
” He leans down to brush his lips against mine.
I try to turn my head away from him, but he grips my chin to hold me still.
“We’ll go out tomorrow to have breakfast, I think. ”
I do not like the ominous tone he uses, as if going out is a bad thing. I also don’t like the idea of showing face in public. “Don’t you have work?”
“I’ve arranged my schedule to work from home for at least the rest of the week to help you acclimate. Beyond that, I guess we’ll see.”
A tear tracks a path down my cheek. I know Killian well enough to know that helping me acclimate will be far from helpful. It’ll be degrading, suffocating, and humiliating. It’ll be a complete subversion of my free will and my constitutional rights.
I could rail against him right now. I want to very badly. But what would that actually achieve? He’ll punish me, and I still won’t get my way.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whisper. “I never asked for anything of you. Up until you forced my hand, I didn’t make any moves against you. I never tried to gain your time or attention—”
“You just listed many of my reasons.” He rubs his nose against mine, and a shudder works its way down my spine. I choose to believe it’s revulsion. “But above all, Lyra, you’re mine. It’s that simple.”
Simple. Simple? Maybe to him. To me, it’s a mystery I have no hope of solving.
Maybe Killian likes the fight, maybe he likes my lack of ambition in high society, but whatever it is, he must understand that a match between us isn’t advantageous to him in any way, shape, or form.
People from his tax bracket don’t marry for love or obsession; they marry for business strategy.
There is no part of being with me that’ll be strategic to him whatsoever.
I bring no status, wealth, or material enrichment to his life, and Killian is not an emotion-driven man.
“You’ll settle,” he murmurs, and it sounds like more of an assurance to him than to me. “In the interim, I’ll enjoy every fight you decide to pick—and lose.”