Chapter 8
Gideon
I watched her stop breathing for half a second. Good. That meant she was listening.
"This is my house." I kept my voice level, the same tone I used for play calls on ice. Clear. Final. "My schedule comes first. Training at five. Games twice a week. Everything else fits around that."
Belle's jaw tightened, but she didn't interrupt.
I stepped closer. Not crowding. Just closing distance until she had to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes.
"My needs will be met when I ask."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
I continued. "You agreed to six months." The contract sat folded in my jacket pocket, her signature still drying. "I decide how those months look."
She flinched like I'd struck her, but I wasn't done.
"No running." I nodded toward the windows, the lake beyond, the distance between here and anywhere she used to call home. "Cameras cover the property. Security monitors the gate. You leave, I know. You try anyway, the deal's void."
Her breathing picked up, shallow and quick.
"No lies." I tilted my head slightly, studying the way her pulse jumped in her throat. "I don't need you to smile. Don't need you to pretend this is something it's not. But I won't tolerate deception."
"And if I—"
"You won't."
The certainty in my voice cut her off cleaner than any shout would have.
I let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of what she'd signed. What she'd agreed to. What she'd become the moment that pen touched paper.
"I have needs, Belle." Her name tasted better than it should have. "You'll see to them whenever I ask. However I ask."
Color drained from her face.
Not fear.
Rage threaded with something she'd never admit—not to me, not to herself.
She opened her mouth, closed it. Opened it again.
"You're a monster."
I didn't argue.
Didn't smile.
Just watched her stand there, trembling with fury she couldn't direct anywhere that mattered.
"Maybe." I stepped back, giving her room to breathe. "But I'm the monster who saved your father."
Her eyes glistened, wet and bright and burning. "You're a bastard."
The words cracked between us like gunfire. Sharp. Clean. No hesitation.
I absorbed them without flinching.
She stepped forward instead of back, chin lifted, shoulders squared despite the tremor running through her.
"I signed a contract. Not a fucking deed of ownership.
" Her voice climbed, heat bleeding through every syllable.
"You can have six months of my time. My presence in this house.
Whatever the hell else you think you bought.
" Her hands shook when she pointed at me.
"But you don't get me. You don't get my thoughts, my feelings, my—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I will never want you."
The declaration landed exactly where she aimed it.
Dead center.
Meant to wound.
I let the silence sit between us, heavy and charged. Watched the way her chest rose and fell too fast. The way her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides. The way she held her ground even though every instinct probably screamed at her to run.
Good. Fire lasts longer than fear.
Most women I'd known learned to perform. To soften edges, to smile through gritted teeth, to make themselves palatable.
Belle didn't. She stood there burning, refusing to dim herself for my comfort.
I respected that more than she'd ever know. "You're right." My voice came out quieter than before. Steadier. "You're not property."
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious.
I took one step closer.
Then another.
Until we stood close enough that I could see gold flecks in her brown eyes, could smell whatever soap she used—something clean and simple that didn't try to seduce.
"The contract says you're here. It says you'll do what I ask." I paused, let the weight of it settle. "It doesn't say anything about wanting."
Her breath hitched.
"So hate me, Belle." I said it like a dare. Like permission. "Hate me every second of every day for the next six months." I leaned in just enough that my words ghosted across her face. "But you'll still be in my bed when I tell you to be."
She didn't back down. Didn't look away. Just stood there, furious and trapped and refusing to break.
Beautiful.
Her hand flew up faster than I expected.
I caught her wrist mid-swing, fingers wrapping around bone and fury before her palm could connect. The shock in her eyes lasted half a second before rage flooded back in.
I pulled. One smooth motion brought her stumbling forward, chest colliding with mine, close enough that I felt the sharp intake of breath she tried to hide.
I bent my head, let my mouth graze the shell of her ear. "You like it rough?"
She went rigid against me.
"I can do rough." The words came out low, steady, deliberate. "Can hold you down so you can't move. Pin those wrists above your head while I take my time learning every sound you make when you stop pretending you don't want this."
Her pulse hammered beneath my thumb.
"Can fuck you face-down on that bed until you forget your own name. Until the only word you remember is mine." I felt her tremble—rage or something else, I didn't care which yet. "Can make you beg for it. Make you scream for it."
She shoved hard at my chest.
I let her wrist go.
She twisted sideways, trying to slip past me toward the door.
My hand shot out, caught her hip, spun her back.
The wall met her shoulders—not violently, but firmly enough that escape stopped being an option.
I stepped into her space, one hand flat against the wall beside her head, the other still curved around her waist.
Caging her.
The difference hit then.
Height. Reach. Weight.
The way I could cover her entirely if I wanted.
The way she had to tilt her head back just to glare at me properly.
"You don't get to walk away when I'm speaking."
Her breath stuttered, chest rising and falling against mine.
But her chin lifted anyway.
Defiant.
Furious.
Refusing to shrink.
"Fuck. You." Each word came out sharp enough to draw blood.
I smiled.
Slow and dark and meant to unsettle.
"Not yet." I leaned closer, close enough that our mouths almost touched. "But you signed a contract promising exactly that, Belle. So eventually?" I let the pause stretch. "Yeah. I will."
Her hands came up, pressed flat against my chest.
Not pushing.
Just... there.
Feeling the solid reality of what she'd agreed to.
Who she'd agreed to.
"I hate you," she whispered.
The tremor in her voice made it land harder than a shout.
"I know."
I stayed there another heartbeat, letting her feel trapped, letting her understand that every time she tried to run, I'd be faster.
Stronger.
More patient than she could ever prepare for.
Then I stepped back. Gave her room. Let her breathe.
"Get settled." I nodded toward her bag, still sitting where I'd left it. "We have dinner in an hour."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care."
The words dropped between us like stones.
She turned, mouth already opening with some sharp retort I wasn't going to let her finish.
I dropped my hand from her wrist.
Just let my presence do the work.
Let her feel the difference in size, in reach, in the simple physics of what I could do if I decided to.
My voice dropped.
Low.
Controlled.
Certain.
"I can make you scream my name in pleasure, Belle." I watched her pupils dilate despite the fury tightening her jaw. "Can take you apart so slowly, so thoroughly, that you forget why you're supposed to hate me."
Her breathing changed.
Shallow. Quick.
"Or—" I leaned in, close enough that my words ghosted across her face. "I can punish your defiance. Every time you refuse. Every time you disobey. Edge you until you see fucking stars. Until you understand that this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't a negotiation."
She swallowed hard.
"Either way, Belle, you will break."
The certainty in my voice wasn't cruelty.
It was inevitability.
Simple math she hadn't learned to calculate yet.
Six months was a long time to fight someone who had nothing but patience and control.
Someone who'd already won before she signed her name.
I let the silence stretch, let her mind race through possibilities she didn't want to imagine but couldn't stop from forming.
Then I delivered the blow that would follow her to dinner, to bed, to every moment between now and the end of this contract.
"You'll beg."
Her eyes widened. Not fear. Something worse. Recognition that I meant every word.
"For release. Or forgiveness. The choice is yours."
I stepped back. Gave her room to breathe. Room to pretend she still had options.
"Dinner's in forty-five minutes." I moved toward the door. "Wear something that shows you understand who you belong to now."
I left her standing there. Trembling with rage or anticipation—I'd find out which soon enough.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
I stood in the hallway, listening. Waiting for the breakdown. The sob. The scream. The sound of something thrown against the wall in helpless fury.
Nothing came.
Just silence thick enough to drown in.
I smiled despite myself.
Still fighting.
Most would've crumbled by now. Would've collapsed into tears or bargaining or that peculiar brand of feminine manipulation that pretended weakness could move me.
Belle did none of those things. She stood her ground even when the ground shifted beneath her feet.
I respected that. Didn't change anything—but I respected it.
Down the hall, I shed my jacket. Rolled my shoulders to release tension that had nothing to do with practice and everything to do with the woman currently hating me three rooms away.
My phone buzzed.
Hades.
You coming to Jafar's thing tonight?
I deleted the message without responding.
No one needed to know where I was. What I was doing. Who I'd brought home.
The team thought they knew me—the untouchable star who cycled through women like plays on ice, never lingering, never attached.
They were right about everything except the part that mattered.
I'd never wanted any of those women.