Chapter 9 #2
The world inverted before I could process movement. One second, the bed pressed solid beneath me. The next—air, displacement, the stomach-dropping sensation of being lifted like I weighed nothing at all.
My yelp cracked high and undignified, the kind of sound I'd mock if it came from anyone else.
But there was no one else.
Just me and the hard plane of his shoulder digging into my stomach, his arm banded across the backs of my thighs, locking me in place with the casual efficiency of someone who'd done this before.
Not to me.
But to someone.
The thought arrived poison-tipped and sharp.
Blood rushed to my head as he turned. My hands found his back automatically—broad, unyielding muscle beneath expensive fabric that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I shoved against it.
Useless.
Might as well have been pushing a wall.
"Put me down." The words came out breathless, furious, muffled against the space between his shoulder blades. "Put me the fuck down right now—"
He moved. Long strides that made my stomach lurch with each step. Steady. Unhurried. Like carrying a grown woman down a flight of stairs required the same effort as breathing.
The hallway passed in flashes—crown molding, recessed lighting, expensive art I hadn't noticed during the tour because I'd been too busy mapping exits instead of appreciating his taste.
My phone clattered to the floor somewhere behind us.
I twisted, trying to see where it landed, and his grip tightened fractionally. Not painful. Just absolute. A reminder that struggling was permitted only because he allowed it.
Heat flooded my face—embarrassment mixing with rage mixing with something worse. Something that tasted like humiliation but sat lower, deeper, in places I refused to acknowledge.
This was what it meant to be owned. Not the contract. Not the signature. Not even the money transferred with cold precision into accounts that would keep my father breathing.
This.
The effortless assertion of physical dominance. The casual demonstration that every choice I made existed only within parameters he'd already defined.
I could refuse dinner.
He could carry me to it, anyway.
My fists hit his back. Once. Twice. Ineffectual strikes that probably hurt my hands more than they registered to him.
"Bastard. Fucking—let go of me. You can't just—"
Yes, he could.
We both knew it.
The stairs descended beneath us. My hair swung loose, brushing the steps.
The world compressed into narrow slices of perception—the rhythm of his breathing, steady and unlabored; the heat of his palm against my legs; the terrible awareness of my own powerlessness wrapped in flesh and bone and the scent of expensive cologne.
Lights brightened. Kitchen sounds clarified.
The rich smell of food I'd been denying myself hit like a fist.
My stomach betrayed me again, louder this time.
The dining room materialized around me in fragments—candles first, their flames steady and golden against dark wood.
Then wine, two glasses poured to identical heights, red catching light like liquid garnets.
Finally the food itself, arranged on plates that probably cost more than my monthly utilities.
Roasted chicken. Vegetables glazed to perfection. Bread still warm enough to release steam when broken.
All of it untouched. Waiting. Like he'd known exactly how long it would take to drag me down here.
The table's edge bit into my thighs as he set me down. Not dropped—nothing so careless or violent. Just placed with the same deliberate precision he'd used signing the check that bought me.
The wood was cold beneath my palms. Smooth. Polished to a mirror shine that probably required staff I hadn't seen and wouldn't meet. My legs dangled, toes inches from the floor, not quite reaching.
The position forced me to look up. Forced awareness of the height difference, the breadth of him, the way he stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating through his shirt but not quite touching.
He didn't step back. Didn't create distance.
Just remained there, solid and immovable, blocking any path that didn't involve pushing past him—and we both knew how that would end.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Blood rushed hot beneath my skin. Every nerve ending screamed contradictions I refused to name.
The candles flickered. Shadows danced across his face, carving cheekbones into sharp relief, turning his eyes into dark wells that reflected nothing back.
He'd planned this.
The realization settled like ice in my gut. Not just dinner. Not just the food or the wine or the perfect table setting that belonged in magazines photographing lives I'd never touch.
This.
The candles burning down while he waited upstairs, certain I'd refuse.
The wine breathing, temperature-perfect.
The food timed to finish exactly when defiance would force his hand.
He'd orchestrated my resistance before I'd even thought to offer it. Planned the response. Prepared the stage. All that remained was watching me perform the role he'd written.
I hated him. Hated the certainty in his stillness. Hated that my pulse jumped when his hand lifted—
And hated more that I couldn't tell if it was fear making my breath catch.
Or something worse.
He stepped between my knees. The space I didn't realize I'd been guarding vanished. Just—gone. Claimed with the simple act of moving forward, of deciding that distance was negotiable and I had no say in the terms.
My spine locked. Every muscle coiled tight, preparing for—
Nothing happened.
He didn't touch me. Didn't grab or grope or do any of the things my body braced for with sick, animal certainty. Just stood there, close enough that the heat of him pressed through my jeans, turning the air between us into something thick and difficult to breathe.
"I'm hungry."
The words fell quiet. Measured.
But they landed wrong.
Too heavy for something so simple. Too layered with meaning my brain refused to unpack because doing so would require acknowledging implications that made my skin crawl.
Or burn.
I couldn't tell which anymore.
His hands moved.
I flinched—sharp, instinctive, graceless.
But he didn't reach for my throat or my face or any of the vulnerable places that suddenly felt too exposed.
He reached lower. Palms settling on my knees. Warm. Solid. Impossible to ignore.
Then he pushed. Spread my legs wider. Not violently. Not fast. Just steady, inexorable pressure that moved my body exactly where he wanted it despite every scream of protest trapped behind my teeth.
The denim stretched. My thighs parted. The position opened me up in ways that had nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with surrender.
"Don't."
The word barely made it past my lips.
Whispered. Cracked. Pathetic even to my own ears.
He leaned in. Close enough that his breath ghosted across my jaw. Close enough that I could see the individual shades of blue in his irises—dark around the edges, lighter near the center, pitiless in every variation.
"You don't get to refuse me."
Quiet.
Certain.
Final.
"You only get to decide how difficult you make it."