Chapter 14 #2
She didn't. My hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the line of her cheekbone with deliberate tenderness that contradicted everything I'd done to her in the study.
"You are," I said quietly.
Not a threat.
A fact.
"And I take care of what's mine."
Her eyes glistened—not quite tears, but close. Rage warring with something she didn't want to name. Relief, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the terrible, seductive comfort of being claimed by someone who meant it.
"I hate you," she breathed.
The words should have stung.
They didn't.
Because her body leaned into my touch even as she said them. Because her eyes stayed locked on mine instead of looking away. Because hate and want had always been closer than people admitted.
"I know," I murmured.
Then I kissed her.
Not gently.
Not asking.
Taking.
The way I'd been taking everything else.
She made a sound against my mouth—fury or surrender, I couldn't tell.
Didn't care.
Her hands came up between us.
Fisted in my shirt.
Tried to push me away, but couldn't.
She ripped away from me.
Hand swinging up fast—pure instinct, pure rage.
I caught her wrist mid-arc. Held firm. Not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough that she understood.
Belle stared at me, chest heaving, eyes wide with something between shock and fury. Stunned that I'd stopped her. Stunned that she'd tried.
I stepped closer. Crowding her against the wall she hadn't realized was behind her. "I don't want you working in a place that could fall apart."
My voice stayed level.
Calm.
Unyielding.
"So I'm making it better."
Her throat worked visibly. Swallowing whatever response died before reaching her tongue.
She was furious. Still trembling with it. But she was listening. Really listening.
Her wrist went slack in my grip. Not surrender. Acceptance.
The difference mattered.
I released her slowly. Watched her eyes track the movement. Watched her decide whether to fight or flee.
She did neither.
Just stood there, pinned by my gaze and her own confusion.
I touched her chin lightly—thumb and forefinger guiding her gaze up to mine. Forcing her to meet my eyes instead of hiding in that fury she wore like armor.
"I have a game in two days."
She swallowed hard. The movement visible beneath the delicate skin of her throat.
I watched it. Catalogued it. Filed it away with every other tell she didn't know she gave me.
"You'll be there."
Not a question.
Never a question.
Her jaw tightened beneath my fingertips. Defiance sparking hot and immediate.
I kept going before she could voice it. "In my jersey."
The words landed exactly as I intended. Heavy. Possessive. Undeniable.
A beat of silence stretched between us—thick with everything we weren't saying.
Everything we refused to acknowledge.
I leaned closer. Let my breath ghost across her lips. "Everyone will know who you belong to."
Belle's breath stuttered. Sharp. Broken.
Her cheeks flushed dark—rage bleeding into something she absolutely refused to name.
I could see it warring in her eyes. The hatred. The humiliation.
And beneath it all—buried so deep she probably thought I couldn't see—Want. Raw and terrifying and unwanted.
She hated that I could make her feel it. Hated more that I knew.
Her hands clenched at her sides. Nails biting into her palms hard enough I wondered if she'd draw blood. "I won't—"
"You will." I cut her off gently. Firmly.
Left no room for negotiation. "Because you signed a contract that says you do what I tell you.
" My thumb traced the line of her jaw with deliberate tenderness.
Contradiction as a weapon. "And because somewhere under all that rage—" I paused. "You want them to know."
Her eyes went wide. Mouth parting on a denial that never came. Because we both knew I was right.
She wanted to be claimed. Needed it. Even as she hated me for giving it to her.
I released her chin. Stepped back. Gave her air she desperately needed.
"The jersey will be laid out that night." I turned toward the stairs. Paused. "Wear it well, Belle."
I stepped back into her space before she could run. Close enough that heat radiated between us. Close enough that my breath ghosted along the curve of her neck and I felt her shiver despite herself.
"But right now…"
I let the words hang. Watched her pulse jump beneath fragile skin.
"I'm hungry."
She went rigid. Every muscle locking down in defense against what she thought came next.
I leaned closer. Let my lips brush the shell of her ear when I spoke again.
"And if you're good…"
Her breathing stuttered.
"I might let you come too."
The words landed exactly as intended—sharp and cruel and laced with promise.
Her entire body tightened like a drawn bowstring. Not desire flooding her system. Not yet. Fear of desire. The terror of wanting something she was supposed to hate.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. Fragile. Desperate. "I won't want it."
The denial was so thin I almost pitied her.
Almost.
Instead, I smiled. Slow. Predatory. Let her see exactly what lived beneath the careful control I usually maintained.
"You will."
Two words.
A promise and a threat.
I reached down. Threaded my fingers through hers with a deliberate gentleness that contradicted everything else. Not forcing. Claiming.
She could have pulled away.
She didn't.
Her hand trembled in mine—rage and confusion and something darker she refused to name.
I tugged gently. Led her toward the dining room where soft light waited. Where dinner sat prepared thanks to Maria. Where the next lesson would begin.
She followed. One step. Then another. Walking into the trap she couldn't escape because she'd already signed the papers that made it legal.