Chapter 17
Belle
I woke up wrong. Not sick. Not injured. Just…
Wrong. Wrong in my body. In my mind. In the hollow ache behind my ribs that shouldn't be there.
The bed was warm. Soft. Empty except for me.
Sunlight crept through the curtains, pale and accusing.
I sat up slowly, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw spots. Trying to push back the memories that flooded in all at once.
Yesterday.
God. Yesterday.
I'd given in. Not just physically—that would've been easier to forgive. To compartmentalize. To lock away in some dark corner of my mind labeled survival.
No.
I'd begged. Whispered his name like a prayer. Like he was the only answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.
And then after—when I was shaking and raw and falling apart—he'd been gentle. Fed me like I couldn't do it myself. Bathed me with hands that knew exactly where to touch and where not to. Dressed me in pajamas he'd bought, folded, anticipated.
I'd let him. Worse—I'd leaned into it. Into his touch. Into the care I didn't want to admit felt like safety.
My stomach twisted. Shame crashed over me in waves—hot and acidic and relentless.
Each memory a fresh cut. His thumb wiping crumbs from my mouth.
His voice, low and coaxing: Open your mouth.
His hands washing my skin, reverent and possessive at once.
The way he'd looked at me when I asked why he was being nice.
That raw honesty in his voice: I just know I want to take care of you.
My chest tightened.
My body remembered the pleasure—the white-hot rush that had stolen my breath and my pride in equal measure.
My chest remembered the softness—the way he'd tucked blankets around me, brushed hair from my face, stood guard in the darkness.
My mind remembered every second. And that was the worst part.
Because I couldn't forget. Couldn't pretend it hadn't happened. Couldn't lie to myself that it didn't matter.
I hated him. For breaking me. For caring for me. For making me want both.
But I hated myself more.
For surrendering. For softening. For letting him see me vulnerable and not fighting back.
I threw the blankets off. Stood on shaking legs.
My reflection caught in the mirror across the room—pale, hollow-eyed, wearing pajamas that smelled faintly like him.
I looked away.
I'll never let him do that to me again.
The promise felt thin. Desperate.
I won't be weak like that again.
But even as I thought it, I knew the truth.
Gideon Jones had found the cracks in my armor.
And I'd let him in.
I moved carefully. Each step a reminder of yesterday. Of what I'd let him do. What I'd asked him to do.
My thighs ached. My hips protested. Something deep in my core pulsed with a tenderness that made heat crawl up my neck.
I wasn't walking right. I could feel it—the slight hitch in my stride, the way I favored one side, the careful distribution of weight that didn't quite hide the discomfort.
God. If anyone noticed…
I shoved the thought away and dressed quickly. Jeans that were looser than usual. A sweater that hung past my hips. Armor I could hide behind.
Downstairs, the house was silent.
Empty.
No Gideon in the kitchen. No Gideon at the table. No note left on the counter with instructions and conditional permissions.
Nothing.
The relief was immediate and shameful.
I didn't want to see him. Didn't want to face him across the breakfast table and pretend I was fine. That I hadn't fallen apart in his hands. That I hadn't liked the way he put me back together.
I grabbed my keys and left before that relief could curdle into something worse.
The drive to the bookstore took twenty minutes.
I spent eighteen of them white-knuckling the steering wheel, trying not to think about the way my body shifted uncomfortably in the seat. The way every turn reminded me of muscles I'd used. Of sensations I'd never felt before. Of pleasure I hadn't earned and didn't deserve.
By the time I parked, my jaw ached from clenching.
I sat in the car for a moment, breathing through my nose, forcing my hands to unclench.
You're fine. You're functional. No one will notice.
I climbed out slowly. Locked the door. Walked toward the bookstore entrance with my chin up and my spine straight—even though it hurt. Even though everything hurt.
The construction crew had finished one section of the store early. The sign out front gleamed, freshly painted. Through the windows, I could see the new shelves, the refinished floors, the space transformed into something better than I'd ever managed on my own.
His money. His influence. His will imposed on my sanctuary.
I unlocked the door.
And hated that the first thought I had wasn't anger.
It was gratitude.
The bell chimed as I stepped inside.
Two workers were already there—unfamiliar faces, but the same crew that had been cycling through all week. One knelt by the baseboards with a paintbrush. The other measured something near the window display.
They both looked up when I entered.
The older one nodded. "Morning."
"Morning," I managed.
My voice came out rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat and moved past them toward the back room, trying not to limp. Trying not to look like a woman who'd been taken apart and carefully reassembled less than twenty-four hours ago.
The coffee maker sat where I'd left it yesterday—dusty, neglected, shoved to the corner while renovations consumed the rest of the space.
I pulled it forward and filled the reservoir with water from the tiny sink. My hands moved on autopilot. Scoop grounds. Close lid. Press start.
The familiar ritual steadied me.
Coffee I could control. Coffee made sense. Coffee didn't ask questions or touch me in ways that made me forget who I was.
The machine sputtered to life, filling the back room with heat and the bitter smell of brewing.
I leaned against the counter and closed my eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe without anyone watching.
But the moment I did, I felt him. Gideon's hands on my hips. His voice in my ear. The way he'd fed me with infinite patience, washed me with unsettling tenderness, dressed me like I was something fragile.
My eyes snapped open.
Stop.
I grabbed mugs from the shelf—three, in case more workers showed up—and set them on the counter harder than necessary.
The coffee finished brewing.
I poured carefully, watching the dark liquid fill each mug. Steam curled upward, soft and ephemeral.
I carried two cups back out to the main floor.
The younger worker glanced up from his measuring tape. Surprise flickered across his face.
"Coffee," I said simply, extending one mug toward him.
He took it with a slight smile. "Thanks. Didn't expect that."
I crossed to the other man and offered the second cup.
He accepted it with a nod. "Appreciate it."
I didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the counter, where I could see them but didn't have to engage.
The coffee was something I could give without cost. Without consequences.
A kindness I controlled.
Unlike everything else.
The morning passed in careful motions.
I straightened books. Adjusted displays. Wiped down surfaces that didn't need wiping. All while pretending the workers weren't there. All while pretending my body didn't ache with every movement.
The memory hit like cold water.
The game.
I froze mid-reach for a book, fingers hovering above the spine.
Gideon's voice in my ear, low and certain: I have a game in two days.
That was the day before yesterday.
Which meant—
Today.
Tonight.
You'll be there. In my jersey.
My stomach dropped.
Everyone will know who you belong to.
The book slipped from my grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud.
One of the workers glanced over. I ignored him, bending to retrieve it with shaking hands.
I'd forgotten. In the chaos of yesterday—the punishment, the aftercare, the breaking and rebuilding—I'd completely forgotten.
He expected me there. At the arena. Wearing his name across my back like a brand.
Sitting in the stands where cameras would find me. Where fans would see. Where his teammates and coaches and the entire city would know exactly what I was.
His.
The nausea came fast and vicious.
I straightened slowly, clutching the book to my chest. No note this morning. No reminder. Because he didn't need to remind me. He knew I'd remember.
My chest tightened. I saw it clearly—walking into that arena wearing his name. His number stretched across my back. Sitting with whoever he'd decided I should sit with. Cameras panning across the crowd, finding me, marking me as his.
One of his conquests.
One of his possessions.
Proof that Gideon Jones took what he wanted and made it perform.
Heat flared behind my ribs.
Not shame this time.
Rage.
"Absolutely not," I whispered.
The words came out sharp. Venomous.
I looked down at the note from before again. At his neat, precise handwriting. At the casual assumption that I would comply.
That I would show up.
That I would wear his colors and play into his dominance like every other woman who'd ever fallen at his feet.
My hands moved before I thought about it.
I tore the note in half.
Then in half again.
And again.
Until it was confetti in my palms—nothing but shredded paper and obliterated commands.
I walked to the trash bin behind the counter.
Opened it.
Let the pieces fall.
They scattered across the garbage like snow. Meaningless. Powerless.
He doesn't own where I go.
He doesn't own what I wear.
The defiance felt like oxygen.
Like the first real breath I'd taken in days.
My shoulders straightened. My spine locked. Something fierce and alive sparked in my chest.
If Gideon wanted me at his game?
He could suffer without me. He could look for me in the stands and find nothing. He could realize that signing a contract didn't make me obedient.
That breaking me in private didn't mean I'd bow in public.
I smiled—small, bitter, victorious.
"Let him try to punish that," I muttered.
I stayed long after sunset.