Chapter 20
Gideon
The door clicked shut behind me, but I didn’t let myself breathe until I was in the bathroom, my back pressed against the wood like it could hold me together.
My hands shook as I yanked my shirt over my head, the fabric catching on my damp skin.
The mirror fogged with every ragged breath I took, my reflection a distorted smear of need and restraint.
Fuck.
I stripped the rest of my clothes off, my cock already heavy and leaking, the tip wet with want.
My fingers twitched at my sides, itching to stroke myself, to take what I needed—what she made me need—but I clenched my jaw and turned the shower on instead.
The water hit the tiles with a hiss, steam rising like a wall between me and the door she was on the other side of.
I stepped under the spray; the heat searing into my skin, but it wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough. My hand finally gave in, wrapping around my length, my thumb smearing the precum over the head as I groaned.
The sound echoed off the tiles, raw and desperate.
I braced my other hand against the wall, my forehead pressing into the wet surface as I worked myself, my strokes rough and uneven.
Belle.
Her name was a curse and a prayer in my head, her taste still on my tongue from that first night, her defiance still burning under my skin.
The way she’d looked at me—like she wanted to kill me even as her body betrayed her—made my grip tighten, my pace stutter.
I could still see the mark I’d left on her throat, dark and possessive, still feel the way her pulse had jumped under my teeth.
The water sluiced down my back, but all I could feel was her. The way she’d trembled when I touched her. The way she’d hated it. The way she’d wanted it.
The water pounded against my shoulders, but the heat did nothing to burn away the thought slamming into me like a body check against the boards.
Breed her.
My hand stilled around my cock.
The words hit me like a puck to the ribs—unexpected, brutal, stealing my breath.
I exhaled sharply, my grip tightening until my knuckles ached.
The image flashed behind my eyes before I could stop it: Belle, her thighs spread, her stomach round with something that was mine.
The thought sent a jolt through me, my cock twitching in my fist, precum beading at the tip.
I groaned, low and rough, my free hand slamming against the tile.
This wasn’t just want—this was need, sharp and primal, clawing up from somewhere deeper than lust. I’d never thought about a woman like this before.
Never wanted to mark one so thoroughly, so permanently.
But the idea of Belle, swollen with my child, her defiance softened into something pliant and mine—fuck.
My strokes turned harder, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
I could almost hear her voice, husky and furious, telling me no.
Could almost feel her nails digging into my skin as I pinned her down, my mouth on her throat, my teeth marking her as I filled her again and again.
The fantasy twisted tighter, my balls drawing up, my release coiling low in my gut.
I came with a choked sound, my come hitting the tiles in thick, hot spurts.
My orgasm hit me hard, my body locking up as I came, my breath stuttering.
The release was brutal, empty, leaving me hollowed out and still fucking hungry for her.
I stayed there, panting, my forehead against the wall, the water washing away the evidence of how badly I wanted to go back in that room and finish what I’d started.
Belle wasn’t just under my skin. She was in my blood. And I was starting to think I wouldn’t be satisfied until she carried a part of me inside her too.
I turned the shower off with a sharp twist, the sudden silence deafening. The cold air hit my damp skin, raising goosebumps, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was her—still in my bed, still marked, still mine.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure which of us I hated more for it.
The next morning, I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a piece of toast she wasn't eating. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face, her shoulders hunched like she could make herself smaller. She didn't look up when I walked in. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
I poured myself coffee, the clink of the mug against the counter too loud in the silence. She took a bite of toast, chewing mechanically, her gaze fixed on the granite like it held all the answers she needed.
I leaned against the counter, the heat of the mug seeping into my palm. "You no longer have access to your car."
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, the toast frozen halfway to her mouth. "Excuse me?"
I set the mug down with deliberate care, my movements controlled, measured. The kind of calm that scared people more than shouting ever could.
"You won't be driving until you learn to obey me."
Belle stood so fast the stool scraped against the floor, the sound sharp and jarring. Her hands trembled at her sides, her chest rising and falling too quickly. "You don't control me."
I stepped closer, closing the distance between us in two strides. She didn't back away—stubborn, always so fucking stubborn—but I saw the way her breath hitched.
"I do. And yesterday proved you can't be trusted to make safe decisions."
She laughed, the sound bitter and disbelieving. "Safe? That's what you're calling it now?"
I didn't flinch. Didn't rise to the bait she dangled in front of me. "Actions. Consequences."
The hatred in her eyes was palpable, a living thing that coiled between us. I expected it. Welcomed it, even. Hatred meant she still felt something.
What I didn't expect was the flash of hurt underneath it—raw, bleeding, quickly buried but not fast enough.
My chest tightened, something ugly and unfamiliar twisting in my gut. I stepped back before I could reach for her, before I could do something I couldn't undo.
"I'll drive you."
She stiffened, her arms crossing over her chest like armor. "To the bookstore?"
I nodded once.
She hesitated, her jaw working like she wanted to argue, wanted to tell me to go to hell. But the words didn't come. She stood there, trembling with rage and something else I couldn't name, and then her shoulders sagged just slightly.
Not because she agreed.
Because she knew she didn't have another choice.
The power of that hit me somewhere I didn't want to examine. Not satisfaction—not quite. Something heavier. Something that felt uncomfortably close to guilt.
I picked up my coffee, my voice dropping lower. "Ten minutes. Be ready."
She didn't answer. Just turned and walked away, her footsteps quiet on the tile.
I watched her go, my grip tightening on the mug until I felt the ceramic threaten to crack.
Control was all I had.
But watching her submit because she had to—not because she wanted to—made it feel like the emptiest victory I'd ever won.
She sat in the passenger seat with her arms crossed tight over her chest, jaw locked, staring through the windshield like I didn't exist. The tension radiating off her was thick enough to choke on, but she didn't say a word.
Didn't look at me. Just sat there, rigid and silent, like she could will herself somewhere else if she tried hard enough.
I kept my eyes on the road, but I couldn't stop glancing at her. Quick looks I told myself didn't mean anything. The way her fingers dug into her own biceps. The shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there a week ago. The exhaustion carved into every line of her body.
She looked small.
Breakable.
Wrong.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under my grip. I'd done this. Marked her throat, stripped her defiance, taken her car, made her sit here in this humiliating silence while I drove her to work like she was a child who couldn't be trusted.
The guilt sat heavy in my gut, ugly and persistent, but I shoved it down. Control wasn't supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be clean. Satisfying. Final.
This felt like losing.
I pulled up in front of her bookstore, the renovations nearly complete, the place looking better than it ever had. My money. My decisions. All of it designed to make her life easier, safer, better.
She didn't even glance at it.
Her seatbelt clicked open before I'd fully stopped, her hand already reaching for the door handle. Escaping me the second she could.
I caught her wrist.
"Belle."
She went rigid, her pulse hammering under my fingers. I felt it skip, stumble, race. She didn't pull away—not yet—but every muscle in her body screamed that she wanted to.
"You will come straight home after your shift. I will pick you up myself."
Her wrist twisted in my grip, yanking free with more force than necessary.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame.
I sat there, engine still running, watching her storm toward the entrance without looking back.
My jaw ached from clenching, my chest tight with something I refused to examine too closely.
Rage, maybe. Hurt that I had no right to feel.
And underneath it all, something darker, something desperate that clawed at my ribs.
She hated me.
I'd earned that.
But watching her walk away—small and exhausted and mine in a way that felt increasingly hollow—made me wonder what the fuck I'd actually won.
I pulled away from the curb harder than I needed to; the tires biting into the asphalt.
Control was all I had. Even when it felt like nothing at all.
The black sedan sat half a block down, engine idling, windows tinted dark enough to hide everything but silhouettes. Two men. Still as statues. Not glancing at phones. Not talking. Just sitting there, staring straight ahead—except their heads tracked Belle as she crossed the sidewalk.
My fingers clenched around the steering wheel, the leather groaning under my grip.
They weren't casual. Weren't lost. Weren't waiting for someone else.