Chapter 14 #2
Her eyes widen, and her mouth falls open at my words. I wish I could regret them, but I don’t. It’s the truth, and she deserves it. She deserves more than that. She deserves the entire world.
“Wow.” She blinks, then her lips lift in that sexy smile that fills my veins with fire all over again. “That’s a lot to take in.”
“I know, but it’s how ogres are,” I say simply. “I know you’re human and that you’re different, so there’s no pressure for you to answer right away. I can wait.”
She exhales and looks at me with those wide eyes. Like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“You’re unbelievable.” She shakes her head. “Everyone in my life always wanted to control me. I’ve been told what to do, what to wear, what to think for as long as I can remember. But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
This time, it’s my turn to shake my head, wordless. I’ve never considered this aspect of her life. She’s been sheltered and spoiled, given all opportunities by her wealthy mother, but she’s never been given a choice. In a sense, she’s never been free.
She fits against my chest like she was made to be there, her breath warm through my shirt. When she speaks, her mouth brushes my skin, each word a tremor I feel as much as hear.
"I've never been just myself, you know?" she whispers. "I've always been an accessory to Mom's career. Something to be polished and posed and photographed when it was convenient, then put back on the shelf for later use."
My hand pauses at the small of her back for just a heartbeat before I make myself move again in slow circles. I keep my voice low so it doesn’t spook her. "I’m listening," I say.
And I am. Every inch of me is tuned to her: the flutter of her pulse under my palm, the tightness in her breath, the scent of her sudden sadness.
"I never even wanted to study business," she says, words spilling fast, like a dam finally giving way.
"I wanted to be an artist. I used to paint every day when I was younger.
Watercolors, oils, anything I could get my hands on.
I'd lose myself for hours, just me and the canvas and all these colors. I loved every minute of it."
She says it like a confession, and it lands heavy. I know she has talent. I’ve seen her drawings.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Mom called it frivolous." Bitterness edges her voice. “She said I needed to 'get serious' about my future. That art was a nice hobby, but I had responsibilities, a legacy to uphold. So I did what was expected of me. I gave it up.” She laughs, humorless. “Just like that.”
Heat climbs my spine, the old, ugly anger that comes when adults carve children into shapes that fit their own ambitions. I make sure my tone is even, but there’s iron under it.
"It was wrong of your mom to try to shape your future," I tell her. "Children should be free to build their own paths."
She looks up, eyes glossy and too brave for someone who’s been told to shrink. The sight presses on my ribs.
"I feel like I have no control over my life," she whispers.
"Like I'm just this thing that gets moved around wherever other people think I should be.
And I hate that I'm not strong enough to stand up to her.
I hate that I'm twenty-three years old and I still do whatever my mother tells me to do because I'm too weak to hold my own. "
Something in me snaps taut. "Stop." The word is out before I can soften it, sharp as a blade because gentler edges won’t cut this lie free. My jaw locks, and I feel my eyes heat, vision tipping toward that vivid red that betrays too much. "Don't talk about yourself that way."
"But it's true."
"It's not." I frame her face, careful with my thumbs as they catch the wetness on her cheeks where silent tears fell down. "Choosing peace in a house that leaves no room for anything else isn't weakness, Rona. It's survival. And art isn't frivolous if it's the thing that makes you feel true."
She searches my face like she’s waiting for me to add something. To add some criticism or some conditions to my support. There isn’t one. I would cheer her on whatever the path she chose. Because she’s my mate and her happiness is all that matters.
"Do you mean it?" she asks, small but steady.
I don’t look away. The answer is the only thing in me. "You are strong and you are fierce, and if you ever talk about yourself that way again, I'll put you over my knee and spank you until you learn your lesson. And that’s an ogre’s promise."
Heat flares between us, hers, mine, the banked fire throwing soft light over everything. I keep my hands where she can feel the steadiness of them, not the rough want that surges next.
"Don't talk about yourself that way again," I say, palms sliding up to cup her jaw, thumbs at the hinge where strength lives. "Promise me."
She doesn’t answer. She rises instead, closing the inch of air between us, and presses her mouth to mine.
The first brush is soft, light like she’s still unsure of herself. I open to her and she deepens the kiss, and the careful part of me gives way to the part that has been waiting since the moment I met her. My fingers dive into the silk of her hair, and she makes a sound that drags through my chest.
Her phone pings from somewhere in the kitchen, the sound cutting through the haze of lust like a knife.
"Ignore it," she breathes, her fingers tangling in my hair, trying to pull my mouth back to hers.
But training kicks in, and I resist the pull of her hands.
"It could be your mother with news," I say, reluctantly pulling back. "You haven't heard from her in days."
Her face falls slightly. "I haven't heard from her at all, actually. Only Caroline."
The ping sounds again, then is quickly followed by another and another. With obvious reluctance, she gets up, wrapping the sheet around her body to walk all the way to the kitchen. I follow, not bothering to cover up, and watch as she retrieves her phone from the counter.
The color drains from her face in an instant, and her eyes widen in shock.
"Oh God," she whispers, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh God, no."
“Rona, what is it?” I ask, alarm bells filling my brain.
“This can’t be happening,” she whispers, her fingers moving so fast over the screen they’re almost a blur.
“Rona.” I repeat her name, my voice low, like I’m trying to soothe a frightened kitten. “Give me the phone, now.”
She whimpers but doesn’t look up at me, so I reach for the phone, prying it from her trembling hands with a soft but firm motion. When I flip the screen toward me, what I see makes rage fill my vision like a red tide.
She’s looking at her Asterion account. Her Asterion account, where her entire life has been put on display.
Every private photo, every personal text message, every email she's ever sent or received has been shared in public posts.
Her entire digital life, laid bare for the world to see and judge and tear apart.
The violation is complete and devastating.
Photos and selfies, private conversations with friends, even medical records.
All of it is available for public consumption.
The comments are already pouring in, shares multiplying in real time as strangers devour her privacy like vultures picking at carrion.
Rona collapses onto the floor, sobbing into her hands as the magnitude of the attack becomes clear. This isn't just about the fake video anymore. Someone is systematically targeting her.
I watch the numbers climb, views, shares, comments, and my hands shake with the effort of not crushing the phone in my grip.
"Your phone was hacked," I tell her, my voice deadly calm despite the fury burning in my veins. "And I know exactly who to call to figure out what's happening."
Because this level of cyberattack doesn't happen by accident. Someone with serious resources and technical expertise has declared war on Rona Quinn.
And they just made an enemy out of an ogre in the process.