Chapter 5
I woke slowly, my body weighted by the remnants of fitful dreams.
Not disoriented.
Aware.
The first rays of sunlight slipped through the gauzy curtains, spilling gold across the room, but it did little to loosen the cold knot in my stomach. Last night lingered at the edges of my mind.
Structured.
Intentional.
Unfinished.
I stretched, my legs tangling in the lavender-scented sheets. The comfort of morning was deceptive, offering a fragile illusion of normalcy.
Normal had never survived Creed.
I slid out of bed, bare feet sinking into the plush rug, and pulled the oversized T-shirt over my head. It fell loose around my body, familiar now. As I crossed toward the window, I dragged a hand through my hair, trying to quiet the restless energy humming beneath my skin.
The glass was cool under my fingertips as I pulled the curtain aside.
And the view stole my breath.
The manicured gardens had surrendered to November’s slow decay, greens giving way to rust and amber, frost clinging stubbornly to the edges of dying blooms. Morning mist curled low along the hedges, softening everything it touched.
Beyond them stood the stable.
And in the paddock—
Creed.
He sat astride a massive dark horse, its onyx coat gleaming in the early light. Even at a distance, his presence commanded the space around him.
Nothing here bent unless he allowed it.
His broad shoulders filled the riding jacket he wore, his posture effortless, reins loose in his hands but never slack. The horse responded to him without visible cue, slight shifts of weight, murmured sounds I couldn’t hear.
Trust.
Earned.
Maintained.
I watched pulse quickening, as he guided the horse through a slow, deliberate pattern. No rush. No wasted motion.
Here, away from glass towers and boardrooms, Creed looked elemental. Stripped of polish. Rooted in something older.
Untamed.
His hair hung loose around his shoulders, stirred by the wind, framing his face in stark contrast to the rigid control in his body. He looked like a man who belonged to land and consequence, not just negotiation.
And I had stepped back into his world, knowing exactly what that meant.
The horse picked up speed, hooves striking frozen earth, frost scattering as Creed leaned forward and murmured something low. The animal obeyed instantly.
The sight tightened something in my chest.
Not fear.
Recognition.
As if sensing my attention, Creed slowed the horse. His gaze lifted, scanning the grounds. For one suspended second, I wondered if he felt me watching.
A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.
I jumped.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Ennis’s voice was smooth, respectful. “Breakfast will be served shortly. Mr. Kirkland requests your presence.”
My fingers curled against the windowsill.
A request from Creed was never a request. It was a summons. I swallowed, forcing myself to steady my breath. “Thank you,” I said, my voice rough, still caught somewhere between sleep and whatever that had been.
I turned from the window and caught my reflection. My hair wild, eyes too bright, face flushed with thoughts I hadn’t asked for, and a jeweled collar around my throat.
I didn’t look like a woman at peace. I looked like a woman awaiting instruction.
I freshened up quickly, then slipped into a blue robe I found hanging on a hook in the closet, padding downstairs with deliberate care.
The scent of coffee and bacon greeted me immediately. It was comforting on the surface, sharpened beneath by precision.
The kitchen was immaculate.
Polished silverware. Pale linen. Morning light poured through tall windows, illuminating a table that wasn’t merely set, it was curated.
Creed sat at the head.
Hair still tousled from his ride, framing his face in wild contrast to the order around him. That face, carved, unshakable, looked up at no one. He didn’t need to. The room already revolved around him.
He turned a page in his newspaper with the same slow precision he used for everything. Each movement said, you arrive on my time.
“Good morning, Miss Peyton,” Ennis said as he placed a plate in front of me.
Eggs. Bacon. Warm croissants.
Food meant to nourish.
“Good morning,” I murmured.
That was when Creed looked up.
His gaze struck clean and cold. “You’re late.”
“I didn’t realize there was a schedule,” I replied carefully.
“There’s always a schedule.”
He folded the paper and set it aside, eyes never leaving mine.
“Eat.”
The word carried no threat. Which made it heavier.
I lifted my fork, fingers stiff, aware of his attention without him staring openly. He ate with measured precision, each bite controlled.
The silence between us was not empty.
It waited.
Ennis returned, pouring coffee, first for Creed, then for me.
“Inform Ruth you won’t be home tonight,” Creed said.
I froze. “I won’t?”
“No.”
He leaned back slightly, entirely composed.
“We have a formal event this evening. You’ll be ready by six.”
“And if I had other plans?” I asked quietly.
“Cancel them.”
The air shifted.
“Is that an order?” I asked.
His gaze lifted again, just slightly. But there, in the shadows behind his eyes, was a flicker of something dark. A warning dressed as patience.
“What happened to obey?”
I straightened.
“I obey when I’m respected,” I said evenly.
Something sharpened his eyes.
“I paid your debt in full,” he said. “Defiance isn’t a luxury you’ve earned.”
“And I paid mine,” I replied, my voice steady. “With twenty lashes.”
Silence.
Then his smile appeared, slow, dangerous.
“You’ve only begun.”
My pulse spiked.
“We have an agreement,” he continued. “Be ready.”
A pause.
“What kind of event?” I asked.
“A charity gala.” He sipped his coffee. “You’ll be at my side.”
Ownership.
“I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
He gave a slow, knowing smile. “That’s been handled.”
Of course it had.
Creed Kirkland planned for everything. My hesitation. My rebellion. My silence.
My surrender.
“I’ll let Aunt Ruth know,” I said.
“Good.” He set his cup down with a soft click. “Ennis will handle the rest.”
I murmured a thank you, but I wasn’t sure who I was thanking, Creed, for his instruction, or Ennis.
Creed stood.
“Six o’clock,” he added. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
And then he was gone.
Leaving me with a half-eaten meal, a racing pulse, and the knowledge that last night had not been the climax.
It had been the opening move.
* * *
BY MID-MORNING, IT was clear Creed wasn’t leaving a single detail to chance.
That wasn’t control.
That was intention.
Ennis arrived with a day’s itinerary that read more like a military schedule than a pampering routine. Massage. Manicure. Facial. Fitting. Hair. Makeup. Every block accounted for. Every minute assigned.
I wasn’t being indulged.
I was being prepared.
The realization settled in my chest with equal parts unease and clarity.
The massage came first. Warm oils. Expert pressure. Slow, deliberate strokes that worked tension from muscle and bone until my body surrendered what my mind refused to release. Citrus and eucalyptus filled the room, grounding and sharp.
I let my body soften, but I kept my thoughts awake.
The silence was indulgent.
Too indulgent.
This wasn’t rest.
It was recalibration.
The manicure followed. Wine-colored polish swept across my nails, deep, deliberate, unapologetic.
I watched the color dry, something defiant flickering in my chest.
Would he notice? Or had he already decided it was acceptable?
The question lingered longer than it should have.
The facial stripped me bare. My skin glowed afterward, exposed, and unarmored, as if every layer of protection I’d learned to wear had been gently, but firmly, removed.
I didn’t feel pampered. I felt revealed.
As the hours passed, a quiet tension built beneath the surface calm. Each treatment sharpened my awareness of the evening ahead.
I managed a short nap, but even sleep felt supervised. Timed.
And then Josie and her team arrived, familiar faces Creed had sent before to transform me for a formal event.
She was a petite, young woman with pink hair, who had garment bags slung over her shoulders like weapons.
“Darling,” she said, eyes sweeping over me with professional hunger, “we have work to do.”
Her team unpacked gowns in a cascade of color and intention, liquid silks, sculpted satin, beaded couture that looked less like clothing and more like armor.
“This one,” Josie said, holding up a gown so dark it seemed to drink the light around it.
Deep violet. Almost black.
Beaded stars scattered across the bodice like constellations mapped with care. The neckline whispered sin, begging for my collar’s attention. The silhouette was sharp. Controlled.
Power without apology.
It was dangerous.
And it was perfect.
By the time my hair was styled, loose waves, intentional disorder, and my makeup painted on in shadowed precision, I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.
My lips were stained the color of crushed berries. My eyes burned gold beneath dark lashes. My posture was straight, unflinching.
This woman did not ask for permission.
And around my neck—
The collar.
Jeweled. Elegant. Subtle enough to be missed by the untrained eye.
Unmistakable to anyone who understood.
Not an accessory. A signal.
A declaration crafted with care.
Everyone at that gala would read it differently.
Some would see fashion.
Some would see mystery.
Creed would see agreement.
I swallowed hard.
Had they shaped me into something he approved of?
Or had they stripped away everything false until only choice remained?
Christie, a beauty with two nose piercings, met my gaze in the mirror, her voice lowering as she murmured, “You look breathtaking.” Then, with a knowing smile, “Now go remind Mr. Kirkland exactly who he brought with him.”
I nodded slowly.
I wasn’t walking into a gala. I was stepping onto a battlefield of influence, image, and expectation.
Dressed in silk.
Anchored by choice.
And tonight—
I wouldn’t beg for forgiveness. I would negotiate power.