Chapter 6 #2
I quickly locate the rest of my preferred products in the room's vast cabinets and attend to my skincare and hair. Not surprised in the least that he would have someone know exactly what I needed.
I smooth a light red lipstick on my lips, as I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are rimmed red, and I fight the tears that want to settle there. Red like the blood of my beloved brothers all over the marble floors of our entryway.
No. Not that. I cannot think of that. I won't survive it.
Leaving the adjoining bathroom, I enter the large walk-in closet to see a curated wardrobe. At least what I wear to dinner is a decision that’s mine alone, so I act on revenge and choose a tight one. Might as well make him suffer.
The dress fits too well—a soft blush silk, smooth and cool against my freshly scrubbed skin. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my short nails biting into my palms as I glare at the flawless fabric, perfectly molded to every inch of my body. Of course it fits.
Everything in my life is always tailored, always immaculate. I’ve existed in a suffocating cage of perfection, and now even this dress mocks me with its flawless beauty, holding me captive like every expectation I've ever tried and failed to escape.
None of this is mine, and yet it owns me completely.
The knock is sharp. One beat. It couldn't have been an hour already.
Before I can turn, the door opens. I should have known better than to expect privacy.
Hayden steps inside, rolling his sleeves to his forearms with a slow, deliberate motion. A silent promise. A warning. He doesn’t acknowledge my glare or the way my pulse stutters at his intrusion.
"You can’t just—"
"I can."
His gaze drags over me, leisurely, claiming every inch of exposed skin. His approval is a brand I refuse to wear, yet my body betrays me with a traitorous pulse between my thighs.
"I told you to be ready in an hour." He steps closer, the air crackling between us.
I just lift my chin and furrow my brows as I slide on a pair of heeled open-toe satin mules from the large shelves of shoes in the walk-in wardrobe.
"Let’s make something clear," he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. "You don’t waste my time." His fingers skim the strap of my dress, adjusting it with infuriating ease. "And you don’t run. Not from me."
I lift my chin, defiance flickering in my chest. "And if I break the rules?"
The corner of his mouth lifts. "You’ll learn it’s better for you if you don’t."
Dinner is an exquisite performance of control. Hayden eats in unhurried silence, every movement a calculated display of precision. I sit stiff-backed, hands curled into my lap, stomach tight with hunger I refuse to acknowledge.
The dining room is a monument to old wealth, untouched by time. Candlelight flickers against beautifully blue walls lined with oil paintings of men who look like they’ve never been told no. The long mahogany table, set with fine china and polished silver, could host twenty. Only two places are set.
Hayden eats his roast chicken as if he were born at this table, every movement measured and effortless.
He doesn’t need to remind me who holds the power; everything about this place makes it clear to him.
The heavy chandelier overhead, the marble floors, the way the butler—a man in his sixties with an expression carved from stone—appears only when needed and never meets my gaze.
“You will eat.”
It isn’t a question.
I don’t move. “No, I will not.”
His fork pauses midair before he sets it down with deliberate ease, his gaze locking onto mine.
He stares, silent and unwavering. My pulse flutters under the weight of it, traitorous and unsteady.
Slowly and purposefully, his eyes drop, lingering on my breasts before flicking back up; his expression is knowing.
“You may want to break me,” I murmur, voice steady despite the tension thrumming beneath my skin, “but I won’t make it easy.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. His ever-present smirk flickers at the edges, as if considering whether to be amused or annoyed.
“Good,” he says after a beat, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the rim of his glass.
He sips his tumbler of vodka, eyes never leaving mine, waiting for the moment I fold. But I don’t.
Instead, I pick up the knife beside my plate, holding it delicately, like it’s simply part of the setting. Letting the candlelight catch the blade just enough to make a point.
For the first time, his amusement dims. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I see it, the briefest flicker of something he’s struggling to restrain.
I may be in his house, but I am not tame. I will not fear him.
And that may be my greatest mistake.
Hayden’s stare continues, gaze locked to my own, expectantly waiting for me to begin eating.
When he raises a threatening brow, and I refuse to budge from my stonelike position, he gestures to the ground beside him, a silent command that makes my breath catch.
I stare at him, stunned, unable to process the audacity, the sheer dominance in the motion. My pulse pounds in my ears, but I don’t move.
He can’t possibly think I would...
“Kneel.”
I freeze. My breath catches. I laugh, sharp and full of bitter bewilderment. “Not a fucking chance.”
Hayden simply watches me with a gaze full of expectation. His patience needles at me and digs under my skin. He knows I’ll break. He’s just giving me the space to do it myself.
“If you’re going to behave like a poorly trained pet, you’ll be treated as such,” he says far too calmly.
Minutes pass. I don’t move. The tension tightens and squeezes around my ribs. The pressure builds until I can’t breathe. I want to fight, to spit in his face. To scream at him. I want to throw my perfectly portioned plate of food at his smugly handsome face.
Instead, my knees shake as I resist the pull, my pride cracking piece by piece.
His expression is growing darker, and I realize I've been given a request that would have me on my knees, whether I wanted to or not. And I refuse to give away my choice.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re exhausting.”
I can’t submit to him so quickly; if I do, how will I successfully persuade him to meet my demands? But his stare, so unwavering with a tinge of darkness that makes me terrified, halts my schemes.
Because there’s a sick curiosity inside of me that wonders what reward I may get if I do, in fact, behave. Will he pet my head in pride?
Is the secret to my whims a single bend of the knee, and a larger bend of my pride?
The bright defensive anger burns angrily inside of me, making it hard to hear the small part of me that's desperate to behave. But I hear it nonetheless. It’s curious to follow directions, and hungry for the treat that comes with behaving.
And yet I refuse. I refuse. I refuse—
And then I break.
I’m on my feet in seconds, my knees hit the floor, shame curling hot and tight in my belly. Humiliation burns through me, but so does something else. The feeling of disgrace trumping success is a feeling I hate more than anything.
But the humiliation of giving up my control is sickly intoxicating nonetheless.
Hayden’s gaze darkens, satisfaction rolling off him in waves. He pushes his chair back and crouches down, so close I can feel his breath against my cheek.
“Good girl.”
I bite my lip, hating how the words make my stomach tighten, how they make my thighs clench together, how they speak to that small, curious depth inside of me eager to play along. Eager to be a good girl.
I feel the wetness that has bloomed on my panties.
He picks up a piece of buttered roll between his fingers and holds it out.
I hesitate as I stare at his hand. I want to slap it away, down to the ground. I’d find sick satisfaction if I spat in his face. Maybe I'd scream.
But my body has already betrayed me once, and my knees now hurt because of it.
With trembling rage, I lean forward, my teeth grazing his fingers as I take the bite.
I want it to hurt.
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches, his smirk deepening as I chew, as I swallow.
The taste of him lingers on my tongue. Salt. Heat. Power.
And I hate how much I crave another.
Hayden Herron
I watch her, chewing through her defiance like she can swallow it down with the food she just took willingly from my hand. Her cheeks are burning from the humiliation of kneeling; she’s still shaking from the weight of her surrender. And yet, she’s not broken. Not even close.
I didn’t expect her to be this interesting. I expected rebellion, yes. I expected her to claw at her leash, snap at my control. But I hadn’t expected her bratty little tantrum to turn me on the way it did.
The sharpness in her gaze, the venom in her words, only makes me want to push her further. See how far I can take her before she shatters.
She glares at me now, chest rising and falling with every angry breath, and my gaze dips lower, following the silk as it molds to her curves.
She’s beautiful like this—furious, undone, trapped in the contradiction of her own body betraying her.
I wonder if she realizes how much I savor watching her resist me, how much I crave seeing what she'll do when I push her even further.
Harder. I can be a ruthless motherfucker.
My cock twitches against my slacks as I lean back on my haunches, letting my gaze drag over her like a brand. I crouch in front of her, watching how her petite chest rises and falls in anger as she remains perfectly silent. If you didn’t look close enough, you’d almost think she’s tame.
She’s not tame. Yet.
But she will be.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, as if choking down more than just the food. The defiance, the humiliation, the knowledge that she obeyed me. She must know it only makes me want more.