Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Hayden Herron
She’s a mess beneath me. Smudged lipstick. Swollen lips. Hair tangled from my hands. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven breaths, skin flushed, pupils blown wide. And yet despite everything, I catch that look in her eyes.
Defiant and unapologetic. A liar denying she’s afraid of me, it’s obvious she still thinks she has some kind of power here.
I look down at her, moaning slightly, captivated by how she doesn’t understand how close she is to being ruined.
And fuck, she should be afraid. I’m terrified of the things I want to do to her.
Seeing the way her eyes lit up at the idea of being devoid of all the luxuries I provide her, desperate for only me to come to save her from my basement, had me only moments away from losing control.
Depriving her of basic necessities, the company of her own cries as she begs me to let her out.
The horrible desires are barely lidded inside of me. Creeping out with every breathy moan that leaves her plush lips. I’m being too rough with her, and yet she enjoys it. She’s a little monster, just like me. The greater problem at hand is that she wasn’t supposed to be.
I’ve hated her for what she represents for so long, watching from her windows, in her bedroom some nights. Collecting pieces of her to feed my obsession. Hoping that when I finally met her, she wouldn’t live up to the idea I’d created in my nights of devotion to all of her movements.
I had planned to hate her, use her, toss her aside. Fuck her and leave her for someone else to clean up.
But instead, I found something else within her I never anticipated. Something darker and more dangerous than want. It matches the one that coils low in my gut, tight and hot, clawing at the inside of my ribs. I don’t even have a name for it, I just know I don’t want it there.
Because it makes me reckless, it’s made her so naive, so trusting of me, when we both know she shouldn’t be.
Because when I look at her like this, so vulnerable, so damn stubborn, I don’t think about control. I think about destruction. I think about what I’d do if someone else ever touched her like this. I would end their life without a second thought.
And I know, with terrifying clarity, that if anything in this world tried to hurt her, I wouldn’t just stop it. I’d rip it apart with my bare hands. Burn it to ash and smile while I watch it turn to nothing.
That feeling is unacceptable. I have to kill it.
So I tighten my grip, watching the way her pupils dilate, the sharp inhale she tries to control as a bit of fear takes over. Good. Fear is better. Fear is predictable. Fear is what I wanted as I squeeze her throat just a bit too tight.
I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear as I murmur, low and lethal, "Go ahead, Martine. Test me. Make me show you just how serious I am."
She shivers. I feel it. The betrayal of her own body, the way her breath stutters despite her defiance. It almost makes me smirk. Almost.
I want to break her.
No.
I want to strip her down to the bone, peel away the layers of composure, the sharp tongue, the feigned indifference. I want her bare. Vulnerable. I want her to understand that she doesn’t get to fight me on this.
She’s mine.
No. She’s not. She’s nothing more to me than a headache-inducing property.
I don’t know what she is, I’m too conflicted—confused between her panting in front of me and the turmoil in my own gut. I want her. I hate her.
But above all, I refuse to let her go.
I reach down, gripping her wrist, dragging her hand up until her fingers hover over the pen resting beside the crumpled contracts beneath her thighs.
The candle sconces on the wall flicker, casting shadows across her delicate face, her full lip sucked between her teeth.
"Sign," I say with venom.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Her jaw is tight, her lips parted like she’s considering whether or not to defy me again.
And for a moment, she might, and the possibility excites me.
“Push me more, darling, I dare you.” I grit out, gripping her wrist far harder than she deserves.
I should make it easier for her. I should make her so terrified that she just submits.
But I don’t.
Instead, I take her chin between my fingers, forcing her to look at me as I murmur, softer now, but no less demanding, "If I have to tell you again, there will be consequences."
She swallows, eyes locked onto mine, and for a split second, I see a flicker in them. She wants to know what the consequences are, and better yet, a part of her wants to suffer them.
Her devious look puts that weight back in my chest—the one I detest.
Instead of ignoring it, I still press my lips to hers, slow and bruising, before pulling back just enough to whisper, "Is that what you want, darling? Do you want to see me beg?"
She doesn’t move, and she surely knows better than to speak. She just flinches at the anger in my voice.
"That's not something you'll ever live to witness, my darling, but begging is what you'll experience, until you fall dead into your own grave." I emphasize, practically spitting my words out in anger, “My devotion in the form of control, over every god damn moment for the rest of your life. You don’t have a choice, you’ve never had the choice, and I’m allowing you to do this yourself as a courtesy.”
I’m fuming now, full of rage at how she can pull such horrible things out of me. How goddamn conflicted she makes me. One moment, I want her destruction, and the next her devotion.
Defiance burns in her eyes, but it’s flickering now. She’s struggling against the whiplash of my demands.
I could force her. I could make her sign this fucking contract, and she knows it. But that’s not what I want. I don’t just want obedience. I want her total submission. I want her to surrender not just her signature, but everything else she has to give.
She needs to learn.
I said she wouldn’t like it if she didn’t listen, and now she’s about to find out precisely what happens when she doesn’t.
This part is for me.
I release her chin, reaching for the knife resting beside the bowl of bright green apples—a sleek, sharp blade with a silver handle that catches the chandelier's glow. I curl my fingers around the hilt, feeling the weight and cold steel of it pressing against my palm.
Her eyes follow the movement. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away.
I lift the blade slowly until the tip just grazes the delicate line of her throat.
She shudders at the threat.
I watch, fascinated, as the pulse at her neck jumps beneath the metal—a single, perfect tremor of anticipation and fear.
My cock twitches, hardening almost painfully as realization settles into my bones. She likes this too. No, she fucking loves it.
The breath she exhales is uneven, her lips parting slightly. I press the blade just a little harder, not enough to break the skin, but enough that she feels it, enough that she knows just how far I can take this.
"Look at you," I murmur, my voice dripping with dark amusement. "You pretend to fight me, but this?" I drag the tip of the knife down, slow, tracing the line of her collarbone. "This makes you wet, doesn’t it?"
Her thighs squeeze together involuntarily, and my smirk deepens.
"You love the power I hold over you. Say it."
Her breath shudders again, but she stays silent. That fucking defiance is still clinging to her like a second skin.
I press the blade against her throat again, just a whisper of pressure. "I won’t ask twice, darling."
She swallows hard, the movement causing her skin to shift against the knife—a perfect, fragile motion.
Her lips part. "Yes," she breathes, almost too quiet to hear.
I groan low in my throat, barely restraining the urge to take her right here, on top of these goddamn contracts.
"Good girl," I whisper darkly, my grip tightening on both the knife and her. "Now pick up the fucking pen and sign before I find another way to make you obey."
She doesn’t move a muscle. Trembling in desire as much as in defiance. Not with fear, no, it’s never fear with her. It’s something she won’t admit, but I’ll make her.
I keep the knife at her throat for another second, feeling the quick, uneven stutter of her pulse beneath the steel. She’s breathing faster now, her body taut beneath me, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t beg.
She just waits.
I smirk.
Then slowly I drag the knife lower.
The sharp edge traces the line of her collarbone, down the delicate slope of her sternum.
I raise the knife back up, quickly cutting the straps of her dress, watching it pool at her waist.
Her skin is flushed, fever-warm beneath the cold steel, and when I reach the valley between her breasts, I pause.
Her breath hitches.
She’s waiting for me to stop.
I don’t.
I tilt the blade, just slightly, just enough to let the very tip bite into her skin—a shallow cut, thin as a whisper, blooming red in its wake.
She gasps.
Then she moans, her nipples hardening.
The sound punches through my gut like a fist, straight to the core of something primal, something savage.
My cock twitches painfully, my grip on the knife tightening as I watch a single drop of blood bead and slide down her sternum, disappearing between the soft swell of her breasts.
"Jesus Christ, Martine," I growl, dragging my thumb through the blood, smearing it over her skin. "Tell me how much you like to bleed for me."
She doesn’t answer.
So I press harder.
The blade sinks another fraction into her flesh, not deep, but enough to make her back arch, her lips parting on another ragged, shuddering moan.
"Fuck," I mutter, half to myself, half to her. "You weren’t supposed to be like this. I should ruin you for what you’re doing to me."
Her breath is uneven, but her eyes are locked onto mine, glassy with something that makes my pulse hammer.
"You already have," she whispers.
I curse under my breath, dropping the knife in her lap.
Then I grab her jaw, my fingers digging into her cheeks as I draw her mouth sharply to mine.