Sebastian #2
She stares, no hint of embarrassment or submission.
No respect either.
"Why?" She snaps her tongue behind her teeth with a scoff.
I inhale through my nose to the count of four, tamp down the spike of irritation mixed with arousal that comes from being challenged by this wayward bird of a girl.
"Because I asked, and when I ask you a question, I expect an answer.
" I pause, my gaze drifting to her pert little nipples poking out on the pastel-blue, thigh-length cotton nightdress that she arrived in, thinking of drawing that youthful flesh between my teeth and listening to her scream for Daddy to stop.
"I have no idea what your mother is like, but it can't be easy living with Hoover and Robert. "
I note the slightest of winces at the sound of those names.
“You have no idea.” She mouths, eyes dropping, rolling her head on her neck before she considers me again.
The realization of how much I like her eyes on me settles deep into my belly.
I know some of what happened with her. Why she was sent here to me.
George Makefield, her intended husband, is five years my senior. He was a rival of my fucking father’s and an ugly fucker to boot.
I haven’t killed in years, but the realization that I will again hits me like a sledgehammer to my chest.
"Yellow," she snaps, looking away, taking another sip of water.
My fingers flex against my thighs.
They itch to stroke the waves of her black hair, her too-pale cheek, to reward her for obeying and being a good girl. The urge is so strong I dig my nails into my palms.
"Lemon yellow? Mustard yellow—?" I want to know more. I want the tiniest of details about her.
"I have no clue." She snorts, but I see the scared little girl behind the sharp edges.
It's not me she's angry with. "I had a yellow crayon. I stole it from one of the staff that had grandchildren. I was not allowed things as common as crayons. Or anything else that was fun. But it’s still my favorite color. "
My chest goes tight, lungs burning.
The rage that sweeps through me is unexpected, hot, and vicious, tightening every muscle until I'm rigid in my chair.
What kind of childhood did Hoover's household give her?
And why the fuck do I care?
She's a job. A paycheck, I have to keep reminding myself.
I'm not supposed to want to burn down my brother’s estate with him inside it for stealing her childhood.
"Describe it to me," I say, my better judgment overwritten by this dangerous new desire to know everything about her.
She chuckles. "My crayon?"
"Your favorite shade of yellow." I keep my voice patient, even though my pulse is kicking up. "Tell me something that's the same color."
She hesitates, and for the first time, I see something that might be embarrassment in eyes the color of sapphires.
"Larissa, I asked you a question."
"Belle's dress in Beauty and the Beast." She scowls, her cheeks reddening as she turns her eyes away. “Okay? Happy now? You got me to admit some little girl fantasy, you feel more powerful now?”
Fuck me.
My cock pulses, precum leaking into my briefs.
Heat crawls up my spine, spreading through my shoulders, making my fingers itch to grab her chin and force her to look at me while I explain in explicit detail exactly how this particular fairy tale is going to end.
I fight the urge to reach out, turn her over, and run my hand over that tight teenage backside, pulling at the cheeks, then turning them red with my handprint.
She's eighteen. My step-niece. The girl I'm being paid to fix, not fuck. But the moment I saw her in that bed, things inside me changed.
None of that seems to matter to my cock, or to the dark, possessive thing unfurling in my chest that wants to hear her call me Beast while I stuff my beauty’s pretty little cunt full of my tongue.
"Look at me," I demand, and when she obeys immediately, electricity races down my spine. My vision blurs at the edges, pleasure so sharp and unexpected I have to lock my jaw to keep from roaring.
I’m sure over time she will do something that deflates this wild possessiveness I feel. They always do. She likely will play innocent until she’s comfortable, then invite me into that wet, pulsing space between her legs that women think will manipulate me into someone they can control.
It’s never worked before. I lean forward slightly, my elbows on my knees, getting closer. "If you want your stay here to be pleasant, you must learn to be obedient. That means doing what I tell you, when I tell you, without question. Do you understand?"
She nods.
"Use your words."
"I understand.” Her tone drips with sarcasm, and with any other girl, I would be laying out punishments, but with her…
I’m battling back the unfamiliar urge to smile.
“Can’t be any worse here than at home. I mean, a vacation from ole Hoover is maybe just what the doctor ordered.
Do your worst." She raises the glass in toast with a nod.
"Very good, Larissa. I'm pleased with you so far."
“The feeling is not mutual.” A long breath escapes through her bee-stung lips as she rubs the tips of her fingers above a perfect and naturally arched left eyebrow.
I push up to stand, though my every instinct screams at me to stay.
"Wait," she chirps when I’m three strides toward the door.
I pause, turning my head only because the front of my pants has filled with cock and there’s something about the way she looks at me that makes me feel she can somehow read what’s going on inside my head.
Larissa. I want to say her name a thousand times. Tasting it on my tongue.
"In the future, if you want my attention, you say 'Excuse me.' Now, what did you want?"
She shakes her head. "How… How do you know Hoover?"
For a second, I consider telling her the truth.
Instead, I answer with a question of my own. “Why do you think you are here?”
“I refused to kiss someone. Some old fucker I was supposed to marry.”
The details I already know. The rage I’ve pretended I didn’t feel ignites down low. “And you didn’t want to marry him.”
She scoffs, shaking her head, the dark, messy waves breaking over her too-thin shoulders.
“No. I didn’t. But it’s not that. I wanted to study art and go away to school like a regular eighteen-year-old.
So I refused to kiss him unless Hoover promised I could still go, and he wouldn’t.
Then stupid Robert got involved. He… Pushed me into the punch bowl, so I slugged him and embarrassed Hoover in front of my intended. ”
I clench my fists to keep from applauding. It’s been more than ten years since I had the displeasure of being around my nephew, but I’d bet this island he’s still an insufferable brat. Just bigger. A mini-Hoover in the making. “You hit him?”
“A punch, I guess, but I’m not like a trained fighter, so— It must have landed just right because he went down like a bitch. I was sent to my room, the lock engaged, and told not to come out for the rest of the night, next thing I knew, I was waking up here.”
I'm a last resort for ultra-wealthy families who can't control their own. And I've never, not once, wanted to keep any of them for myself.
No attachments. No exceptions.
Then why is my mind filled with this Beauty and the Beast fantasy of wet humping her on all fours with my index finger in her ass?
"Think of me as your new father, one who won't hesitate to use discipline when he has to. Spare the rod, spoil the child. But you will also come to crave my praise and my guidance. You will never see anger from me. I am Daddy. Do you understand?"
That honorific term has never been more than a psychological manipulation tool before now.
I step forward, press my thumb to the biometric lock, and gather a deep breath.
The door clicks as Larissa’s soft sigh comes from behind me.
"Yes, Daddy," she whispers.
She has no idea the consequences of that seemingly innocent answer.
“Good girl.”
Those two words take on a whole new meaning as I leave her alone, closing her in behind me, and God help me, something in my chest starts to warm.