The Contract She Couldn't Quit

Chapter 1

Carter

Sasha and I are at an impasse.

Again.

I can’t believe we’re having this discussion.

Again.

There is no way for me to hold off any longer. I’ve been patient. I’ve been understanding. I’ve waited for her to uphold her end of the bargain.

To become the submissive woman she’s promised me she’d be.

As one of the top-tier men in the exclusive crime family I belong to, I can have it no other way. Our Village—a secret world of philanthropic billionaires hidden in plain sight in New York City—demands it be this way. Our way of life only works if our delicate balance is upheld.

The men dominate, the women submit.

It’s how we keep them safe in this dangerous world that we’ve created.

But Sasha—she’s so headstrong. I can’t seem to get it through to her that submitting to me doesn’t make her weak. The opposite, in fact. She’s a strong woman choosing to allow a man to lead her.

Why have I waited so long to demand she live the lifestyle she’s committed to?

I run my hand through my hair and one word creeps into my mind.

Fear.

Fear of losing my beloved Sasha. She’s a tigress, born of sheer will and determination. I didn’t want to push her, for fear I’d made a mistake—that I’d chosen poorly and the woman I love can’t abide the life I’ve chosen. The vow I’ve made to my brotherhood. The vow I made when I became a Bachman.

And we Bachman men have a very special way of dealing with errant women.

I fear I’ve waited too long to introduce her to our ways.

I know she thinks I’m too weak to take her in hand. That it isn’t in her sweet boyfriend’s nature.

I’ve never bothered to correct her. To tell her that though I’m kind, she’s gotten the whole picture terribly confused.

I didn’t want to scare her away.

That is the truth I have been avoiding. Sasha fell in love with Carter the gym owner—the man who makes her protein shakes, translates her mother’s rapid-fire Greek, and knows exactly how much whipped cream belongs on her hot chocolate.

She knows I am Bachman. She knows, in theory, what that means.

But she has never had to look directly at the whole of me: the criminal, the strategist, the man who believes deeply in our hierarchy and wants control in his home as fiercely as he gives it in bed.

I have been afraid she will see that man and decide she loved only the easier half.

The truth is, I’ve been holding back. Refraining from showing her that side of me.

The dark side. My true Bachman nature.

The desire to dominate. To punish. It runs hot through my blood. I want to throw her over my lap and spank her till she cries. Fuck her so hard she’s screaming my name with tears streaming down her cheeks. Push her to the edge—find the boundary where pain becomes pleasure.

But I haven’t.

And now I’m regretting my decision to wait.

As I look her over, my blood is boiling.

Sasha is pushing at the boundary again, testing whether I mean what I say.

My palm is beginning to itch, and my cock is pulsing.

Her hands are on her hips. She plants one foot and says, “I said, I want to go out. The clubs are just opening and you’re trying to have us go home for the night. ”

The maddening thing is that this stubborn streak is only one piece of her.

Sasha is the same woman who spends half her Saturdays at John’s youth program teaching girls how to lift safely, stretch a grocery budget, and walk into an interview with their shoulders back.

She buys sneakers and sports bras with her own money, then pretends they were donated because she hates being thanked.

She can dig in over something she wants and turn around ten minutes later to give away something someone else needs. That contradiction is part of why I love her. I do not want to erase her fire. I need us to figure out whether she can trust me without believing trust makes her smaller.

I run my hands through my hair. “Be reasonable, Sasha. We have an early morning. You will not be teaching spin at five a.m. hung over and cranky.”

Tossing me a look of annoyance, she flips her ponytail over her shoulder. It takes every ounce of my self-control to not grab the end of it and yank… hard.

“Fine. I’ll go out on my own and you can stay home.” She turns, bouncing up the stairs. The black spandex of her workout pants strains tight over her ass.

An ass I’m going to smack. Over and over again until the palm of my hand stops twitching and her skin is red hot. I want her crying, begging me to stop. Promising me through her tears that she’ll be my good girl.

The door slams.

I’m left standing on the street.

Enough is enough. Tonight, I will introduce her to the real Carter Bachman. I will spank her for the first time, and it will surely not be the last. I go to make my move, follow that curving ass up the stairs so I can punish it.

As I go, my eye catches Bronson’s—the head of our family. He stands beside a woman I’ve never seen before. A pretty girl with dark hair and eyes, like Sasha. She sees me staring and ducks behind his broad shoulders, as if to hide.

By the look on his face, he’s witnessed the whole fight. I hear him say to the girl, “If you’ll excuse me just a moment.”

She gives a small nod. She shoots me a curious look as Bronson walks over to me.

His stride radiates power. Control.

He stops, standing less than a foot before me. He rests one hand on my shoulder. The other, he offers to me in greeting.

“Hey, Bronson,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it. He gives me the famous Bronson shake—firm grip.

His eyes lock on mine, holding my gaze as he releases my hand. The hand on my shoulder remains, heavy. Steadying me for the weight of what he’s about to say. His gaze leaves mine as he leans in. He brings his mouth close to my ear.

He says, “If you don’t spank her, I will.”

His words hit me. Tightening my gut. I envision him, Sasha thrown over his knee, his hand punishing her ass. It makes my blood boil. If I didn’t respect him so much—and it wouldn’t get me killed—I might even throw a punch.

My body tenses. I’m one rigid muscle.

He pulls away. His eyes are so dark they look black. I stare back, reading his expression. Concern is etched in his features. Worry flashes in his gaze.

In that moment, I remember: This man loves me. He’s my brother.

My anger toward him dissipates. As always, he’s only looking out for me. For the Village.

I don’t bother to tell him that’s just what I’m off to do. A waste of words. He needs only a nod from me, and I give it to him. My silent promise to right this wrong. To bring balance back to our family.

I take the stairs two at a time.

I barge through the door. When I call her name, my voice bellows. “Sasha!”