Chapter Ten
Kyllian
“I’m going to kick your fucking ass!” I screamed as the cold air hit my bare ass, the raw fury a shield against my gnawing fear.
I meant it too.
When I got out of this place, I was going to make his life a living fucking hell.
I didn’t ask to be mixed up in Jessup’s shit.
I didn’t ask to be kidnapped and brought here, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to be locked away in his fucking bedroom for hours without food or water.
My give-a-fuck-meter evaporated hours ago.
I didn’t give a shit who this brute thought he was, but if he thought I was just going to lay here and let him spank me, he had another think coming.
Fighting as hard as I could, I couldn’t break his hold.
The fucker was strong. Stronger than me.
But when I heard the son of a bitch chuckle, a new fury erupted deep within me.
My mind raced, cataloging escape routes, but every wall was solid, every door locked.
He wanted to break me, to make me submit, and a part of me, a dark, twisted part, was wondering what would happen if I did.
WHAT THE FUCK?!
Nope, I wasn’t going there. The thought made me sick.
I’d always prided myself on my defiance, on never letting anyone truly control me.
But here, bound and vulnerable, that belief felt like a hollow echo.
I didn’t know this fucker, and after being locked up for hours, I didn’t want to.
All I cared about was finding a way out of this place and running away to some place where he could never find me.
That was until his fucking hand met my ass.
SMACK!
My body froze. All thoughts fled my mind, and the air evaporated from my lungs as a slow burn formed across my ass.
The indignity of the act robbed me of every fucking brain cell in my head.
A whimper, an involuntary and humiliating whimper, escaped my lips.
Shame flooded me, hotter than the sting on my skin.
I had sworn I would never let myself be this helpless, this broken.
But now, in this moment, it was happening, and the worst part was the creeping realization that a sliver of me, a sliver I detested, wanted the pain to stop, even if it meant a different kind of surrender.
I had to resist, had to find a way to fight back, but my muscles refused to obey, locked in a paralyzing mix of pain and despair. I was failing myself, and the knowledge was a brand even deeper than the one on my skin.
“Repeat after me.” His voice was smooth as silk, almost as if he were enjoying my degradation a little too much. “I will behave.”
“FUCK YOU!”
SMACK!
SMACK!
My entire body recoiled from the stinging blows.
Raw humiliation washed over me, eclipsing the pain.
Tears welled in my eyes, hot and angry, but I refused to let them fall.
He wanted to see me break, to witness my utter surrender, and I would deny him that satisfaction.
A low growl rumbled in my chest, a defiant sound that was more primal than words.
“You bastard. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?
” I spat, my voice thick with a rage that burned hotter than any shame.
“You think you’re some kind of god, don’t you?
Ruling over your little kingdom, breaking women like they’re nothing.
” My words were a desperate attempt to reclaim some agency, to push back against the suffocating control he exerted.
I would not be his plaything, his broken doll.
Not now, not ever.
“Oh, I’m enjoying it, Kitten,” he purred, the sound sending a tremor through my already battered body.
His thumb stroked the curve of my bruised cheek, a gesture that was both sickeningly tender and terrifyingly possessive.
“And you’re going to learn to enjoy it too.
Or at least learn to accept it.” His implication was clear—a chilling promise that scraped against my soul.
I was trapped, my defiance a mere spark against his inferno, and the cold certainty settled in that this was just the beginning.
“Over my dead fucking body.”
He chuckled, a low, menacing sound that rippled across my skin.
SMACK!
SMACK!
SMACK!
The heat from the sting on my ass was nothing compared to the burning humiliation that washed over me. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to do anything to reclaim some sliver of control, but my body remained frozen, a prisoner to his brute strength and my own shattered spirit.
The faint, almost imperceptible shift in his grip was the only warning I got before he pulled me closer, my bare skin still exposed, the scent of his leather and something intoxicatingly masculine filling my senses. “I can go all night, Kitten. What’s it going to be?”
“I’ll behave,” I choked out, my voice a raw whisper. My words tasted like surrender and defeat. With my eyes squeezed shut, the tears I’d fought so hard to hold back finally spilled over, blurring the already dark reality.
I was broken.
He had succeeded.
The defiance that had burned so brightly just moments before had been reduced to ashes, leaving only the cold, hard ache of a spirit that had finally been crushed.
The smug satisfaction that twisted his lips was a punch to the gut, confirmation of my utter failure.
He’d taken everything—my freedom, my dignity, my very self.
And the chilling realization that this was only the beginning, that he would continue to chip away at me until nothing remained but a hollow shell, was a terror far greater than any physical pain.
I was his now, a prize won, a piece of collateral he would undoubtedly exploit to its fullest extent.
“Good girl,” he said gently, wiping away my tears. “Now get undressed and climb into bed. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”
He released me, the lingering heat of his touch a stark contrast to the sudden chill that settled in my veins.
Then he walked into the bathroom, deftly shutting the door behind him.
The second I heard the water turn on, a surge of panicked adrenaline shot through me.
I scrambled to the bedroom door, only to find it locked, the solid barrier a cruel echo of his control.
Turning around, I leaned against the hard oak, wincing as the cold wood bit into my sore, tender ass.
This is my fault, a small, resentful voice whispered.
I let this happen. I allowed him to push me this far.
But another part of me, the part that craved oblivion, the part that was so tired of fighting, simply wanted to disappear.
Minutes later, he emerged, a force of nature barely contained, wearing nothing but a black towel cinched low around his waist, water still sluicing down his massive, muscular, tattooed chest, each drop a testament to the raw power he wielded.
His eyes, when they met mine, still held that chilling possessiveness, a silent, suffocating testament to the control he’d so effortlessly claimed.
I slowly gulped, my gaze snagged, held captive by the dripping spectacle. And then the disgust hit, sharp and swift, a betrayal of everything I believed.
I knew he was gorgeous, undeniably so.
I wasn’t fucking blind. But his attitude—that infuriating, self-righteous, holier-than-thou veneer—severely underscored the sheer beauty of the man.
While he may have been a sculpted Adonis, he was a dick, just like every other man who had ever promised solace and delivered only pain.
The instinctual urge to recoil warred with a morbid fascination, a twisted desire to understand the allure of such brute force.
How can something so physically perfect be so utterly corrupt?
I mused, a silent scream building in my chest. I wanted to hate him, to revile him, to scrub his image from my mind.
But in that moment, stripped bare and powerful, he was all I had.
And that was the most terrifying thought of all.
He didn’t speak, merely gestured toward the imposing bed, his command wordless yet absolute.
I’d lost the fight, surrendered to a force I couldn’t overcome, and now, the only path left was one of grim compliance.
The ache in my body was a dull throb, a constant reminder of my helplessness, but the humiliation was a far more potent wound, a burning shame that threatened to consume me.
I moved toward the bed, the satin sheets a mockery of comfort, and sank onto the edge, my bare skin a stark contrast to the dark, luxurious fabric.
He watched me, his gaze never wavering, as if cataloging every minute movement, every suppressed tremor.
I knew he expected me to break, to crumble under the weight of his control.
But somewhere in the wreckage of my spirit, a tiny ember of defiance still glowed.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me utterly defeated.
So, I met his gaze, my own eyes blazing with a silent fury, a promise of future retribution.
He saw it; I knew he did. That flicker of fight, that refusal to be entirely extinguished, seemed to amuse him. A lazy smile spread across his lips, a victor’s grin, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning of a much longer and far more brutal game.
“You sleep here tonight, Kitten,” he rumbled, his voice low and laced with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down my spine.
“And tomorrow, we’ll have a more... productive conversation about how you’re going to earn your keep.
” He turned and walked toward the window, his silhouette framed against the moonlight, leaving me alone in the opulent prison, the silence amplifying the pounding of my own heart.
The unspoken threat hung in the air, a palpable weight, and I knew, with a sinking certainty, that my capture was only the first step in a far more complex and dangerous agenda.
The night was long and arduous. The second he slid beneath the black satin sheets, I froze.
His arm slung over my waist, and he pulled me flush against his chest, the heat of his body immediately radiating down to my bones.
I could feel the steady thump of his heart against my back, a powerful counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of my own.
His breath, warm and even, ghosted across my skin, a terrifying intimacy that threatened to shatter the last vestiges of my composure.
Every nerve-ending screamed danger, yet a perverse part of me, a part that was rapidly growing in the darkness of this gilded cage, found a strange, unsettling comfort in his sheer proximity.
It was a dangerous intimacy, a fragile truce forged in the crucible of violence, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was merely the prelude to whatever games he had planned.
I lay rigid, acutely aware of his every twitch, his every shift.
The sheer power that emanated from him was a tangible force, a suffocating presence that left no room for my own desires, my own will.
My mind, however, refused to surrender entirely.
It was a battlefield, the instinctual urge to escape warring with the desperate need to understand.
Who was this man? What was his game? And more importantly, how could I break free from his grasp, from this opulent prison that threatened to suffocate my very spirit?
The scent of sandalwood and mint, the very air of this room, seemed to cling to him—a dark, intoxicating perfume that whispered of danger and a seductive kind of despair.
Though sleep finally claimed me, it offered no respite.
My dreams were a tangled mess of terror and a disturbing fascination.
Jessup’s brutal violence, the hulking brute’s chilling intensity and possessive gaze swirled together in a nightmarish tableau, each one leaving me more broken, more terrified than the last.
I was a pawn, a plaything, a piece of collateral in a game I didn’t understand, and the realization was a cold, hard truth that settled deep in my soul, a brand seared into my very being by a lifetime of men who sought to own me.