Chapter Eight
The house is already buzzing with staff when I step into the foyer.
Voices echo through the marble halls, glasses clink in the distance, and the chandeliers burn bright enough to turn the entire estate into a stage.
I adjust the cuffs of my black tuxedo, the shirt beneath just as dark, the fabric sharp against my skin.
I’m not here for any of this. I’m here for her.
And then she appears at the top of the staircase.
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The gown transforms her. The bodice catches the light in a constellation of sequins, sculpted to her frame with a precision that borders on art.
The deep V neckline is softened only by the sheer panel, a whisper of fabric that draws the eye without ever crossing into vulgarity.
The skirt falls in layered tulle, shimmering with every step she takes, the slit revealing the long line of her leg as she descends.
She moves with a quiet confidence she doesn’t even realize she has, each step measured, elegant, devastating.
Her makeup is flawless. Her eyes are framed in soft smoke, deepening their natural intensity.
A thin sweep of liner lifts her gaze, giving her a regal sharpness that makes her look untouchable.
Her skin glows under the chandelier light, sculpted and luminous, her cheekbones catching the warm gold in a way that makes her look ethereal.
Her lips are painted in a muted rose, soft enough to be romantic, defined enough to be unforgettable.
Her hair falls in controlled waves, glossy and deliberate, framing her face with a kind of effortless glamour that makes every person in the room turns to look at her.
She is breathtaking. She is dangerous. She is the most beautiful thing in this entire estate.
And I am the only one she is walking toward.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs and her eyes find mine. Something warm flickers across her face, something soft, something that makes my chest tighten. I step forward, offering my hand. She places hers in mine without hesitation, the contact grounding me in a way nothing else ever has.
She looks like starlight wrapped in shadow. I look like the storm standing beside her.
Together we walk into the gala, every head turning, every whisper following us, every stare lingering too long on her. I feel the familiar burn of possessiveness coil in my chest, but she squeezes my hand once, subtle and steady, and the tension eases.
Her mother is the first to approach, her usual impassiveness shrouded by the facade of a doting mother, her arms wrap around her pulling her into a tight embrace as she showcases her daughter, parading her in front of the party-goers, I notice Mara’s face tighten in discomfort, not wanting to be the center of attention, the thing that most onlookers marvel upon.
My blood simmers beneath the surface, the urge to pluck out every eye that turns her way.
I fall into step beside them, a gentle squeeze on my hand draws me from my thoughts, doe eyes usually full of life radiate contempt as she glances to her mother, I give her a subtle nod, I know baby, I know.
Mara
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There’s a reason I avoid this house the way people avoid plague pits.
The moment I step into the gala, the air turns thick, heavy, suffocating.
The chandeliers burn too bright. The marble floors echo too loudly.
Every hallway feels tighter than it should.
Every memory presses against my ribs, clawing up my throat, reminding me of everything I survived here and everything I never said.
Eyes follow me as I move through the crowd.
They rake over my dress, my skin, my posture, dissecting me with the same cold curiosity this house was built on.
I hate it. I hate the way the walls seem to whisper.
I hate the way the past feels close enough to touch.
I hate the way my pulse spikes with every step.
My mother stops in front of a familiar face.
And the world drops out from under me.
Him.
My blood runs cold so fast I feel dizzy. His face is exactly as it is in my nightmares. The same sharp jaw. The same polished smile. The same eyes that once looked at me with ownership instead of humanity. Recognition flickers across his expression, slow and deliberate, and then that smile spreads.
That twisted, ugly smile that only I know the truth behind.
“Mara.” He coos, voice dripping with false sweetness, the same tone he used when he hurt me. He reaches out for me, hand extended, confident, entitled, certain he still has the right.
I step back so fast my heel nearly slips. My body moves before my mind does, instinct taking over. I move closer to Kade, into the shadow he casts, into the space where I feel safe. My protector.
My anchor.
My shield.
The terror hits me in a wave. My throat tightens.
My vision tunnels. My skin crawls with memories I never wanted to remember.
The nights. The threats. The hands. The way my mother looked away.
The way she practically handed me over to him, pretending it was something normal, pretending it was something I owed.
She knows, always knew, let it happen.
My breath stutters. My fingers tremble. My stomach twists so violently I think I might be sick. I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t do anything except stand there and try not to fall apart.
Kade notices instantly.
His hand finds the small of my back, steady and firm.
His body shifts closer, blocking the man’s reach without making a scene.
His eyes flick to my face, reading every detail, every tremor, every ounce of fear I’m trying to swallow.
His jaw tightens. His posture changes. His entire presence sharpens into something lethal.
He sees it, all of it, what this man is to me.
And the look in Kade’s eyes is not confusion. It is not curiosity. It is fury.
Cold, controlled, murderous fury.
He steps half a pace in front of me, subtle enough not to draw attention, deliberate enough that the man’s hand drops back to his side. Kade’s voice is low when he speaks, meant only for me.
“Bunny,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Stay close.”
I do. Because I can’t do anything else. Because the terror is too loud. Because the past is too close. Because the man who ruined pieces of me is standing ten feet away, smiling like he still owns them.
And because Kade is the only thing keeping me upright.
He steps toward me again.
Not fast. Not aggressive. Just confident.
Certain. Certain he still has some claim on me.
Certain I am still the girl he broke. Certain my mother will let him do whatever he wants.
His hand lifts, fingers reaching for my arm, the same gesture he used years ago when he wanted to pull me somewhere I didn’t want to go.
My stomach twists violently. My breath catches.
My vision blurs at the edges. The room tilts.
The chandelier light feels too sharp, too bright, too cruel.
Every memory hits me at once. The nights.
The threats. The hands. The way he smiled while I cried.
The way my mother looked away. The way she told me to be polite.
His fingers come closer.
I step back so fast my heel scrapes against the marble. My pulse spikes. My throat closes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t do anything except recoil from him, from the past, from the nightmare standing in front of me.
Kade moves.
He steps between us with a precision that feels surgical.
His body blocks the man’s reach completely.
His presence shifts, darkens, sharpens into something lethal.
He doesn’t shove. He doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t make a scene. He simply stands there, a wall of controlled violence, and the man’s hand freezes mid-air.
Kade’s voice is low, quiet, meant only for him. “Don’t touch her.”
The man’s smile falters for the first time. His eyes flick to Kade, assessing, calculating, trying to decide whether he can push this boundary the way he pushed every other one in my life.
He shouldn’t.
He really shouldn’t.
My mother steps forward, irritation flickering across her face, as if this is an inconvenience, as if my terror is embarrassing her. She opens her mouth to speak, but Kade turns his head slightly, just enough to address her without taking his eyes off the man.
His voice is quiet. Deadly quiet.
“I know.”
My mother freezes.
Kade leans in, just enough that only she can hear him. “I know what you let happen to her. I know what you sold her into. And you won’t get away with it.”
Her face drains of color. Her fingers tighten around her wine glass. She looks at him the way people look at a loaded gun pointed in their direction.
The man tries again, stepping forward, reaching out, testing the boundary.
Kade doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink.
But the air around him changes. It thickens. It darkens. It becomes something dangerous enough to make the man hesitate.
“Mara,” the man says, voice soft, coaxing, poisonous. “Come here.”
My knees nearly buckle.
Kade’s hand finds mine, steady and grounding, pulling me behind him with a gentleness that contradicts the fury radiating off him.
“No,” Kade says, voice low and final. “She’s not going anywhere with you.”
I stare down the man who carved nightmares into my bones. The man who stole years from me. The man who turned my skin into a battlefield. I look him dead in the eye and let a twisted smile curl across my lips. It feels wrong on my face.
It feels feral.
It feels earned.
I will not crumble this time.
Neither he nor my mother deserves the satisfaction of watching me fall apart.
I will not crumble.
I snake my arm around Kade’s waist, anchoring myself to the only thing in this room that feels real. My voice is steady when I speak, but the venom in it could strip paint from the walls.
“Meet Kade Mercer. My boyfriend.”