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The teasing note in his voice is louder than his concern.

I can’t stop shaking. My muscles won’t obey my commands, leaving me floppy as a wet shirt. I open my mouth, but no sound emerges.

“What was that?” He gently shakes me from side to side. “You’ll need to speak louder.”

I nod, but he responds with an impatient click of his tongue.

“If you need me to put you under again to learn the lesson, I’ll do it.”

I believe him.

“Yes,” I croak, the effort exhausting me until I shut my eyes, tears leaking from the closed lids. “An enthusiastic yes.”

“See how easy that was?”

Kincaid gives me another minute to recover, supporting me until I’m standing.

“Now, I need to film a quick video retracting your accusations against Ezra. Once that’s done, we can discuss how things will work around here from now on, and that’s best handled over a meal. So, do you want me to fuck you first, then feed you, or feed then fuck?”

And unbelievably, my stomach chooses this moment to growl with hunger.

His lips grace my ear, vibrating with laughter. “I think we have an answer.”

* * *

KINCAID

When I finish the recording for Ezra, I stand over Francesca, watching as the water drips from her lashes like tears. Utterly beautiful.

Her shirt is wet enough to be see-through, nipples pebbled from the chill air in the house. Any makeup she wore earlier is gone now, her skin marked only with the delightful constellation of freckles. Drenched with water, her red hair is straighter, longer, and darker.

I stoop to grab the towel, then carry her listless form through to the lounge, resting her on the sofa.

None of that was my intention when I ran the bath, and I’m glad the lesson is over, though it had to be done.

There’s no way my uncle would tolerate her calling the police, even if her complaint is guaranteed to go nowhere.

“Lift your arms,” I say, my voice gentle.

She barely responds and I do it for her, peeling away the damp fabric of her blouse and removing her bra, leaving her chest bare. My eyes absorb every detail, tongue snaking out to lick my lips as I stare at her pale pink nipples, remembering how small and perfect her breasts were in my hands. How they reacted under my tongue.

Goosebumps dance along every exquisite inch. I want to touch her but won’t let myself. Not yet. Not until she’s more responsive.

Instead, I grab the large sweater from her bedroom to cover her, also bringing the comb from her bedside cabinet.

When I lift her elbow to dress her, she jerks away—“I can do it!”—snatching the woollen top and pulling it over her head, her fighting spirit returning.

“Where’s your hair dryer?”

She might be adorable with the tangled wet strands falling around her face, but I want her to match the girl in my imagination. The one with silky red hair I can spread across the pillow or twist in my hand.

“We don’t have one.”

We.

Francesca had sounded so happy when she called out, expecting her mum to respond. I’d discounted it before but if her return is a possibility, I need to factor it into my planning.

I towel her hair dry, and she bats my hands away before it’s done, impatiently tugging the comb through the wet strands.