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Oliver cocks his head. “Can she call me owner too?”

Not in this life. Not the next. “Only one man shelled out thirty million dollars for her, Oliver.”

“Technically, three quarters of that sum. But anyway. I see what you’re saying and still, you’re no fun.” He laughs. “Okay, then. Whiskey. Neat.”

“Make that two.” I gesture toward the den where I’ve been keeping the surprise for tonight. “Macallan. The one at the bottom of the wet bar. The one I don’t let you look at. Tonight, you have my permission to do it. This is a special occasion.”

His smirk deepens, and he takes a seat in front of the fire. Places an ankle over his knee.

“I’ll go get it for you.” She spins, the addictive scent of her hair attacking my senses.

I ignore the sharp pang of longing in my chest when she walks away. Instead of chasing after her, I lower myself to the seat next to Oliver. “So. What do you think?”

“I think I finally know why you’ve been hiding. The real reason.” My senses are on high alert, picking up on any change in his tone. “You’ve invited me over. With her here.”

Any elaborate explanation I might give him could potentially incriminate me.

Oliver, on the other hand, enjoys talking.

I let him, nodding.

“But you can’t control her. Not really, the way she ran off back there.”

A shrug. “She’s a feisty one.”

“Mm-hmm.” Apparently, that answer has pleased him. He leans back, adjusting the bulge in his pants. I fight the urge to cut his dick off his body and feed it to him. “I like it when they put up a fight. I never hurt them, but a little discipline every now and then is satisfying.”

“No need. She knows her place. When we share her tonight, she doesn’t have to like it. She’ll do it anyway.” My stomach roils. Bile rises in my throat. I might lose my shit by the time Ophelia shows up. “A gift for you, in exchange for my life. I could tell you suspected me, and I was done hiding.”

“Sharing it is, then.” His entire body brims with murderous energy. Worse. Predatory. “My fucking pleasure.”

“How’s Camden?” I change the subject. Fishing for more information. “Was our day in court what he’d expected?”

“That and then some.” Oliver chuckles. “He blabbered about it over dinner. Only stopped when I started talking about hunting a woman down. He’s thrilled that we get to do it together.”

Barbaric. “Yes, he mentioned that.”

“Join us? You and Topher?”

“Sure.” Hell no. “I’ll have to clear my schedule and ask Topher when he’s available.”

“Great, we’ll make?—”

Small, delicate footsteps bring our conversation to an abrupt end. Ophelia patters slowly across the living room, holding two crystal tumblers in her hands.

Effervescent. Submissive.

Mine.

“Owner.” When she kneels between my legs, my world ceases to exist.

Her dark eyes suck me in into another planet. To another life, the one we’ll have after this. We could stay here and rule the law firm together. We could disappear. Buy an island. Another mansion in a different country.

I’d fuck one baby after the other into her. I’d worship her. Just us.

Except we’re not there yet.

Yet.

“Put it over there.” I jerk my head toward the end table between Oliver and me. She does. “Go ask Oliver where he’d like to have his.”

Both he and I track her movements as she stands up and lowers herself to her knees again before him.

Only one of us knows what’s behind her submissive act.

“Mr. Morgan.” He’s wise to keep his hands to himself. He can’t help the fire in his eyes, though. “Where should I put your drink?”

“On my?—”

Enough is enough. He doesn’t get to order her shit.

“On the table,” I growl. I couldn’t let him talk to her like that.

He shrugs, eye-fucking her, the bastard. It works in our favor, but goddamn it. I hate it. “Go ahead.”

She bites her lip, forcing his gaze there.

That way, he doesn’t look at her while she’s placing his drink next to mine.

He’s oblivious about where her hand goes next.

Under the skirt of her dress. Where her tight, white lace garter is.

Where the small paring knife is.

The one I sharpened for her.

The one she has in her grip.

He sees it when it’s too late.

Far too late.

“What the fuck is—” He’s swallowing the rest of that question.

The blade disappears in his throat. Ophelia buries it deep down, cutting through his skin. Viciously.

His mouth gapes. His fingers grasp the armrests. Eyes on me.

Most of my focus rests on Ophelia.

On the blood that’s trickling down the blade and onto her nails. Her hand.

Her white dress remains in pristine condition. Her lips are stretched in an unhinged grin. Her cheeks are red with how alive she is.

When I shot my father, I felt nothing but relief. There was nothing personal about pulling the trigger and blowing his head off.

His abuse was a thing of the past by the time I turned twenty-two.

I just wanted him dead and out of the way.

For Ophelia, this is personal.

This is for Baylor, a girl she hardly knew. For Oliver’s sacrifice twenty-two years ago. For Camden’s mom.

We’re a lot alike, her and I. Much more than I’d care to admit.

Except she has a heart. I don’t.

“James.” The color has drained from Oliver’s face. “Help.”

He’s still frozen in place. There’s no need for me to come to Ophelia’s rescue.

She has it covered.

I’m so fucking proud of her that I could kneel behind her and fuck her like that. While she’s stabbing Oliver.

“You’re a bad man,” she hisses, and his eyes cut to her. My entire body is on high alert. “A fucking rapist. Worse than that.”

At the sound of her voice, he jolts. His hands are in the air, fingers curling. Reaching for my Ophelia’s neck. “And you’re a dead girl.”

“No.” I get up at the exact moment she yanks the knife out of his throat.

Blood comes flying out of the gash. It splashes onto her face and her neck. Soaking the front of her dress. So much of it.

Her eyes are wide open for this. She doesn’t cower from the onslaught of blood. From having it cover her.

She knew she hit his jugular. My good girl listened carefully when I taught her about human anatomy.

He’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes.

But he’s still coming for her. His large hands are on her neck.

Mine.

I grab him by his hair, tug, and slam his head on the back of the chair.

“James.” My name is garbled. Blood sputters on his lips. On his shirt. His body spasms uncontrollably. “I w-w-was right.”

“Fuck you.”

Ophelia pushes the handle of the knife into my free hand. I shoot her a glance. Relish the adoring look in her eyes. The fact that she’s there, on her knees.

For me.

My feral queen.

The woman who’s both the end and the beginning of me.

I return to the man who’s bleeding out on my chair. His life is about to be snuffed out of his eyes any minute now.

“This is all on you.” My last words to him. “I asked you to end this tradition. You wouldn’t. Instead, you had me stalked. You waited for the opportunity to get me for breaking the rules.”

“Camden,” he whispers. “Don’t hurt him.”

Like me, his heart beats for one person and only them. In his case, it’s his son.

“Owner.” Ophelia’s hand latches on to my thigh, her voice pure seduction.

Fuck, I’m throbbing. I want her.

I’m drenched with my thirst for blood, violence, and sex.

“Your son will be handled accordingly.” A flash of life sparks across Oliver’s face. His hand rises in a futile attempt to grab my wrist. “Oh, and the rules you were talking about? The fucking tradition?”

Oliver struggles to stay alive. Presses his free hand to the gaping wound.

“My king.” Ophelia, who’s too turned on to stay in place, cups my painful erection. Squeezes.

I groan.

“Fuck the tradition. Fuck the rules.” I jab the knife into his right eye, then I expose his throat to me, stabbing every available area that his hand doesn’t cover. “I’m making my own rules. This is my world now. You’re done being a part of it.”

His last breath is pathetic. A mixture of blood and misery.

Who cares about his last breath.

I throw the knife somewhere. Anywhere.

“Sonnet.” I’m on my knees in seconds, shoving her to the floor until she’s lying on her back. I scrunch her dress up her thighs. “You did so well.” I kiss her, sliding my fingers under her panties. “My good girl. My slut. God, you’re good. You’re soaked.”

“Ruined.” She nods, looking at me as if I were her God.

For as long as I’m alive, I will be.

I go down her body, rip her panties off, and eat her out. I don’t stop when she comes. When she cries. When she both moans my name and curses me over and over again.

I stop when I decide it’s the right time.

After her third orgasm, I fuck her into the floor. I choke her and tell her she’s a good fucking girl.

I pump my seed into her while she comes.

While Oliver is there, slumped in the chair, lifeless.

Victory tastes sweet on my tongue.

Being deep inside Ophelia’s cunt is far sweeter.

“I’m never letting go,” I whisper, trailing hot kisses along her neck, cleaning his blood off her. “You’re mine, Ophelia. Mine.”