Page 52

Evidently, the phone’s screen is all cracked up pretty badly. But when she swipes her finger across the said screen, it still works well. A screen replacement should work.

Still, this damage isn’t something she bargained for. She didn’t wake up today making plans to spend money on phone repairs. The thought reignites her rage so she trudges after him.

She wants to do something bad to him. She wants to make him howl in agony. But compared to his strength, she is just dust beneath his feet, a pesky fly he just has to wave his hand to swat away.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she spits the moment she reaches him by the mini bar, throwing a punch that lands like a feather striking a stone.

Fisting her hand again, she propels her arm forward, about to land another punch on his chest, but his hand swats hers away before she can even finish her mission.

And in a split second, a cold hand wraps around her throat, his thumb pressing against her windpipe.

She is so weightless, floating like a leaf in a storm as he drags her across the room.

Her back slams into something hard, the impact rattling through her bones. But even that pain is nothing compared to the look in his eyes. Dark. Deadly. A haunting void that traps her in place.

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The rapid rise and fall in his chest. The panting breath that ghosts over her skin, the tight sneer that pulls at his lips—everything about him breathes violence.

He is going to kill her.

Her hands claw at his grip, nails digging into his skin. “S-stop,” she chokes out, gasping as her lungs begin to burn, her vision flickering at the edges. Pressure builds in her skull, heartbeat thudding in her ears like a knell.

“P-please.” Dots begin to gather around her lenses, but she still summons every atom of strength in her to beg, pride and arrogance tossed off the window.

She doesn’t want to die. Certainly not like this.

Who is he?” he finally demands in a low growl.

She shakes her head in reply, definitely not what he is expecting to hear. So his finger flexes around her throat as if giving her a chance, or maybe a warning to remember her life is literally pulsing beneath the weight of his fingers, and her answer determines if she lives or dies.

“Answer me!” he roars, the sound rumbling through her like a strike of thunder, raw and unforgiving.

“No-nobody.” She forces the words out of her constricted throat. The act of speaking is agony, her voice strangled.

“He—”

Before she can finish, his hand vanishes. She collapses, doubling over, hacking and gasping, lungs dragging in air like they might never get enough. Tears spill down her cheek, hot and unbidden.

She hears the cacophony of his footsteps echo away, but not too far.

When she lifts her head to catch his shadow at least, he is by the mini wine bar, grabbing another wine glass.

Fingers twitching, a vein at the side of his neck flexing, he pours himself another glass of whiskey, angrily downing the content.

When the glass is empty, he slams it on the counter and leans over it, his shoulders rising and falling. The minutes of pure silence are an echo of suspense as if there is a time bomb somewhere in the corner waiting to explode.

After what feels like hours, he leans off the table, and Vivienne, in turn, presses her body instantly against the wall, as if it would suddenly grow a pair of strong arms to protect her.

He cranes his neck slowly, and when his predatory and hungry-looking eyes fall on her, the first and only thought is to bolt for the door.

But instead of charging at her and finishing what he started, he grabs the wine glass again and pours enough whiskey into it. When he turns around to face her, her pulse jumps, every instinct screaming at her to run. His eyes are dark and unreadable.

“Get out.”

The command is quiet, yet it shakes through her like an earthquake.

Shocked that he is setting her free after all, Vivienne looks around just to be sure.

It feels a lot like a trap or something.

But before she can even take a step to honor the command, the soldier that’s been standing like a statue at the corner of the room all along, unfreezes and steps out through the sliding glass door.

Vivienne’s brows furrow, her eyes bouncing between the space the soldier disappeared through and the man whose dark gaze is still pinned on her.

“Take off your clothes.” The words hit her like a gunshot, devoid of hesitation. A command that leaves no room for hesitation.

Vivienne glances at the soldier who is now standing behind the transparent glass door, hoping the command is for him, waiting for him to take action even though she would rather not see some soldier’s naked ass.

“Take off your fucking clothes, Vivienne!” A shiver goes down her spine, the way his tongue wraps around her name sending heat between her legs. And she has no idea what that makes her.

But wait, he wants her to strip? Right now? Right here? Is he insane?

She nervously glances around the large room, taking in her surroundings, and her eyes fall on the soldier again.

Glass makes up literally sixty percent of the living room they are standing in. Is she about to risk getting naked and giving some soldier a free view?

“I-” She shakes her head, forgetting when it comes to him, she is of little choice. “I can’t.”

“It wasn’t a request,” he says simply.

“B-but.”

“-Now!” The word hit her like a physical blow. Her fingers tremble as they reach for the button on her shirt, each pop of button sending her heart into a frantic, erratic rhythm.

Heat rises to her cheeks and her ears, rushing through her bloodstream in a dizzy wave. And the whole time, his eyes never leave her.

What passes between them in that moment isn’t just fear. It’s something else. Something raw. Something electric.

She fights him. She tells herself it’s because she abhors everything he stands for—his ruthless methods, his cold detachment, the very essence of who he is. But deep down, beneath the layers of defiance she clings to so desperately, there’s a truth she is too afraid to name.

She doesn’t fight because she wants to escape him.

She fights because she craves the battle, the raw electricity of his dominance clashing with her resistance.

It’s not him she wants. It’s the chaos he ignites in her—the intoxicating thrill of being overpowered, stripped of control, and forced to bend when every nerve in her body begs to resist. It’s a darkness she can’t admit to, a hunger she shouldn’t feel, yet it simmers beneath her skin, begging to be unleashed.

She loves the fear he instills in her and thrives in the danger his presence whispers. Her body lights up at the touch of his cruel hands, and in the depth of his darkness, all she sees are bursts of colors.

She is insane, you see. And perhaps, he is possibly right.