Page 11

I was surprised when Conrad proposed a traditional wedding. Not unexpected given his status, but surprising all the same. I agreed because it served my purpose—making a grand display of what is now mine and what he lost.

She’s breathtaking. Every bit the perfect bride. But I see it—the fury simmering beneath that polished exterior. I fucking live for it. She doesn’t even realize how deep my control runs, how tight the collar is around her neck. Sure, it’s symbolic. But it’s real, too.

She belongs to me—whether she likes it or not.

I signal the bartender for another scotch—my fourth or fifth, I’ve lost count. My gaze sweeps over the crowd, spotting high-profile Sovereigns and wealthy Sovereign Associates. The mingling, small talk—I fucking hate it.

I kill people; I don’t talk to them.

The party drags on, the music and laughter grating on my nerves. My new pet is nowhere to be found, and I’m tempted to drag her back to stand by my side.

Spencer slides onto the stool next to me, scowling as he pours himself a drink. He shoves an envelope in my direction.

“Just consider it. You’ve made your point. No need to continue,” he mutters, frustration dripping from every word.

I rip the envelope open. Sovereign marriage dissolution papers. A cold, humorless laugh crawls up my throat.

“Not a fucking chance.”

His jaw clenches as I hold the papers over the flickering candle. The edges curl, darken, burn.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

I meet his glare with a smirk.

“Did you even ask your father who the Death Bond target was?” The flicker of confusion in his eyes tells me everything.

“No...but?—”

“Marco DeLuca.” I let the name hit him, watching the color drain from his face. Conrad kept that detail locked up tight, but now Spencer’s putting it together. DeLuca wasn’t just powerful—killing him sent a tidal wave through the underworld, and payback’s coming.

“Why—”

I down the rest of my scotch in one go. “Ask your father,” I say flatly before turning away.

Still no sign of Rory. My eyes fix on Conrad instead, who is at the center of attention, working the crowd with his typical arrogance. His fucking smile will be wiped off his face soon enough.

As I approach the house, Alicia steps into my path, her tight red dress barely containing her tits, reeking like she drowned herself in perfume.

The sight of her here was a surprise—finding out she’s married to Conrad was an even bigger one. I’ve been buried in missions, too busy to give a shit about East Coast drama, let alone who’s marrying who.

“Can we talk?” Her voice carries a sultry edge as she steps closer, her hand sliding up my chest.

“No.”

“I was hoping you’d be nicer to me, for old times’ sake,” she purrs.

“We have nothing to discuss.” I push past her, and she grabs my arm in a desperate attempt to stop me.

“You’ll regret this.”

I whirl around, our faces inches apart.

“Don’t fuck with me, Alicia. I won’t hesitate to slit your throat.” Her face drains of color, and she swallows hard, visibly shaken. Giving her a final warning glare, I walk away.

As the guests thin out and the band packs up, I move toward the side of the house. That’s when I see her.

She’s sitting on the back porch, her wedding dress spilling over the steps. She doesn’t notice me—head resting on her arms, completely still.

“We’re done here. You’re riding home with me.”

She doesn’t speak. Her breathing stays steady. Is she asleep? Ignoring me? Either way, it fucking irritates me.

I grip her arm again, pulling her upright.

“Hey!” she shoves me back.

“I said we’re done here.”

“Auntie!” Two little girls come running across the yard, heading straight for Rory. They wrap their arms around her, and she smiles as she hugs them.

“Hi, baby girls,” she says softly, holding them close.

“Mommy said you’re moving. Can we still have sleepovers and play tea parties?” a blue-eyed girl asks.

Rory’s smile fades, and her jaw tenses.

“Of course we can.” She forces a smile. I can see the pain in her eyes, catching me off guard. It’s an unexpected feeling—I hate it.

“Let’s go,” I growl, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the girls. Rory gives them a weak smile and follows me.

“They’re my nieces,” she mutters.

“And?” I say, not giving a shit.

“Nothing,” she snaps, her tone laced with venom. “I can drive myself.”

“No. Griffen is driving your car back. You’ll ride with me.” Her scowl deepens as I open the passenger door. She gets in, her wedding dress sprawling across the passenger seat. I slam the door shut, appreciating her murderous glare.

Yesterday, I had all her belongings packed and moved into the east wing of my mansion. It’s equipped with everything she could need, except an exit. Cameras are installed throughout, ensuring she can’t escape. And if that’s not enough, I’ll lock her in. I will have her body and her obedience.

As we pull up to the house, the massive stone structure looms imposingly in the fading light. Rory stares out the window, her eyes wide. The iron gates swing open, and I pull into the driveway.

“Is this where you live?”

“Yes,” I reply, exiting the car.

She opens the door and steps out. The house staff are waiting outside, but I walk past them without introducing her. She can figure out who’s who on her own.

She follows behind me into the foyer. Kane’s collar jingles as he barrels down the hall, his nails scraping the floor. He skids to a stop, tail wagging as he approaches her.

“Hi, handsome boy.” She kneels, her hand smoothing over his fur. “Your dog is nice.” Her voice drops, soft, almost playful.

Nice? Kane isn’t fucking nice. He’s a killer. I’ve locked him up countless times to keep him from tearing out throats. He doesn’t even let Griff touch him.

“What’s his name?” she asks, her fingers brushing the ridge of his back.

“Kane.”

He wags his tail, leaning into her hand like a damn house pet. No growling. No teeth. No threat.

I glare at him. He’s a territorial bastard who hates everyone but me. Yet here he is, eating up her attention like a pathetic lapdog.

The house is massive; marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and antique furniture scream opulence. It’s undeniably beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like a home. There’s a cold emptiness.

I’m surprised he lives here. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d want a huge house full of fancy things. But then again, I know nothing about him.

And I have no desire to.

I follow him up the grand staircase, taking in the paintings and ornate furniture. The second floor is just as lavish, with plush carpeting and expensive antiques. He opens a set of double doors and steps inside. The room is large, with a massive four-poster bed and a fireplace.

He walks to the closet and opens it. “All your things are in here. You have two other rooms you can use, and they’re connected.” His tone is casual as if we’re discussing the weather.

I can’t take it anymore—the wedding, the move, everything.

I’m done. I’ve reached my limit.

I’m so exhausted I could scream.

“I hate you.” My voice is quiet but deadly. “I want you to know that.”

His answering chuckle makes me sick. “The feeling is mutual, princess.” He smirks, closing the closet door. Stepping toward me, the darkness in his eyes is unmistakable. He’s enjoying this, enjoying destroying my life.

“What the fuck do you want from me!” I scream, my emotions finally spilling out. “Do you have any idea what today was for me? What you took from me?”

“I couldn’t give a shit.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, trust me. You will. When I want you to.”

“I am never fucking you.”

A wicked smirk plays on his lips. He stands a few feet away, his gaze raking over me slowly, drinking in every detail. It’s unnerving.

I’ve had plenty of men look at me like they’re picturing me naked, but none have ever made me feel so vulnerable...

So terrified.

When he steps closer, his nearness makes me shudder.

He towers over me, his muscles flexing beneath his suit. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin, and my body trembles.

“Turn around.”

I shake my head. He roughly grabs my neck, forcing me to turn around. The collar digs into my skin under his harsh grip. Shoving me forward, he bends me over the foot of the bed.

“Get off me!” I scream, trying to rip his hand from my neck.

His fingers crudely pull at the buttons of my dress, and I thrash wildly beneath him. The fabric falls, pooling at my feet. I’m left in a strapless bra and panties, and his grip on my neck tightens as he lifts me upright off the bed.

“What are you going to do—rape me now?”

He chuckles darkly, his breath hot against my ear.

“I could. And it would be a mercy compared to what else I could do to you.”

I’m fighting him, but it’s no use. He’s too strong, and the more I resist, the harder his grip becomes.

He leans in and breathes against my ear, “Let me be very fucking clear.” His hand grips the back of my neck, pulling my hair and exposing my neck. “If you try to run, I will catch you. If you try to escape, I will find you. And if you fuck another man, I will kill him. And I will make you watch.”

I’m done with his threats. Done.

I throw my head back, feeling the crack of my skull against his jaw. I grit my teeth as pain shoots through me. “Fuck you!” I snap, spinning to face him.

I don’t see it coming—just feel the sting when his hand connects with my face.

The slap sends me crashing to the ground. I gasp, my palm pressing to my cheek. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I can’t believe this is happening.

Grabbing a handful of my hair, he roughly yanks me off the ground. I cry out, the pain searing through my scalp. Throwing me over his shoulder, he carries me out of the bedroom and down the hall.

“Let me go!” I scream, kicking my legs.

He descends the stairs, my face pressed against his back. Yelling and swearing, I thrash, claw, and bite, but he doesn’t stop.

He throws open a door, and blackness overwhelms me. I crash to the floor, my hands and knees scraping against cold concrete. The door slams behind me, followed by the unmistakable click of the lock.

I’m blind. Utterly blind. Panic claws its way up my throat, and I frantically feel the walls, desperate for any sign of direction. My breath comes in ragged bursts, my heart pounding. The air is thick, suffocating, and the darkness wraps around me.

“If you’re going to act like a brat, this is where you’ll stay.” His voice booms through the door.

I slam my fists against the walls, my screams ricocheting off the cold concrete. I scream until my throat burns, until my hands ache, until the only sound left is the ragged hitching of my breaths.

Minutes, hours—it all blurs into an endless stretch of nothing. When my body finally gives out, I collapse against the wall, the cold seeping through my skin. I pull my knees tight to my chest, every breath a shudder as tears stream down my face.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I wake, it’s still dark.

No light. No sound. Just the suffocating black and the bone-deep ache in my body from the cold concrete pressing into me. The lock clicks.

I freeze. My heart stops, and I hold my breath—waiting.

The door swings open, and the light from the hallway blinds me. I flinch, covering my face, pain shooting through my head. As my eyes adjust, I make out the figure in the doorway.

“Come.” His voice is cold and emotionless. I want to fight. To scream. To spit in his face. But the memory of darkness, of hours spent clawing at walls, shuts me up.

I push myself up, my body trembling, every movement slow and pathetic. He grabs my arm in a painful grip and drags me forward. I don’t fight him—I can’t. I’m too tired, too sore.

He hauls me down the hall, up the stairs, and into the room he dragged me from. The moment he lets go, I stumble, catching myself on the edge of a chair.

“Take a shower. Get dressed. Then you can eat.”

I don’t answer. I don’t look at him.

Hatred. Anger. Despair.

I feel it all.