Page 39 of Phantasm

I stay clear of the banister in case my husband decides he’s had enough of my attitude.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask nervously, aware of the Pawns behind us.

Darian opens a door to a spare bedroom and shoves me unceremoniously inside. I stumble onto the gleaming marble floor, surprised by the dark energy emanating from Darian as he removes his suit jacket.

The Pawns close the door, hovering awkwardly, waiting for my husband to give them orders.

I try to stand up, but Darian bites out, “Stay.”

On his way to the bar in the far corner of the room, he loosens his bowtie and uncorks a whiskey bottle. He grabs a tumbler and fills it with ice.

My heart thuds harder as I glance behind me at the Pawns blocking the only escape route with their hulking builds.

Darian pours a thumb of whiskey and takes a large sip, the ice clinking as I watch him warily, feeling cornered by a vicious, masked serpent.

His throat rolls as he swallows it down. “Cat got your tongue, Cecilia?”

When I remain silent, he takes slow, calculated steps toward me. “Has that fuckable mouth no snarky comeback?”

I glance behind me again at the Pawns, but Darian tsks.

“They’re not going to help you, honey. You’ve been a very bad girl.”

My head whips back around. He’s closer now. So close, panic sets in.

I scramble away, crawling like a terrified, injured animal, and Darian follows behind, his shoes clapping on the marble.

The dress gets caught beneath my knees, and I fall forward.

“There’s nowhere to go, Mrs. Delacroix.”

Masculine laughter bounces off the walls as I slide beneath the bed to escape Darian’s sinister mood. Still, he’s faster, grabbing me by the ankle and dragging me back out, my skirt riding up in the process to expose my silk panties.

I try to crawl away again, but Darian fists my hair and pulls me farther into the room before dropping me onto the floor.

“Sinclair smells nice, does he?” He downs the last whiskey, then throws the tumbler at the wall, and I yelp when it explodes into countless shards that spray everywhere.

“He’s a good dancer?” Swiping the whiskey bottle from the bar, he storms over to me.

I try to crawl away again, but he flips me over onto my back and puts the sole of his shoe on my chest to keep me down. I can barely breathe; the look in his eyes is unlike any I’ve seen. Unhinged.

He tips the bottle and pours whiskey on my face, waterboarding me to his heart’s content. I splutter and cough, eyes squeezing closed.

My thighs snap together as panic fills my veins. I thrash, terrified and aroused. Fucked up beyond saving and in need of more of his toxic jealousy.

Imake him this way.Imake him feel possessive, deranged, and out of control.

“Are you ready to apologize yet, baby?” Offering me a reprieve, he lifts the bottle.

I gasp for breath, my lungs burning. “Fuck you!”

He takes a swig of alcohol, then tips the bottleneck again. “Suit yourself.”

Whiskey splashes over my face and eye mask. I buck and squirm on the floor to get away, but his boot digs into my chest. It goes on forever. Or so it feels. When the bottle is empty, one of the Pawns hands him another.

Just as I think I might pass out, he stops again and stares down at me with a wicked smirk. His pants are tenting, and his long, thick cock looks delicious. Unfortunately, I’m too busy coughing up a lung to appreciate the view.

Before my coughing has subsided, he grabs me by the arm and hauls me toward the four-poster bed. He lifts me effortlessly, as if I weigh nothing, holding me upright with one hand on my arm. With an impatient flick of his wrist, he gestures to one of the Pawns, asking them to hand over a set of handcuffs attached to their belt.