He looks surprised by my sharp tone. "What did you say?”
"I'm tired of everyone deciding what's best for me. Papa, my brothers, even you. I can make my own choices. Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t like it.”
Suddenly he's right behind me. Close. I can feel the heat of his body, the weight of his attention. My heart stutters, and I turn slowly to face him.
His face is different.
Dangerous. Distant. Nothing like last night.
"Do not talk back to me and do not disobey me," he says. "Ever. You belong to me now and you will respect me.”
I bristle, fighting the heat rising. "Belong to you?"
He nods once, his eyes never leaving mine. "You gave yourself to me last night. Or did you forget?"
"No, I didn't forget," I reply.
"I think you did, and I need to remind you so it doesn't happen again. Disrespect won’t be tolerated because it will get you killed faster than anything in this world. If I don’t teach you this lesson, someone else will."
He grabs my wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to make me stumble, and drags me down the hall. My mouth goes dry. I should fight. I should argue. But something low in my belly flips in anticipation.
He leads me to his bedroom, shuts the door behind us, and turns to face me. His gaze is almost predatory.
"Clothes off," he commands.
I blink, taken aback. "Excuse me? What about dinner?"
"You heard me."
I hesitate for half a second too long. He steps forward, towering over me.
"You don't want to earn another punishment on top of the one you already have," he warns.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. Slowly, I pull my T-shirt over my head, then slide down my pajama shorts. My bra andpanties follow, leaving me bare and exposed before him. He watches the whole time, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"Hands behind your back," he commands.
"Damon—"
"Now."
My body obeys before my brain catches up. He walks behind me and loops a silk tie around my wrists, not tight, but secure enough to make me feel exposed and owned. He leans down, his mouth near my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
"You want to act like a brat? Then you'll learn how I deal with brats," he warns.
He rips a pillowcase and blindfolds me with another strip of fabric. Then his hands are on me, not tender, not cruel, just... relentless.
He touches everywhere except where I need him most. He circles my nipples with the flat of his tongue, nips my neck, trails fingers over my stomach and hips. But never between my legs. Never where I'm soaked and aching and desperate.
"Please," I plead.
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
"Not until you learn your place," he replies.
He pushes me back onto the bed, still blindfolded, wrists bound. I squirm, trying to close my thighs, but he keeps them open with a knee. I moan in frustration, my body begging for release.
