“Enough,” he says, his voice sharp, cutting through me like a blade. “We’re going home.”
I should run.
I should fight.
But I don’t.
Instead, I grit my teeth, pretending not to be interested in how delicious being held would feel.
He looks as though he’s readying himself to lean forward and grab me.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
His smirk is slow, infuriating. “You really think that?”
I take a step back. He takes a step forward. The space between us evaporates.
“I’ll never go anywhere with you willingly,” I whisper, but my voice isn’t as strong this time. I fight myself against falling toward him. He can see it in my eyes.
Hayden sighs, almost disappointed, before moving faster than I can react. One second I’m standing, the next I’m thrown over his shoulder, my breath whooshing out in shock.
“Put me down!” I shriek, pounding my fists against his back, kicking my legs.
He doesn’t even flinch. His grip tightens around my thighs, keeping me pinned against him as he strides through the trees, unfazed by my struggle.
“You had your chance to make a decision,” he says smoothly. “You will learn to be thankful when given one.”
My heart pounds harder against my chest, and I can almost hear it over the wind howling through the branches. I can see the car ahead now, its headlights cutting through the darkness, the driver standing outside, waiting.
Panic surges again.
I fight harder, thrashing, my nails digging into Hayden’s back through his shirt. He doesn’t falter. Doesn’t slow. I draw blood.
And when I scream, truly scream, his hand comes down with a loud, hard crack on my behind, the sudden sting of his palm making my breath hitch.
“Enough,” he growls, voice low, guttural.
A shiver of fear, of fury, of anticipation races down my spine. This is the first crack in his impenetrable shell.
And then, just like that, he storms up the drive with me over his shoulder.
We’re going home.
His home.
And there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Chapter six
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
The door slams behind us, locking me inside Hayden’s world.
I stumble forward as he finally sets me down, my body aching from the chase, the mud still drying against my skin in thick, flaking patches. My breath is uneven, my pulse a wild, unsteady rhythm in my throat. The estate is eerily silent, vast and perfect, as if untouched by time. Only the soft hum of electricity and the steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the shadows beyond the foyer are the sounds in the room—aside from my heavy breathing.
Hayden stands before me, brushing dirt and mud from his sleeves from handling me as though I were an incredible inconvenience to him. The chandelier overhead casts jagged shadows across his face, accentuating the merciless cut of his jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone. He looks at me as if I am a burden, a mess to be cleaned up, a problem to be dealt with.
"You have a room upstairs," he says, voice rough. "You'll stay there until I say otherwise."
