My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I recall the way my body obeyed before my mind could catch up, the humiliation burning hotter than the fire beside me. He made me crawl. Reduced me to a lesser version of myself, leaving me pliant, exposed.
And yet…my breath shudders as I exhale.
It wasn’t just rage curling in my stomach when it happened. It was something else, a twisted flicker of desire tangled up in the shame. I hated what it meant, hated that it thrilled me.
But even now, the memory makes my pulse skip a beat.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Would he make me do it again?
The thought slithers through my wine-hazed brain, and I hate that I don’t immediately recoil from it. I should. I should be disgusted. Furious. Plotting my revenge.
But the memory lingers. The way his voice tightened when I hesitated, the glint of satisfaction in his eyes when I finally broke. It made my skin burn with indignation…and something far more dangerous.
A low, curling heat buried beneath the shame. Twisting. Complicated. Craving disguised as fury.
I hate that part of me that didn’t just endure it, but responded to it.
My nipples harden beneath my sweater, a betrayal I pretend not to notice as I rake a hand through my hair. It was anger, I tell myself. Fury. Nothing more.
I need more wine.
Chapter eight
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
Aflash of headlights sweeps swiftly across the hallway window, casting fleeting shadows that dance menacingly against the elegant wallpaper, stopping me abruptly in my tracks. My heart jolts, betraying a treacherous flutter of anticipation I bitterly resent. Hayden is home.
My gaze drops to the staircase, my fingers instinctively brushing against the weave of the wool sweater I've stubbornly worn all day. It’s hardly the refined attire I've been conditioned to wear at dinner, yet rebellion roots me firmly in place. Why should I succumb to rigid expectations of refinement if I'm to be a prisoner?
Yet beneath my defiance, a traitorous yearning stirs. A reluctant admission that those familiar rituals carry their own undeniable comfort and a desire to perform I often findgrounding. I shake off the thought irritably, sharpening my resolve as I march determinedly toward the front door.
Throwing it open with a boldness I don’t fully feel, Hayden's imposing figure instantly confronts me as he ascends the steps, his confidence palpable and irritatingly magnetic. My breath catches in a momentary betrayal.
His piercing eyes capture mine, silently issuing a challenge that sends an involuntary tremor rippling through me. Emboldened by the lingering warmth of wine, I defiantly tap the heel of my shoe, the words escaping before I can reconsider their consequences. "Oh, how nice of you to finally grace me with your presence!"
Hayden pauses deliberately at the threshold, eyes narrowing with cold disdain. "I wasn’t aware I owed you an itinerary," he drawls dismissively, brushing past without another glance. The sting of his dismissal ignites my temper.
"Charming as always," I retort sharply, unable to hide the irritation mixed with the reluctant pull of attraction. "Your good looks must truly be compensation for your utter lack of manners."
His eyes glint with wicked amusement. "And you vastly underestimate your transparency. Worried I was with someone more interesting than you?"
"You're insufferable," I snap, folding my arms tightly across my chest.
He turns slowly, a humorless smirk spreading dangerously across his lips. "Careful, Martine. Jealousy isn't an attractive color on you."
Heat rises furiously to my cheeks, and I slam the door before I realize what I’m doing. "Jealous? You vastly overestimate yourself."
"And yet," he murmurs with a self-assured smirk, leaning slightly closer, "here you are, waiting at the door."
I want to roll my eyes, but my desire to know his whereabouts overwhelms my usual brat-like nature.
"If you were at Eulogia today, you need to take me back."
"I don'tneedto do anything," he replies icily, pushing further into the house. "And certainly not because you demand it."
I don’t miss his smoky smell as he pushes past, similar to a jazz bar that reeks of cigarettes and misbehaved morals. I hate myself for finding it sexy.
