And just like that, he lets go. Turns his back and walks away as though he didn’t just send my pulse into overdrive, as though he hadn’t tightened another knot in the rope he’s wound around me. I know exactly what he’s talking about. The night with Benny. The dance. He wants to erase it, to rewrite it. He wants every person inthis town to see me on his arm and believe it was nothing—that he didn’t drag me back to the truck in front of half of them, that I didn’t go quiet and trembling under their stares.
I don’t argue—because after last night, I want him to wine, dine and maybe even fuck me. I can’t deny it. Not after the way I kissed him. Not after the way I came apart under his hands, shaking, undone, forced to look into his eyes while he ripped me open in ways I can’t take back.
But what if he finds out about Tyler? What if he decides he doesn’t want me anymore and throws me onto the street, like prey waiting for Jackson’s men.
The thought sends a chill down my spine, but instead of dwelling on it too long I head upstairs to start getting ready.
I stare at the open wardrobe for too long. He bought most of these clothes. Some still have the tags. Dresses that feel too soft, too tight, too complicit. Like fabric chosen not for me, but for the man who’ll unzip it. I run my fingers over them, one by one.
Then I find it. Silk. Lace. Blood red. He likes red.
I pull out the dress I’ve never dared wear—thin straps, low back, barely-there hem. A gift he left on my pillow just after he brought me here. I hang it on the door and study it like it might bite. There’s a tightness behind my ribs. Fear. But not the kind that begs to be saved. The kind that wants to be destroyed. Tasted. Marked.
I drape it over the door, letting the fabric sway as I study it, imagining the sound it will make when he tears it from my body. The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Will he be angry when he sees other men looking at me in something so revealing? Did he ever intend for me to wear it beyond these walls, or was it always meant to be just for him—a private costume for his little captive doll, dressed up for his eyes alone?
Either way, I decide to wear it. Worst-case scenario, he’ll rip it off me right here, and I won’t have to sit there like his prized trophy.
I let the bathwater scald my skin until it blooms pink. I scrub until I feel like something new might emerge underneath. I step out of the water, wrapping myself in a soft, white towel and make myway back to my bedroom. Then, I sit in front of the mirror and let the woman in the glass decide who I’ll be tonight.
Lipstick. Mascara. A flush that isn’t from shame.
I blow-dry my hair, pinning my locks into place to enhance the natural wave of my hair.I put on a little makeup, not too much. Concealer, blush, mascara and then top it all off with a cherry lip balm that gives my lips a subtle shade of red.
I rummage through my underwear drawer, deciding I’ll wear something nice for him tonight, instead of my usual large briefs. I don’t know why I felt like wearing them would keep him from touching me. Truth be told, he would have torn them off anyway, maybe even cut them off with that pocketknife he had in his pocket. The thought sends excitement to my core, and I realize I’m chewing my bottom lip.
I find a small, red lace thong, with the tags still attached and a matching bra. Again, items he had purchased for me. I can imagine the thought he had when he bought them, and I hope he wants to live those fantasies tonight.
I hear his boots before I see him. He’s downstairs, pacing. I imagine the weight of him. The scent of aftershave. The heat in his eyes when he sees what I’ve done with myself.
I imagine his heat, too. Because he’ll know what this dress means. It means I’m no longer afraid.
I step out onto the stairs. His head turns slowly—like a man bracing for impact. And when his eyes land on me, everything stills. The room. The air. The storm behind his ribcage.
I feel it.
He drinks me in like I’m the last thing on earth he’s allowed to want, and he hates me for it. But he wants me more for it. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t blink, he just walks toward me like something old and angry that’s finally found a reason to calm down.
His hand wraps around my waist—firm. Possessive. Not cruel. He dips his mouth to my ear.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.” His voice is low. Rough silk. A blade with a sugar edge.
“So are you,” I whisper back.
I don’t know where the mask ends, and the man begins. I don’t know if the warmth in his touch is real—or just another kind of trap. But when he leans in and kisses me my body betrays me again. Heat blooms low in my belly.
I let it.
“Mmm, cherry,” he groans, before his fingers fist in my hair, yanking my head back just enough to deepen the kiss.
There’s no patience now. No performance. Just want—dark, dangerous, and all-consuming.I don’t try to stop it. I don’t want to. Because the way he moves—the way he claims every inch of space like it was built for him—pulls me under all over again. Hard lines, rigid muscle, brutal command. It seeps into me, makes my skin hum, makes me remember last night in a flood I can’t shut out.
That dangerous authority was always my weakness, even before the world soured. The flash of his off-duty badge catching the light. The hard twitch in his jaw when restraint is the only thing keeping him human.
He’s a monster. But somehow, impossibly, he’s mine.
My fingers hover—shaking—before daring to brush the edge of his jeans. He’s already hard, already gone, and his cock—my God—it’s huge. I flinch at the feel of him, ashamed of the answering pulse low in my body.
His groan rumbles into my mouth, low and guttural, the sound crawling down my spine, like poison and fire all at once. My head screamsno,but my body forgets the word entirely.
