I walk into the bathroom and close the door. Only then do I let the mask slip. I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white, my breath coming in harsh rasps.
I am in agony. My body is screaming for release. It took every ounce of self-control I possess not to bury myself in her tight, wet heat and claim her properly.
But I meant what I said.
Breaking her body is easy. Breaking her will is the art.
And I am the master artist.
I turn on the cold water and splash it on my face.
The game has just begun.
CHAPTER 9
THE RED OMEN
POV: IVY
I wake up to the sound of my own heartbeat.
It’s a slow, heavy thud against the mattress, echoing in the silence of the room. I keep my eyes closed for a moment, feigning sleep, pretending that if I don't move, the last twelve hours will dissolve like mist.
But the physical evidence is undeniable.
My body feels... different. There’s a strange, heavy lethargy in my limbs, a phantom warmth between my legs where his fingers were. The memory hits me with the force of a physical slap—the way I arched off the bed, the way I screamed his name, the way I shattered under the touch of the man who owns me.
Shame floods my veins, hot and acidic.
I didn't just surrender; I collaborated. I let him dismantle me. I let him prove his point—that my body is a traitorous thing that will sell its loyalty to the highest bidder, even if that bidder is a monster.
I open my eyes.
The space beside me is empty. The black silk sheets are cool to the touch, smooth and unwrinkled, as if he was never there.But his scent remains. Sandalwood and dark, expensive tobacco linger on the pillow, infiltrating my lungs with every breath.
I sit up, pulling the duvet tight around my chest.
The penthouse is bathed in the harsh, gray light of a cloudy morning. The view of Manhattan is obscured by fog, turning the world outside the glass into a white void. We are floating in nothingness.
I slide out of bed. My legs feel shaky, not from weakness, but from the aftershocks of the nerve-shredding intensity of last night. I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the wardrobe.
I look the same. Same hair, same eyes. But I know I’m not. The girl who lived in the Lower East Side and worried about tuition is gone. In her place is Mrs. Silas Vane. A wife. A possession. A pet.
I walk to the bathroom. I need to scrub my skin raw. I need to wash the feeling of his hands off me.
The shower is scalding hot. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, scrubbing with a loofah until it hurts. But no matter how hard I scrub, I can't wash away the memory of his voice in my ear.
You’ll want the keeper.
"Never," I whisper to the steam. "I will never want you."
But the words sound hollow, even to me.
I dress in the clothes he left for me—a pair of cashmere leggings and an oversized sweater that feels like a hug I don't deserve. It’s soft, luxurious, and completely foreign. I leave the bedroom, stepping out into the silent, sprawling living area.
Silas is gone. The penthouse feels vast without his suffocating presence filling every corner.
On the kitchen island, just like yesterday, breakfast waits. Fresh fruit. Pastries. A pot of tea this time.
