He emerges a moment later carrying a large, fluffy black towel and a first-aid kit. He gestures to the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” he commands.
I hesitate, my feet rooted to the spot.
“Wynter. Sit.” There’s a warning edge to his voice this time, a promise of consequences if I disobey. My brief moment of defiance evaporates. I do as he says, perching nervously on the edge of the mattress, my hands clenched into fists in my lap.
He kneels in front of me and places the towel on the floor. My heart hammers against my ribs. He is so close. I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the dark stubble shadowing his sharp jaw. He lifts my right foot and places it gently on the towel. His touch is firm and confident, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my leg.
“Your feet are cut from running,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. He opens the first-aid kit and takes out an antiseptic wipe. “This might sting.”
He cleans the small cuts on the soles of my feet with a surprising gentleness. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, as much from the unexpected intimacy of the act as from the sting of the antiseptic. No one has ever touched my feet. No one has ever knelt before me. Evilin would have sooner died than perform such a menial task.
He is my captor. The monster who bought me. And he is kneeling at my feet, tending to my wounds with the focus of a surgeon. The contradiction is so profound it makes my head spin.
When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of my foot. His thumb slowly, deliberately, strokes the arch of my foot. The sensation is exquisite. A soft, involuntary sigh escapes my lips.
His eyes snap up to meet mine. They are dark, turbulent pools of blue, and the hunger I see in them is so raw, so potent, it steals my breath. The air between us thickens, charged with a dangerous, unspoken energy. He wants me. The realization is not a surprise, but the intensity of it, the sheer, undisguised need in his gaze, is terrifying. And thrilling.
My body betrays me completely. A liquid heat pools low in my belly, and my nipples harden against the soft cashmere of the sweater. I know he sees it. I know he sees the effect he has on me.
A slow, predatory smile touches his lips. He knows he’s winning. He brings my foot to his mouth and presses a soft, warm kiss to the arch.
I gasp, snatching my foot back as if I’ve been burned. The spot he kissed tingles, a brand of heat on my skin.
He rises to his full height, towering over me. The moment of gentleness is gone, replaced by the predator who is back in control.
“I’m having dinner brought to us here,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Don’t even think about trying to leave this room.”
He turns and walks out, locking the door behind him. I’m left sitting on the bed, trembling, my mind a chaotic swirl of fear and a new, terrifying excitement.
He didn’t hurt me. He knelt at my feet. He cared for me. He kissed me.
And I liked it.
The realization is the most terrifying thing of all. I am not just a captive in his home. I am becoming a willing participant in my own corruption.
Eleven
Kaden
Ilockthedoorandlean my forehead against the cool, solid wood, my eyes closed. My breath is ragged, my body a tightly coiled spring of want. One kiss. A chaste, simple press ofmy lips to the arch of her foot, and I am ready to tear the world apart for her.
I can still feel the silken texture of her skin against my mouth, still hear the soft, involuntary sigh that escaped her lips. That sound was a confession. A surrender. Her mind may hate me, her pride may demand she fight me, but her body… her body is already mine. It recognizes its master.
A slow, triumphant smile spreads across my face. This is a new kind of conquest. I have taken cities, crushed rivals, and built an empire on fear and blood. But the slow, meticulous seduction of this one broken girl’s soul feels like the greatest victory I have ever known.
I push myself off the door, forcing my body back under my iron will. The hardness in my jeans is a painful, insistent reminder of how close to the edge I am. I need a distraction. I need to reassert control over my world before I go back in there and lose control of myself.
I stride down the hall to my office. The first thing I do is call the compound kitchen.
“Dinner. My suite. One hour,” I command. “The ‘98 Bordeaux. Filet mignon, medium rare. Asparagus. And the chocolate lava cakes.”
It’s her favorite dessert. I know this because I had Alrik pull the menus from every restaurant Evilin has taken her to in the last two years. I know her favorite flower is a stargazer lily, that she prefers tea to coffee, and that she has a small, crescent-shaped scar behind her left ear from a childhood fall. I know everything. The information is a weapon, and I will use it to systematically dismantle her defenses.
As I hang up, Alrik enters my office without knocking, a privilege only he has. He places a thin manila folder on my desk.
“The file you requested,” he says, his face impassive.
