But as I watch her on the screen, a new, terrifying objective begins to form in my mind, eclipsing all others. It’s not enough to own her. It’s not enough for her to submit.
I want her to love me.
And that, I realize with a chilling certainty, is a conquest far more difficult, and far more dangerous, than any I have ever attempted before.
Twenty Seven
Wynter
Iwaketotheunfamiliarsensation of being alone in the vast bed. My eyes flutter open, and for a blissful, ignorantsecond, I am simply a woman waking in a luxurious room. Then, memory crashes down like an avalanche.
The pain. The pleasure. The shame.
My body feels alien, a territory that has been brutally conquered and colonized. A deep, throbbing ache has settled between my legs, a constant, physical reminder of his claim. But beneath the soreness, a traitorous hum of remembered pleasure lingers, a low thrum of electricity that makes my skin prickle with heat. A hot tide of shame washes over me, so potent it makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. I cried out his name. I arched into his touch. I surrendered.
I push myself into a sitting position, my muscles protesting. The sheets are a tangled mess, a testament to the night's violence and passion. The air is thick with the lingering, musky scent of him, of us. It’s suffocating.
He's gone. A wave of relief, so intense it makes me dizzy, washes over me. But it's fleeting. He isn't gone; he is merely absent. This is his room, his bed, his world. He could walk through the door at any moment.
I slip out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the foot of the mattress and wrapping it tightly around myself, a flimsy shield against my own vulnerability. I need a shower. I need to wash him off me, to scrub away the memory of his hands, his mouth, his body.
But before I can take a step, a soft knock sounds at the door. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.
The door opens, and one of the uniformed women enters, pushing a breakfast trolley. She doesn't meet my eyes, her movements quiet and efficient as she sets a small table near the window. She arranges the plates, pours a cup of tea, and then, with a small, respectful bow, she leaves, closing the door behind her.
I stare at the tray. It’s another feast. Eggs, toast, a small pot of jam. And a crystal bowl filled to the brim with perfect, glistening raspberries.
My breath catches.
Raspberries. My favorite. A secret I haven’t shared with anyone since I was a little girl, picking them with my mother in the gardens of our old estate. A memory so private, so precious, it feels like a violation for him to know it.
How does he know?The realization dawns, cold and sickening. He must have had me investigated. He didn't just research my life; he excavated it, stealing even the most innocent, buried treasures of my past.
The act is so much more insidious than force. It’s a calculated, intimate cruelty. A demonstration that there is no part of me, not even my childhood memories, that he cannot touch, cannot claim. It’s the poisoned apple, offered not by a wicked queen, but by a dark king who knows my every weakness.
The door opens again. It’s Kaden.
He’s dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit, looking every inch the ruthless king of his empire. But his eyes… his eyes are different. They aren't just possessive; they are searching. He looks at me, then at the bowl of raspberries, and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. Satisfaction?
“Is the breakfast to your liking, Snowflake?” he asks, his voice a low, even rumble.
A cold, hard fury solidifies in my chest, burning away the shame and confusion. He thinks this is a game he can win with calculated kindness and stolen memories. He thinks that because he conquered my body, my will is next.
He is wrong.
I walk to the table, my movements deliberate, my gaze locked with his. I pick up the crystal bowl of raspberries. It’s heavy inmy hands. His eyes follow my every move, a hint of confusion entering his expression.
I walk past him to the small, elegant waste bin near his desk. I hold his gaze, a silent challenge. Then, slowly, I tip the bowl, emptying the entire contents into the trash. The soft thud of the perfect, glistening fruit hitting the bottom is the only sound in the room. It’s the sound of a battle cry.
I place the empty bowl back on the trolley with a soft click. I turn back to him, my chin high, my eyes blazing with a fire I thought he had extinguished.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, my voice low and shaking with rage. “You don’t get to dig up my past and serve it to me on a silver platter like it’s some kind of prize.”
His face hardens, the searching softness in his eyes vanishing, replaced by a cold, dangerous stillness.
“You can take my body,” I continue, taking a step toward him, fueled by a righteous fury. “You can lock me in this room. You can own me like one of your possessions. But you do not get to have my memories. You do not get to have my soul. That is not yours to touch.”
I stop directly in front of him, forcing him to look down at me.
