“I am not your Snowflake,” I spit, the name tasting like poison. “I am not some fairytale princess you can lock in your castle. I am Wynter Blanc. And you would do well to remember that.”
The air in the room crackles, thick with unspoken threats. Kaden’s eyes, which had been a cold, dangerous blue, now darken to an almost black intensity. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. The stillness that descends upon him is more terrifying than any shout. It’s the stillness of a predator about to strike.
He moves. Not with a shout, not with a lunge, but with a terrifying, controlled speed. One moment, he’s standing acrossfrom me; the next, he’s directly in front of me, his body a solid wall, blocking out the light.
My breath catches in my throat. I try to step back, but he’s too fast. His hand shoots out, not to my arm, not to my waist, but to my throat. His fingers, strong and unyielding, wrap around my neck, not quite cutting off my air, but making the act of breathing a conscious, desperate effort.
He shoves me back, hard. My spine slams against the cold, unyielding wall, the impact jarring my teeth. The silk robe gapes open, exposing the bare skin beneath, a fresh wave of vulnerability washing over me.
His face is inches from mine, his eyes burning with a primal rage that makes my blood run cold. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the raw power thrumming beneath his skin.
“You think you know me, Wynter Blanc?” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates through my bones. “You think you know what I am? What I’m capable of?”
His thumb presses against my pulse point, a silent, chilling reminder of the power he holds over my life. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his skin, a desperate drumbeat of fear.
“You think you can defy me?” he continues, his voice laced with a dangerous amusement that makes my stomach clench. “You think a few pretty words, a little temper, will change anything?”
I struggle against his grip, my hands coming up to push against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. He’s a mountain, immovable, implacable.
“Let go,” I gasp, the words a thin, reedy sound against the pressure on my throat.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something dark and possessive entering their depths. “Let go?” he repeats, his voice a silken threat. “Never. You are mine, Snowflake. Every breath you take.Every thought in that stubborn head. Every beat of that defiant heart. It all belongs to me.”
He leans in closer, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a shiver through me. “And if you ever, ever defy me like that again, if you ever challenge my authority in my own home, in my own bed…”
His grip on my throat tightens, just enough to send a jolt of pure terror through me. My vision blurs at the edges.
“I will remind you,” he whispers, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “exactly who you belong to. And it won’t be with raspberries,cara.”
He pulls back, releasing my throat. I gasp, sucking in a ragged breath, my lungs burning. My hand flies to my neck, massaging the tender skin, trying to erase the phantom pressure of his fingers.
He steps back, his eyes still fixed on me, a chilling triumph in their depths. He has made his point. He has reasserted his dominance.
He walks to the breakfast trolley, picks up a single, perfect raspberry from the untouched bowl, and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Now,” he says, his voice calm, as if nothing has happened. “Eat your breakfast, Wynter. We have a long day ahead of us. And you will need your strength.
He turns and walks out of the room, leaving me leaning against the cold wall, trembling, gasping for air, the taste of fear and the lingering phantom of his touch a bitter taste in my mouth.
He thinks he has broken me. He thinks he has won. But as I stare at the untouched breakfast, a new resolve hardens within me. He may control my body, but he will never control my mind. And one day, I will make him pay for every breath he stole.
Twenty Eight
Wynter
Thedoorclicksshut,leaving me alone in the vast, silent bedroom. My hand still clutches my throat, the phantom pressure of his fingers a chilling reminder of his power.My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself to stand upright, pushing away from the cold wall. My lungs burn, but I refuse to gasp for air, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he truly terrified me.
He thinks he has won. He thinks he has put me back in my place. But all he has done is ignite a colder, harder fire within me. The rage that had flared so brightly moments ago now settles into a simmering, dangerous resolve. I will not be broken. I will not be his docile pet.
I walk to the breakfast trolley, my gaze fixed on the bowl where the raspberries had been. He ate one. A single, defiant act of consumption, a final assertion of his control. My stomach growls, a hollow ache that reminds me of Evilin’s forced starvation, of the constant hunger that had been my companion for so many years. I will not starve myself. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I sit at the table, my movements stiff, and force myself to eat. The eggs are perfectly cooked, the toast crisp, the tea warm and fragrant. Each bite feels like a small act of rebellion, a reclaiming of my own body. He wants me strong. Good. I will be strong. Strong enough to fight him. Strong enough to escape.
When I finish, I push the trolley aside. I need a shower. I need to wash away the lingering scent of his dominance, the memory of his touch. I step into the bathroom, the cool marble a welcome sensation beneath my feet. I catch my reflection in the massive mirror above the double vanity. My eyes are still wide, but the terror has receded, replaced by a steely glint of determination. My neck shows no visible marks, but the memory of his hand there is branded onto my skin.
I turn on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over me, scrubbing my skin until it’s raw. I wash away the scent of him, the feel of his body, the shame of my own response. I emergefeeling cleansed, but not entirely clean. Some stains, I realize, go deeper than skin.
I wrap myself in a fresh, plush towel and walk into the dressing room. My eyes widen. The walk-in closet is massive, filled with rows of clothes. Dresses, skirts, pants, sweaters, all in rich fabrics and elegant cuts. Shoes line the shelves, and a display of delicate lingerie sits on a velvet-lined tray. He has stocked a wardrobe for me. A new skin. His choice.
