"Do you have a Yelp review? 'Five stars, would definitely hire to throw my enemies into the ocean. Very thorough. Excellent rock selection.'"
Still nothing.
"You're really not going to give me anything here?"
He glances at me, just a flicker of those hazel eyes. "He touched you."
"Men touch me all the time."
"Not anymore."
Two words. That's all. Flat, certain, absolute. Not a threat or a promise. Just fact.
The heat in my belly intensifies. I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only makes it worse. Every bump in the road sends sensation through me. I'm aroused and disturbed and I don't know what to do with either feeling.
He could have killed that man. Would have, maybe, if the ocean hadn't been there to finish the job. And he would have watched it happen with the same calm he's showing now.
"You're insane," I whisper. "You know that, right?"
"Probably."
"That man could press charges."
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because he'd have to admit he got thrown into the ocean by one man. His ego won't survive it."
He's right, of course. Men like that, their pride matters more than justice.
I stare out the window, trying to get my body under control. But I keep seeing it: the efficient violence, the complete certainty that he had the right to destroy anyone who touched what was his.
Not anymore.
I'm in so much trouble. This isn't a crush or attraction or any safe word for what's happening to me. This is something darker, hungrier. I want him to touch me with those same hands that just destroyed someone. I want him to claim me with the same brutal certainty.
The moment we're back at the penthouse, I need space. Distance. Something.
"I need to go to my room," I stammer, practically running down the hall.
"It's two in the afternoon."
"I know what time it is, Nico."
I close the door and lock it, pressing my back against the wood, breathing hard like I've been running. Through the wall, I hear him moving around the apartment. Calm. Methodical. Like he didn't just commit violence for me. Like my entire world didn't just shift on its axis.
My skin feels too tight, too hot. Every nerve is firing, sending signals I can't ignore. I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, trying to get control of myself.
But I can't stop seeing it. The way he moved, no hesitation, no doubt. The way he watched that man bleed with satisfaction. The way he said "not anymore" like he was claiming ownership of my body without even touching it.
My hand moves between my legs without conscious thought. Through my dress, through my underwear, I can feel how wet I am. Soaked. Dripping. From watching him hurt someone.
What is wrong with me?
I press my fingers against myself, and a whimper escapes before I can stop it. I bite my lip hard, praying he can't hear me through the door. The last thing I need is for him to know what he's done to me.
But I can't stop. My fingers find their rhythm, circling my clit through the fabric while my other hand covers my mouth to muffle any sound. I think about his hands, those strong, violent hands. Think about him grabbing me the way he grabbed that man's throat. Think about being at his mercy.
