I sit in the passenger seat of the Mercedes, watching the high-end boutiques of the Gold Coast blur into streaks of grey and gold. Beside me, Peter handles the steering wheel with a casual, predatory grace, his thumb tapping a rhythmic beat against the leather. He looks smug. He looks like a man who just bought a masterpiece and is waiting for the gallery to open so he can show it off.
I hate him.
The thought doesn’t flicker; it roars. It’s been simmering under the shock, under the bruises, and under the humiliating way my body betrayed me in his bed. But as the adrenaline of the city fades, the rage takes its place—cold, sharp, and jagged as the mirror I shattered.
“You’re quiet, Darling,” Peter murmurs, not takinghis eyes off the road. “Usually, when women get ten thousand dollars worth of Valentino, they at least offer a thank you. Or a smile. I’d settle for a smile.”
“I’d settle for you driving this car into a bridge,” I say, my voice steady for the first time in twenty-four hours.
Peter’s thumb stops tapping. He lets out a soft, delighted chuckle that makes my skin crawl. “There she is. I was wondering when the fire would come back. The submission was starting to get a bit… predictable.”
“I’m not a dog, Peter. You can’t just kick me into a corner and then expect me to wag my tail because you bought me a pretty collar.” I turn in the seat, the silk of the dress rustling like a warning. “You think you’ve won? You think because I’m sitting in this car, wearing your clothes, that I’m yours?”
“You are wearing my mark, Wendy,” he says, his voice dropping that playful edge. He glances at me, and his eyes are like flint. “You are eating my food. You are sleeping in my bed. By every law of the world we live in, you are mine.”
“Then your world is a fucking lie,” I spit.
I reach out and grab the steering wheel, jerking it hard to the right.
The car swerves violently, the tires screaming against the asphalt. Peter snarls, his reflexes inhumanly fast as he wrestles control back, his heavy boot slamming on the brake. We skid to a halt in the middle of a quiet, tree-lined side street, the smell of burnt rubber filling the cabin.
Before I can even draw breath to scream, Peter is over me.
He shoves me back against the leather seat, hisforearm pressing into my throat—not enough to choke me, but enough to pin me like a moth to a board. His face is inches from mine, his pupils so blown out his eyes are nothing but black pits of possessive rage.
“Don’t ever,” he hisses, “test me while I’m driving. I don’t care if you want to die, Wendy, but you aren’t taking me with you until I’m finished with you.”
“Then finish it!” I shriek, my hands clawing at his forearm. “Kill me! Do it now! Because if you don’t, I’m going to spend every waking second making you regret you ever looked at me across that dinner table. I will burn your house down. I will tell Clara everything. I will be the rot that eats you from the inside out.”
The air between us is electric, thick with the scent of his cologne and my defiance. I expect a slap. I expect him to drag me into the back seat and ruin me again.
Instead, he stares at me, and a slow, terrifyingly beautiful grin spreads across his face.
“God, I love it when you hate me,” he whispers.
He leans down and bites my bottom lip—hard. I taste copper instantly. I try to pull away, to spit in his face, but he fists his hand in my hair, tilting my head back until I’m forced to meet his gaze.
“You want fireworks, Wendy? I’ll give you a goddamn inferno.”
He lets go of my throat only to slide his hand down the front of the emerald dress. He doesn’t go for my pussy. He grabs the silk at the neckline and pulls.
The sound of the expensive fabric tearing is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. The emerald silk gives way, ripping down to my waist, exposing my breasts to the cool afternoon air and his burning gaze.
“Peter!” I gasp, my hands flying up to cover myself.
“No,” he growls, pinning my wrists to the headrest above my head. “Look at me. You want to be a lioness? Then show me your teeth. But remember who the hunter is.”
He lowers his head, his tongue lashing out to lick the blood from my bitten lip before moving down to my throat. He’s not being gentle. He’s being a beast. He bites the curve of my shoulder, his teeth sinking deep enough to leave a permanent mark.
“You hate me?” he pants against my skin, his hand sliding between my thighs, his fingers seeking out the wetness he knows is already there despite my rage. “Good. Hate is just love with a knife in its hand. Use it, Wendy. Use it to scream my name while I take everything you have left.”
I hate him. I hate him so much I want to rip his heart out.
And as his fingers find me, brutal and insistent, I realise with a sickening jolt of heat that I’m already arching my back to meet him.
Peter doesn’t pull the car back into gear. He shifts it into neutral, the engine idling with a low, hungry growl that mirrors the vibration in his chest.
“You want to play the rebel?” he murmurs, his eyes dark and fixed on the road ahead even as his hand remains buried in the ruins of my dress. “Then do it while you’re falling apart.”
