He lets out a low growl and backs me into the wall, caging me in with his hands on either side of my head. His eyes are wild, searching my face like he’s trying to force the truth out of me.
“What the hell are you doing here, Sloane? Answer me.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stare at him, tears stinging my eyes, trying to give him something real so he understands my desperation without uncovering my deception.
“I needed money.” My mouth goes dry. “A friend told me I could make some here doing this, and I just thought…”
“Why do you need money, Sloane?” he presses, tension pulling tight across his face. “You have a job. You have a place to live. Is something going on I don’t know about?”
My eyes drop, but he tilts my chin back up, his thumb tracing the edge of my bottom lip.
I swallow around the thickness in my throat. “I was living with my sister until we got into a huge fight and she kicked me out of the house.”
His expression hardens. “Where have you been staying?”
“Here and there.”
“That’s not an answer.” His tone cuts sharper. “Tell me before I lose my mind more than you’ve already made me.”
Something in him fractures on the last word, and it pulls at something in me too.
“I’ve been…” Heat creeps up my face. I close my eyes because I can’t stand to watch him see this part of me. “I’ve been living in my car. Sometimes I sleep at the diner.”
His breathing catches, and something breaks across his features before he locks it down again. “Why the hell didn't you tell me?”
“Why would I have to tell you that?” I snap. “We don't know each other like that, and it's not something I tell anyone. My best friend doesn't even know.”
“God damn it, Sloane.” His hand clasps my cheek, and it makes everything hurt, knowing he cares when I don’t deserve it. “I would have helped you. Don’t you understand that? I would have done whatever you needed.” His eyes drag over my face like he’s trying to read every bruise I’m not showing. “Instead, you thought selling yourself to some stranger who would do God knows what to you was the answer?”
Bitterness floods my mouth; I hate every second of what he's saying.
“Maybe it's easy for you to judge me.” I let out a dry laugh, blinking past the tears blurring my vision. “But I have nothing. No money. No education. I barely have clothes, and when you’re starving and scared and alone, desperation makes you do ugly things.” Fighting my emotions, I continue. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my life. You don’t know what I’ve had to crawl through just to still be standing here by some miracle.”
He flinches at the edge in my tone. His hand drifts down my cheek, slower now, like he’s trying to calm me.
“This ends today.” His stare traps me in place. “Do you understand me?” His knuckles brush along my chin, the touch gentler than the words that follow. “There's no more living in your car or sleeping in the diner or lying to me about any of it. I own you now, Sloane Maddox, and you will do what I say when I say it.”
I know I shouldn’t like the sound of that, but my body doesn’t seem to care. Heat pools between my thighs, a slow pulsethrobbing with every word, with the certainty behind them, the way he says my name like it already belongs to him.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“You will find out, but for now, let's get you back into your clothes.” He tries to look anywhere but at my naked form, even as his eyes keep dropping to the swell of my breasts. “I’m taking you home. We’ll continue this conversation there.” He grabs the back of his neck and grumbles something in Russian. “Blyat, I can’t stand the fact that all those people saw you like this.”
He groans, grabbing my hip and pushing himself flush against me—and that’s when I feel the swell of his cock, hard and heavy against me.
“God, Sloane, the things I want to do to them for it.”
What do you want to do tome?
The question snakes across my mind, even though he should be the last man I want right now. Still, I can’t help how badly I want him.
“You killed someone.”
“Yes.” A faint curve touches his mouth. “And I would do it again if it meant protecting you.”
I wait for the fear to come. For my stomach to turn. For the image of the man hitting the floor to finally push me away from him. But it doesn’t.
“Are you afraid of me?”
