Page 41 of The Strength Of A Woman

“Are you crazy?” I shout beneath his hand as he drags me toward the bed.

Dark laughter rings behind me.

“Are you being stupid like that? All right.”

He shifts his direction and pushes me into the walk-in closet, where he drops me to the floor and shuts the door.

A long belt dangles from his hand as I turn and look at him from the floor.

This room may not be soundproof like the reading room, but it’s still one of the most isolated and quiet spaces in the house.

Unless Nona or Rory walks in, which is highly improbable, no one can hear us, and he must know that.

A sardonic grin curves his lips.

“You know I’ve been watching you for a while. You’ve become quite a tease with your long hair, sexy legs, and juicy tits.”

I crawl back, away from him, looking for something to grab and fight him.

He walks calmly toward me.

“A tease? You haven’t seen me in a while, you idiot.”

“You were always a tease for me. And by the way,” he says, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

I watch him in disbelief.

Where the fuck is his girlfriend? Where are the guards? Where are the people who are supposed to be watching me?

Callum said someone would follow me back home. I haven’t seen anyone all the way here.

He didn’t lie, did he?

I hope not.

I don’t think I can take another betrayal.

Maybe they saw Julian and me and thought nothing of it. Julian is family now. As much as Callum is family now.

I don’t understand.

Why is this happening to me?

He pulls his shirt out of his pants, takes it off, and tosses it on the floor before he turns to me, bare-chested.

“You ignored my request, so I’ll punish you.”

“You’re crazy. Get away from me,” I bark, my back hitting the wall.

I try to push up and face him when he lunges at me, grabs the root of my neck, and almost kisses me before he changes his mind, spins me around, and makes me press my knees onto the footstool.

“You stay like that for me, and you’ll only get a good spanking tonight. You challenge me, and I’ll fuck you raw.”

The way he talks sounds like he’s salivating at the prospect.

“I’m not doing shit,” I say, pulling up in defiance, when his iron-hard hand comes fast to me and presses my neck down, until I look at him with half of my face smashed against the footstool.

Head pressed against the velvet stool, I spit at him.