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The silence that follows is delicious, but the look on Cora’s face is fucking intoxicating. The expression in her eyes can only be equated to something like horrified fascination as she learns I’m not just some brute who forced his way into her bed and her father’s company. No, I’m something much, much worse.

Cora’s breath hitches, and I catch her surprise from the corner of my vision. Leaning toward her, I press my lips to her ear and whisper quietly enough that only she can hear, “While you aren’t willing to admit you’re mine yet, angel, I still intend to take care of you as though you are. This is just the beginning of what I plan to give you. Money, power, and when you’re ready, decades of pleasure.”

Her cheeks flush subtly as her thighs clench together beneath the table. Fuck, I love how responsive she is to the idea of being mine. If my stubborn girl would actually admit it, I’d have her bent over this table fucking her senseless in front of these old fools—claiming her as I take my future empire.

The vote is unanimous, and devoid of congratulations from the other board members, leaving me as the new CEO of Harrington Holdings. “Excellent decision, gentleman,” I say, rising from my chair. “As the largest shareholder and newly appointed CEO, I adjourn this meeting.”

After pulling Cora’s chair away from the table, I take her hand to help her to stand before leading her from the room full of defeated men. She manages to curb her tongue until we are alone in the elevator. “You are a manipulative bastard who will stop at nothing to get what he wants, aren’t you?”

I smile, moving closer until I have her pressed into the corner of the cab. “Yes. And eventually you’ll give me what I’m patiently waiting for, too.”

“What do you want, Roman? You have the company, money, and me, trapped in this marriage. What more could you possibly want?”

I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw with my thumb, feeling her fight the urge to melt into my touch.

“Everything, my sweet angel. I want everything.”

Chapter Eight

Cora

The Town Car glides through the city, leading us far from the boardroom we have just left. I stare out the window, observing the familiar landscape of The Loop as it dissolves. The gleaming towers give way to shorter, grittier buildings as the designer boutiques are replaced with bodegas, barred windows, and pawn shops promising cash. The streets grow narrower and more crowded as the pedestrians become less polished.

With each block that passes, the knot of dread in my stomach tightens. “Where are we going, Roman?”

My answer comes in the form of silence as he watches the city pass with an intensity that is absolutely unnerving. His profile is sharp and ruthless in the dim light filtering through the deep-tinted windows.

The car turns onto a street that looks like it’s been forgotten by time and the city. The sidewalks are cracked, and garbage bags are piled high against the brick-faced buildings. A few men, bundled in ragged coats, huddle around a flaming barrel near the end of an alleyway. My heart starts to race, because this is not my world. I don’t belong here. This is part of the city my father tried to shield me from, and Roman has just dragged me straight into the center of it.

The car slows, pulling toward the curb before stopping. The engine idles as we park directly in front of a building that looks like it’s actively decaying. The brickwork is stained with decades of grime, and the falling fire escapes are completely rusted. A single flickering bulb illuminates a grimy entryway.

I can barely breathe, thinking the worst of reasons as to why Roman would bring me here. There’s no reason for him to keep me. He’s already got what he wanted. The feeling that only intensifies when the driver opens Roman’s door. The sounds of the city rush into the comfortable security of the car, filling it with sirens and the rumble of the L nearby. I shrink back against the leather, clenching my hands together in my lap, when Roman steps out of the car. He rounds the car and opens my door. The cold night air, carrying the scent of garbage and despair, causes me to freeze in place.

He crouches down, bringing himself to my level and framing the opening of the car door. “Don’t be scared, angel.” His voice is a low, soothing rumble that contradicts my feelings about our current location. “You are perfectly safe. The devil himself couldn’t lay a hand on you without going through me first.”

The words are a terrifying, possessive promise that shouldn’t offer comfort, but it does. It’s the sickness in me, a deplorable part that craves his dominance and protection even as my mind screams how wrong submitting to him is. Hating myself, I plant my trembling hand in his outstretched one and let him pull me from the car. The moment my designer heels touch the grimy pavement, I press myself against his side and bury my face in the wool of his coat. He’s a wall of strength, shielding me from the eyes of the men by the barrel and the harsh reality of this part of Chicago.

Though I love the safety he provides, I hate that he has put me in a position to need—and admit—that I want it.

“Come,” he insists, his arm wrapping tightly around me, his hand resting heavily on my hip as he guides me toward the building. We step over a puddle that I can only hope is water as we make our way to the front stoop. He pulls open the heavy door with a groan, revealing a hallway that smells of boiled cabbage and mildew.

“What are we doing here?” I whisper harshly, my voice echoing in the bleak space.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he leads me to a staircase at the end of the hall. The building worsens with every step we take. The plaster walls are stained and cracking, though the sparsity of working lightbulbs makes it hard to see much of anything between the vast shadows. Our footsteps are the only sounds as he ushers me up two flights of stairs.

“My mother worked three jobs to keep this roof over our heads,” he shares suddenly, his tone devoid of emotion. “The landlord, more correctly slumlord, never fixed a fucking thing. The heat worked maybe half the winter. We had rats living in the walls. She would cry at night when she thought I was asleep, thinking I couldn’t hear her guilt about how little she could provide.”

I stop walking, my hand tightening around his arm. “Roman, I⁠—”

“One more flight,” he continues, ignoring me and pulling me toward the third-floor landing. He stops in front of a green door, the paint faded by decades of neglect and the off-center 3-H barely visible.

“Why are we here?” I ask again, my voice shaking slightly.

He pulls a key from his pocket, slides it into the lock, and jiggles it for a moment before getting it to turn. When it unlocks, he pushes the door open. The apartment is tiny, so small that I can see the entire space from the doorway. The small kitchenette has an avocado-colored refrigerator and a yellowed stove, both looking as though they needed to be replaced before I was born. The dirty mattress on the floor barely fits in the space. There are holes in the drywall and dark stains across the ceiling. The single window on the far wall provides a view of the brick facade of the adjacent building.

This isn’t a home; it’s a place of hopelessness.

“I wanted you to see where I come from.” He speaks softly, but the sound carries with ease through the small room. “I need you to see, so you can truly appreciate where I am going to take us.” His admission is a glimpse behind the mask of the monster I’m married to. It’s the first real thing he has shared with me about himself, and it disarms me completely.