Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

RHETT

I watch her. I can't help myself. Every move she makes is deliberate and calculated. She had the perfect opportunity to grab my phone. She looked at it. Hell, I saw her eyeing it like it was her way out, like salvation was just an arm's length away.

But my girl didn't take it.

Maybe she didn't think she could get the code right in time, or maybe it was fear. But then again, Cara's not as afraid as she pretends to be. I know she likes this. Behind the face she puts on, she's enjoying this.

Punishment, pleasure… she can't tell the difference anymore. That's the part of her I've unlocked, the part I've been slowly molding. She's mine in more ways than she's willing to admit.

She will. My little nightmare will be completely mine soon enough.

I pretend to focus on the cards in my hand, but my mind is elsewhere. Why didn't she run? A good girl like her, a smart one, should have at least tried. But Cara didn't. Maybe she's too scared of what would happen if she got caught. After all, last time… well, let's just say I know she enjoyed every second of it. Her screams, her whimpers, the way her body gave in despite the fear…

My cock is getting hard just thinking about it.

I smile to myself, taking another sip of wine. "You had your chance, didn't you?" I murmur under my breath.

She glances up from her cards. "Hmm?"

"Nothing," I say with a smirk, taking another sip.

But I know she knows. Cara's smart. She's been playing this game, too. Testing the boundaries, seeing how far she can go without tipping me over the edge. It's a delicate balance we're dancing on, but I've got the upper hand. Always.

The sound of her friends' messages going off in the group chat pulls me back to the present. It's constant now—Friendsgiving, plans, excitement. They think she's just holed up with a cold, waiting to get better, but it won't be long before they start asking questions. Friendsgiving is apparently her thing. She goes every year according to her friends, and that's why I've already made arrangements for this year that will make sure her friends suspect nothing out of the ordinary.

My girl is hosting Friendsgiving this year.

I didn't ask her, and she has no idea, but it's happening whether she likes it or not.

It's going to be tricky, but it has to happen. Her phone buzzes and I glance at it again. If they don't see her there, they'll wonder why. They might even come looking, and I can't have that. We're treading on thin ice, but I've planned for this. I always plan ahead.

"You're thinking about them, aren't you?" I ask, breaking the silence.

Her body stiffens for a moment; then she turns to me. "What?"

"Your friends." I tilt my head toward the phone, watching her carefully as I lean back in my chair. "Friendsgiving's coming up, right?"

Cara shifts in her seat, her eyes flickering with something I can't quite place yet. The cornered look is there, but she tries to mask it behind indifference. "I—uh, I haven't been keeping track of the days," she says quietly, her voice flat. "Everything's just… blurred."

She's lying. I can see it in the way she avoids my gaze, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. She knows. She's known this was coming, just like I have. She's been waiting for it. And now she's pretending she's clueless, like she doesn't have a plan already simmering in that sharp little head of hers.

"Well, guess what?" I lower my voice, stepping closer, leaning down so my breath brushes her ear. "This year, you're hosting, my little nightmare."

Her head snaps up, and I catch the flicker of panic in her expression before she reels it back in. "What?"

"You heard me." My tone is deliberate, soft but dangerous, the kind that leaves no room for argument. "They're coming here, and you're going to play the perfect little hostess. Smile, laugh, and act like nothing's wrong. If you don't—if you so much as slip up for one fucking second—" I let the threat hang between us, unsaid but thick in the air. She knows what I'm capable of. She's seen it.

Cara's pouty lips part, but nothing comes out. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing as she tries to keep her composure. "Rhett..." Her voice is soft, a little shaky. She's scared. Good, she should be.

I step in closer, my chest brushing hers, and reach out to tilt her chin up. "You're going to dress up," I whisper. "And you're going to make them believe that everything's perfect. That we're a perfect happy fucking couple, because if you don't..." My grip tightens, just a fraction. "I'll hurt them. I won't kill them, not right away. No, I'll make sure they scream for you, make sure they beg for mercy while you stand there watching."

Her breath hitches, her eyes wide, but I see it—just for a second. That flicker of something inside her, that thrill that comes when I remind her how deep my control goes. She's afraid, sure, but there's more. That twisted part of her that responds to the threat, that darkness she can't quite suppress.

"Why?" she finally whispers, barely able to get the word out, her voice fragile, trembling like a leaf caught in the wind.

I run my thumb slowly over her lower lip, savoring the way her breath stutters beneath my touch. She's trying so hard to hold on, but I can feel the cracks forming, feel her unraveling. "Because, Cara," I murmur, my voice like gravel, low and possessive. "You need to understand something." I pause, leaning closer until my lips are a breath away from hers. "You belong to me. Not just your body, not just your life. Every. Single. Part of you. Your mind, your thoughts, your soul—it's all fucking mine, little nightmare. You're mine to break, to shape, to own. And you're going to learn that one way or another."

She exhales shakily, the sound barely audible as her control slips. She's mine, and she knows it. There's no escape, no running, no pretending otherwise. I may have her confined to her own house, but it's nothing like the tiny cage I have her trapped in that she can't see. The one I know she can feel tightening around her with every day that passes.

"I don't know if I can do it," she admits, her voice small and quivering like she's trying to convince herself more than me. "They'll know something's off. They'll see—"

I chuckle darkly, cutting her off with a slow, deliberate shake of my head. She's not getting it yet, not fully. "No," I whisper against her skin, my lips ghosting the shell of her ear. "They won't. You'll make damn sure they don't. You'll smile, you'll laugh, you'll play your part perfectly, won't you ?" I trail my lips down her neck, savoring the way her pulse jumps beneath my mouth, the way her breath quickens. "And if you don't…" My voice drops lower, more dangerous, as I press a soft kiss against her collarbone. "I'll make sure you watch every second of their pain. Every scream, every plea for mercy—you'll stand there and know it's because of you."

Her breath catches in her throat, and her body stiffens against me, but she doesn't pull away. She never does. That's the thing about Cara—no matter how much she tries to fight it, no matter how much she tries to convince herself that she's afraid of me, there's that dark part of her, that tiny twisted piece of herself that she tries so fucking hard to hide, that craves this.

Craves me .

"I—" She hesitates, her voice so small, so fragile. But she knows there's no way out of this. Not with me. " Okay, " she finally whispers, barely audible, the words heavy with resignation.

"Good girl," I say, smirking as I pull back just enough to look into her eyes, watching as they glisten with unshed tears. I can see it—the battle inside her, the war between fear and that darker thrill she can't deny. She's already lost, but I'll let her think she's still fighting.

I straighten up, pacing slowly around her, my steps deliberate, predatory. "Start making the list of everything we'll need," I say casually, glancing at her trembling hands. "Everything—turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce. We're going all out, baby, and we're going to do it together."

She nods, her fingers already reaching for the notepad on the table, and trembling as they grip the pen. She's trying to focus, trying to steady herself, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she's teetering on the edge of breaking. She knows what's at stake.

"Except the pie."

Her head jerks up, her brows furrowed in confusion. "The pie?"

"I'm making that," I say, softening my tone just enough to let her think there's still some piece of me she can reach. "My mom's recipe. She made it every Thanksgiving. It was… one of the only things that felt normal."

Something flickers in her expression, something almost like sympathy, maybe even understanding. It's fleeting, but I catch it. Cara still believes she can find something good in me, still thinks there's some part of me she can pull into the light. She's wrong, of course. But I let her think it, because it makes what I'm about to do all the sweeter.

"You're going to help me," I say, my voice dropping to that low, commanding tone that I know makes her weak. The shift is immediate—her breath stutters, her body reacting before her mind can catch up. "You'll follow every step exactly as I say. And if you mess it up..." I let the threat hang in the air, watching her face to see the way her pulse quickens at my words, and the way her skin flushes just a little. I see her legs press together ever so slightly, and it takes everything not to grin. She knows exactly what I mean, even if my girl won't admit it.

"I won't," she whispers, her voice trembling but trying to sound sure. "I'll get it right, I promise."

I close the distance between us in an instant, gripping her jaw with just enough force to make her eyes widen. "I know you will," I murmur, my thumb brushing over her lower lip, slow and possessive. "Because if you don't…" I lean in until my lips are barely an inch from hers, my breath mixing with hers as I whisper, "I'll punish you. And we both know how much you like my punishments, don't we, little nightmare."

Her pupils dilate, fear flashing across her face, but underneath that, just like every other time— something darker. Her body betrays her before she can protest, her breath catching, her thighs squeezing together again like she can't help herself. I can see it, feel it, the heat rising off her, and the way her skin burns under my touch.

"You don't like to admit it, but your body doesn't see a reason to hide it from me." I grin against her skin, nipping at her ear. "You can't lie to me. Not when your pussy squeezes my cock while you pretend to hate it. To hate me… You don't fucking hate my punishment. You don't even hate me. That's the truth, little nightmare. You need it."

"I understand," she whispers, barely audible, her voice trembling with fear, and something she's trying desperately to hide.

But my girl can't hide from me.

Not anymore.

I smirk, straightening up and ruffling her hair like she's nothing more than a pet I've trained. "Good girl." I pull away, pacing toward the fridge like nothing happened, the sound of the bottle cap hissing as I pop it off the beer, filling the silence.

Behind me, I hear her shaky exhale, followed by the faint scratch of pen on paper. She's focused, trying to think of every little detail, trying to be perfect. But I know better. She's thinking about what happens if she messes up. About what I'll do to her, and I know, deep down, she wants me to do it.

She wants to push me, to see what I'll do to her next.

Because there's no denying it, not anymore. She craves the punishment. Needs to feel my hands on her, my control over her, even if she tries to fight it. That's what makes her my little nightmare. She thinks she can resist, thinks she can play the victim, but her body tells me the truth every time.

"I'll place the order tomorrow," I call over my shoulder, smirking to myself as I take a long sip of beer. "And don't forget to add wine to that list. Your friends like that sweet shit, don't they?"

There's no answer, just the pause of her pen scratching across the paper. I can almost hear her heart beating faster, can practically taste the conflict swirling inside her. She's already given in, already surrendering to what we both know is inevitable.

This isn't just about control, about owning her life. It's about owning her , completely. Every dark thought, every twisted desire. She belongs to me, and there's no way out. No escape.

And I'll make sure she knows that. Every second. Every day.

This? This is only the beginning.