12

Yeah, I came. He didn’t know then, but it was the first time I ever came. Then he cuddled me until I fell asleep before sneaking back to his room. After that sinful night between us, everything spiraled. He started to lose his damn mind.

While my dad was in his club, taking care of business, Rook laid me on the back seat of my dad’s car, lifted my skirt and ate my pussy out. There were a few odd occasions where we kissed again, but I started pulling away, it was becoming riskier and I knew he could never be mine, no matter how much I wanted him. It had been around five months, and I thought we was getting past things, even if our relationship was straining and becoming difficult, we hadn’t touched or kissed, until of course, that Christmas in the cabin when everything came crashing down and we both cracked.

Suddenly, Blaise places a black box down beside me, and my heart skips a beat—not from excitement, but from a dread that pulls me out of my forbidden thoughts. I lift my eyes to his, keeping my expression neutral, and he responds with a slight, smug smirk.

Please don’t be an engagement ring. For fuck’s sake.

I let my fork clatter to the plate and reach for the box. My fingers tug at the silky black bow, letting it unravel and fall limply onto the counter. As I lift the lid, my eyes immediately fall on the object inside.

“I had it made in China for you,” Blaise says, his tone almost eager, the opposite to the usual detached authority he carries.

My brows knit together as I take in the black-and-gold design, the Chinese markings unfamiliar. “Is it for hair?” I ask, the confusion clear in my voice.

He snickers softly, standing from the stool with an unsettling ease. Without answering, he plucks the object from the box and moves behind me. My hands drop to my lap as I stare ahead, while he gathers the top half of my black hair.

“I always wonder what your face looks like when your hair isn’t always falling messily over it,” he mutters. “Your eyes are far too pretty to keep hidden.”

The clip snaps into place with a metallic click, and he steps back around, returning to his seat. This time, though, he angles his body toward me, the stool creaking softly under his weight as he leans in closer—too close.

I avoid his gaze, focusing intently on the fork I’d put down, but then his hand finds my chin. His fingers are firm as they guide my face upward, forcing me to look at him.

“What do you say?” he asks, his tone dripping with arrogance, as if he’s speaking to a fucking child who needs a lesson in manners.

I swallow the irritation rising in my throat, shoving it down where it can’t betray me and my voice is flat, cold, just the way he deserves.

“Thank you, Blaise.”

For a moment, he observes me, his eyes lingering on mine as if searching for a lie. Then, he guides me to his lips and when they touch, his kiss is forceful, but I barely respond. The lack of reciprocation doesn’t go unnoticed, and I see it in his eyes—a flicker of frustration in his expression, his jaw tightens. He drops his hand, but his face remains close, and his gaze roams down my body, lingering on my tits like he’s not going to take no for an answer.

“I want to see you wearing nothing but that hairpiece for me tonight, Ebony,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. "It's going to glitter so prettily as I take your pussy from behind."

My eyes flutter closed, and I feel my heart hammering against my ribs until I feel his warm, large hand wrap around my bare inner thigh. My eyes snap open, my body stiffening and when his palm moves upward, pushing under my dress, I act quickly, grabbing his wrist.

But Blaise is strong—too strong. His fingers graze my bare pussy, sending a jolt of anger and disgust through my veins before I manage to shove him away. The rejection lands like a physical blow, and I see it beyond his usual calm fa?ade. His eyes blaze, the intensity of a storm swirling in the space between us.

“You know I own you, right?” he breathes, his voice low and malicious, a warning lacing each syllable.

I arch a brow, refusing to back down. “Oh yeah? And who made you believe that? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

His lips curl slightly, mockingly and the smirk alone feels like a rope tightening around my neck.

“Do you really think you have a choice? Three months, Ebony. You keep coming here. You keep meeting me. You keep giving me your time, pretending to play coy. You’re not just mine—you’re fucking trapped.”

The words strike me, stealing the air from my lungs. I feel the sting of tears burning at the corners of my eyes, but I fight them, trying not to break. His hand tightens on my thigh, the pressure bordering on painful, as his other hand tangles in the back of my hair, pulling tight, forcing my gaze to meet his.

“And what’s mine does as they’re fucking told,” he says, his tone terrifyingly relaxed as his eyes scan mine. “I’ve given you more than enough time to grow the fuck up.”

A single tear slips free, hot and unwelcome as it traces a path down my cheek. It’s not fear—no. I don’t fear Blaise or any other man. Only my father has ever earned that power over me. But the truth in his words is like salt being poured into an open wound. Another man here to control me. To use me. And once again, I’m left with no escape, no fucking choice.

I compose myself, swallowing the bitter taste of my vulnerability, and force my voice into a shaky whisper.

“You’d better be careful who you’re speaking to like that, motherfucker. Get your stubby ass fingers off me.”

His grin returns and he leans in, his breath warm against my skin, his words quiet and deadly. “We’re going to get married, Ebony. And you’re going to give me sons—one after the fucking other—until your pussy gives out. That’s the only reason I want you,” he pauses, letting the insult settle in before continuing. “Beyond your looks and that gift between your legs? You’re nothing. A weak, mind-numbing runt.”

Rage floods my veins so quickly I barely register the red haze that clouds my vision. Before I can think, I gather spit in my mouth and release it sharply straight into his eye.

“Fuck!” Blaise recoils, letting me go instantly to wipe it away, and I don’t waste a second. I leap off the stool, fuelled by adrenaline, and dart toward the counter where my coat is.

But he’s quick—too quick. His hand clamps around my arm with bruising force, his fingers digging into my skin.

“Not so fast,” he growls.

I don’t hesitate. My hand flies out, finding the nearest weapon—the hot frying pan still on the stove. Without warning, I spin and swing it with every ounce of strength I have. The impact is sickening, a metallic crack against the side of his head. Blaise collapses instantly, a grunt of pain escaping him as he hits to the floor, holding his face.

I stand over him, my breath heaving, tears streaming down my cheeks. My hands tremble, but beneath the anger and hurt, there’s something else—a flicker of control, rare and unfamiliar, surging through me. Expressionless, I toss the frying pan carelessly, aiming for his nuts. It lands with a satisfying thunk between his legs, and he howls in fresh agony, curling into himself like a wounded animal.

“Merry fucking Christmas, pig,” I say, my tone cold, detached, and turn on my heel. I grab my coat and bag, ignoring his groans behind me, and stride out of the apartment.