Chapter 4

Isabella

Fuck Vance, and fuck my father for hiring him. Against my father's wishes, I'm an adult. I grew up. I did everything he asked of me, including remaining a virgin while all my friends partied and lost their V-cards. It got to the point where I was too embarrassed to even admit that I still held on to mine.

My friends all think I got laid by some Harvard college kid. Some elite douchebag I met at a party when I turned eighteen a few years ago. We didn't fuck. His whiskey dick wouldn't have allowed him to have sex with me if he'd tried. But I did come against his bent knee before he passed out.

I kind of love that, actually. Grinding on them through my clothes. The soft friction and the way my silk panties rub against my clit make my eyes roll to the back of my head. If sex feels half as good as that, I'll be in heaven.

Can you even have orgasms in heaven, or is that just a hell kind of thing? Either way, I want all of them.

When I lie back in bed and slip my shorts aside, my mind wanders to last night. To the club. To the way Vance punched that dude in the face for not getting his hands off me.

That brute force was fucking hot.

A feather in my gut reminds me I don't like Vance or appreciate his control, but the tickle in my pussy still can't help but react to his strength. I liked watching his form in the corner, silent and brooding with his hand on his gun. When I was grinding on the stranger's leg, I was enjoying the view across the room instead of the one right in front of me.

But I'd never admit that out loud.

I slide my fingers along my slit, letting my thoughts propel my movement. A moan leaves my lips, growing with every swipe of my finger. These staccato sounds accompany each rise of my chest and arch of my back.

My toes clench as I draw my knees toward my body. Just at the cusp of my orgasm, there's a loud knock on the door, and I'm chased away from the edge. Fucking A.

I pull my shorts back into place and sit up, letting my curled toes touch the cool hardwood instead. "Come in," I say, trying to mask my frustration.

The door opens, and Vance stands in the doorway. He's tall in general, his head nearly grazing the top of the doorframe, but he's like a giant when I'm sitting.

A smirk creeps across his face, and I put my hand up to my red cheeks. I just got caught with my hand in my cookie jar, and it shows on my face. My body still courses with the pleasure he'd snuffed out, forced back by his knock.

"What were you doing in here?" he asks, his eyebrow rising.

"None of your business."

He cocks his head. "You're my business now, Isabella. Everything you do is my business."

I roll my eyes. "You're taking this job a little too seriously."

"I take it seriously because if something happens to you, something really bad will happen to me. Your father will have me killed. If nothing happens to you, something really good happens to me."

"What does that have to do with you coming in here like SWAT?"

He takes a step into my room. "I heard you in here and wanted to make sure you didn't sneak anyone in." He turns to leave. "And SWAT doesn't knock first."

"Fuck you."

He spins on his heel, eyes darkening as he takes two long strides to cross my room. His hands drop to my bed, one on either side of me, and he leans closer until we're face to face. A frustrated growl leaves his lips.

"I'm going to try to put this into words you understand, since your family seems to love ownership." His warm breath rolls over mine. "I own you, and your body, for the next thirteen days. I'll keep anyone and everyone from touching you. Including yourself, since you want to be so damn mouthy."

"You can't do that." I choke out a laugh. "It's my body. I can do what I want with it." Lie.

"No. You can't do anything with your body without your father's permission."

Is he referring to himself?

The stranger in the club called him my dad, and he's old enough to be my father. Salt-and-pepper strands run through the dark, unruly hair on his head.

He carries himself differently than my father ever would, though. He doesn't behave in a way anyone in our business would. He doesn't carry himself with dignity, grace, or power. He carries himself like a murderer. Like a criminal.

I wouldn't be surprised if he was. Even his wide stance and the way his white t-shirt hugs his muscles makes him look dangerous, menacing. And the stern look he's giving me right now makes me understand exactly why my father hired him. He's a predator, trained to be deadly.

But I'm not afraid of him.

I scoff. "Yes, daddy," I mock, throwing him a two-finger salute.

"Good girl," he whispers.

He offers a smirk that sends a flush through my chest. Then he pats my head.

Fucking. Pats. My. Head.

That smirk becomes an afterthought, and I just about want to rip his nuts off and shove them into his stupid, condescending mouth.

Thirteen days. Only thirteen more days. And then the real fun begins. My shitty arranged marriage to Antonio Vendetti.