the men prowling downstairs will get to do anything beyond look at her. Even the thought of their eyes on her makes my stomach curdle. Fuck those men. They can stay far away, floors away, and keep their hands to themselves.
Until I’m ready to sell her off. To rid myself of her. To shake her off like an old jacket and leave her in the past, where she belongs.
Until that moment, she’s mine.
3
Zeus
The air is on fire. I swear, that’s the only explanation for the heat in my lungs. She’s superheated the air, making all the oxygen ignite. I resist the urge to tug at the collar of my shirt, to strip it off and drop it to the floor. The expensive fabric might as well be sandpaper. I want it off my skin. But I’m in control here, not my fucking shirt, and certainly not this girl.
Who I want.
Who I’ve already decided to take.
But pinning her to the carpet and fucking her now would be too hasty. It would ruin the process of breaking her, of making her into something that will always wear my mark.
“Well?” She still won’t look at me. “Is that enough?”
“Fuck, no.” Her head snaps back around, her eyes wide, and for the first time, I see real fear there. She rubs the pad of one thumb over the knuckle of her index finger. It’s her only other tell. Such a small thing. What would she do if I put that finger in my mouth? “You’re not going to pass inspection if you don’t kiss me to my satisfaction. None of that virgin bullshit.”
She blushes a deeper pink and squares her shoulders.
I’ve made women fall apart for less than this, and I’m half-hoping she does; I’d like to see her break down, right here. There’s something intoxicating about real, terrified begging.
There was a time in my life when I thought I might become a man who didn’t want to see women like that, but it was only a pipe dream. I grew up in my father’s house, after all.
That fucking house.
It follows me everywhere. It’s a wonder people can’t see it right away, but then—I’ve spent a long time becoming something more interesting to look at than a fucking house.
“Okay.” The golden-haired girl nods to herself like she’s preparing to jump into cold water, and I could laugh. Fuck, I could laugh all night. But it’s deadly serious all the same. She takes a tiny step back, and I get another look at the sweep of lace across her hips and the decorative rose at the front of her bra. All of it would be better in shreds on the floor. “I’m not naïve.” The fuck she’s not, but she makes a show of it anyway, flicking her hair back behind her shoulders. “I know what to do. I know what you want.”
I’m prepared for her to throw herself at me so that I have to catch her. People this openly nervous often overreact, and because she’s nearly naked, I can see her muscles tensing. Either she’ll sprint for the door or she’ll rush me, and then I’ll get the pleasure of discovering exactly how weak she is. They are all weak, even the ones who try to be strong.
In the end, they’re all the same.
She’s not the same, but I don’t want to believe it. Not yet.
And then her movement begins. It’s only tentative for a split second, and then she’s waded all the way in. She’s committed.
She starts to get down on her knees instead.
I have my hand in her hair before her kneecaps make contact with the floor, yanking her upright, her hands flying to cover mine. She has small hands, and she’s powerless, so fucking powerless that my cock gets ahead of my brain and strains against the front of my pants.
A nervous gasp, a whimper, and I release her, but I don’t give her an inch. Not a fucking inch. Not today. Not with my blood molten and shredding my veins.
I would like to hurt her for a hundred years.
I should get a fucking prize for my restraint in this moment. A mirror on the back wall reflects the image of us—her slim shoulders and my own face. That won’t do. I pull it back, put on the expression I wear to all my parties, and catch my breath.
“Not like that,” I tell her, and even I am shocked to hear that I haven’t given the monstrous side of me