about. It’s about extracting what she knows about Westwood, biding more time, and then using her to my advantage as I take even more from her father. The poor girl will fall in love and beg for favor. That’s how this sort of thing goes, right? I’ve seen it enough with my father whom had a soft spot for women. I imagine she’ll think she can change the villain into a broken hero.
Oh, how wrong she will be.
My eyes skim over her appearance. Everything about her screams delicate princess locked away in her daddy’s tower. Her floral-print dress is demure in style, though her position on the floor has the material riding up her pale thighs in a tempting way. She wears pink Converse tennis shoes that don’t go with a dress, but I suppose for a teenager it may be the style. The girl doesn’t wear any jewelry, her face is makeup free, and she doesn’t wear nail polish. Such a far cry from the women I usually invite into my bed.
“Happy birthday, Tesoro.” Treasure. Because, after all, that’s exactly what she is. The proverbial X that marks the spot where I begin my ruthless dig until I uncover every Westwood dime that belongs to my family, plus interest.
“You,” she croaks out, making no move to sit up.
I can smell her fear from here—a salty sweat that makes my tongue water for a taste. The vehicle bounces and I lift my gaze to glance out the window. Almost home. Where Westwood lives in extravagance on sprawling acreage meant to impress everyone in this city, I live in exclusion where I can plot my deviant plans without interruption.
The trees whiz by us in a blur as we make our way down my bumpy road. Deep in the thicket is a fully restored Victorian era home. When I’d purchased it after Dad’s death, it’d been nothing but a dilapidated old house. Now, it is fit for a dark prince turned king.
“We’re home,” I tell the girl who’s only hours into adulthood. “You will walk inside like a good girl or I will have Roscoe carry you. The choice is yours.”
“My head hurts,” she mutters as she tries to sit up. “He hit me.”
I tense up, my gaze darting to the rearview mirror. Roscoe’s are already there, his eyes burning with fire.
“She bit me,” he clips out. “You said to subdue her by any means necessary.”
I lean forward in my seat and reach down to brush the hair away from her face. She flinches at my touch. “Don’t bite me,” I rumble, my voice deceptively calm. “I wouldn’t want to have to punish you.”
Her eyes—a fierce jade green—widen comically at my words. The girl probably never saw a day of punishment in her entire life. My father used a belt to drive his point home when I was a boy and then graduated into more psychological means the older I got. Though I hated it at the time, I admit it was effective, because it made me who I am today.
It makes me wonder how compliant I could make this young thing simply by bending her over my knee, shoving her girly dress up over her tiny ass, and smacking her pale flesh until it turns crimson. My cock thickens uncomfortably in my slacks. As much as I’d enjoy playing into my fantasies, I won’t. I have a purpose in this life: continue Dad’s work and create a legacy he’d be proud of. I’ve never let my dick drive me in the past and I certainly won’t start now.
Roscoe stops in front of my home, shutting off the vehicle. Hyde climbs out and opens the door for me. I nudge Melody with my foot.
“Get up,” I instruct.
She sits up, seemingly woozy, and clutches onto my knee. Her touch singes me, shooting fire straight to my heavy balls and aching cock. Slowly, she rises up. With unsure steps, she makes it out of the Denali and rubs at her head.
I catch the quick, clear glint in her eyes as she scans the property. Her head doesn’t hurt as bad as she says. She’s faking it. Fuck, she’s going to run.
Before I can open my mouth to warn her not to, the girl takes off in a sprint. Hyde isn’t even looking at her, which means I’m forced to flee from the vehicle, stalking her at top speed. Heavy footsteps thud behind me, but I have a head start on my men.
“Stop!” I bark