Page 53 of Candy Cane Chains

"Don't you dare," I snarl. What Julian and I do is none of his business.

My words seem to enrage him more. Travis's fingers bite into my arm like dull, clumsy hooks. His grip lacks finesse—all brute force and desperate anger. Wrong. Everything about his touch feels wrong now.

My skin crawls where his sweaty palm meets my flesh. There's no electricity. No spark. Just revulsion and a bone-deep certainty that these aren't the hands I want on my body.

I crave Julian's touch instead. The way his long fingers wrap around my wrist with calculated pressure. How he knows exactly where to squeeze to make my pulse race, to draw that gasp from my lips. His grip speaks of ownership, yes, but also protection.

Even when his fingers leave marks, even when he pushes me to my limits, I never doubt my safety. He takes from me what is his, and I let him. Because I want him.

But I don't fucking want Travis near me.

Travis yanks me closer, and I almost gag at the wrongness. Where Julian's possessiveness makes me feel claimed, cherished, Travis's just feels cheap. Dirty. Like being pawed at by a stranger.

"You're hurting me." My voice comes out flat.

"Good." Travis's fingers dig deeper. "Maybe that'll knock some sense into you."

But it's not the right kind of hurt. Not the delicious ache Julian leaves behind. Not the bruises I press my fingers against the next day, smiling at the memory of how I earned them. This is just pain without purpose, without pleasure, without trust.

I miss the weight of Julian's body caging me against walls, his breath hot on my neck as he whispers filthy promises. The way he'll pin both my wrists in one hand, the other mapping my curves like he owns every inch.

Because he does. Because I've given myself to him, piece by piece, knowing he'll keep me safe even as he takes me apart.

Travis's fingers tightens around me as he starts to drag me away from the wall. My boots scrape against concrete, catching on loose gravel. Each step feels like moving through quicksand.

"Get in the car, Ivy. I'm taking you home where you belong." He fumbles with his keys, missing the lock twice before jamming them in. "Need to fix whatever he's done to you. Get my sweet girl back."

My sweet girl. The words hit like a slap. That's all I ever was to him - his perfect, proper doll. Someone to dress up, show off at parties, then put back on the shelf until he needed me again.

"I was never yours." The truth burns my throat. "You didn't want me. You wanted the idea of me. The perfect girlfriend who never complained, never asked for more." Who didn't care what he did or who he did it with. We were never in a relationship. I was a fucking image for him to maintain and I didn't even see it.

He yanks the passenger door open. "Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Three years together and you never once asked what I wanted." My voice rises. "What I dreamed about. What made me happy."

"Because you were happy!" He shoves me toward the open door. "Until that bastard got in your head."

But Julian didn't get in my head. He saw what was already there. Where Travis wanted me small and manageable, Julian lets me be me. He wants every ounce I have to give, and he has always cherished all of it.

Julian's darkness doesn't diminish me. It makes space for my own. His control doesn't cage me - it frees me to explore edges I never knew I had. When he commands, it's because he knows what I need better than I do. When he possesses, it's because I've given myself freely, knowing he'll treasure what I offer.

Travis's hands on me feel like shackles. Julian's feel like wings.

"You're right about one thing." I plant my feet. "I'm not the same girl anymore. I'm not your toy to play with. Your doll to pose. Your trophy to polish." I twist my wrist just like Julian taught me, breaking Travis's grip. "So don't fucking touch me."

His face contorts. "Since when do you know how to?—"

I slam my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he blocks it. My heel catches his shin instead. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Fucking bitch!" He grabs my hair, yanking my head back. The pain shoots down my spine.

I drive my elbow into his solar plexus—another of Julian's lessons—but Travis's bulk absorbs the blow. He outweighs me by a hundred pounds, and the cocaine seems to dull his pain receptors.

"Stop fighting me!" He shoves me against the car door. My head cracks against the frame.

The world spins. Through the haze, I see the leather interior of his Mercedes. That familiar new-car smell mixed with his cologne makes my stomach turn.

He forces me into the passenger seat. My dress rides up as I struggle, but he's already clicking the seatbelt, trapping my arms. The child lock engages with a sharp click.

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