His lips curved into that dangerous smirk, the one that made my stomach flip.

He kneeled in front of me, slid his fingers down between my legs, and pressed two inside me deep.

My eyes damn near rolled back.

He leaned close, nose brushin’ mine, and whispered against my lips, “This pussy mine. Say it, baby.”

“It’s yours,” I breathed, clenchin’ ‘round his fingers.

He slid ‘em out, held ‘em up to my mouth, and I opened willingly. Sucked him clean while he moaned again.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered.

I was spiralin’. Mind blank. Heart shatterin’. But still, I needed more of him.

Then he stood.

Turned toward my husband.

The same one who’d been cryin’, twistin’ in that chair, beggin’ with his eyes.

Fontaine reached behind him.

Pulled out a gun.

The click echoed.

The air shifted.

He walked up real slow and cut the rope around his wrists. My husband shot up, eyes wide, shakin’. I stood frozen.

Fontaine just looked at him cold.

“Leave.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he reached for me—outta instinct, like I was still his to protect.

Fontaine stepped between us fast, that gun raisin’ to his face without hesitation.

“I wouldn’t,” he said calm. Too calm. “Touch her again and I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

My husband’s hands went up. “A-alright… alright…”

“Good. Walk, nigga.”

He did.

Out that room, stumblin’, humiliated and broken.

Fontaine turned back to me. Calm. Smirkin’.

But that craziness was still in his eyes.

“You okay, baby?” His eyes held some type of gentleness.

I nodded, “Fine.”

9