Page 25 of The Cruel Heir
I stalked into the bathroom and gripped the sink. My reflection stared back, flushed, furious.
I put the cleaner away. Next time, I wouldn’t be so careless. Because therewouldbe a next time. She wasn’t going to run.
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Boss?” Frankie answered.
“I want her locked down. No job. No home. No options. She belongs to me.”
“Understood.”
“And my mother?”
“She wants you back at the mansion.”
I smirked.
“Good.”
I called Paul next.
“How hard would it be to ban birth control in Saint Bipal?”
He laughed. “Hard. But doable.”
“She’ll thank me later.”
I hung up, adjusted my cufflinks, and stepped into the hallway. A mirrored elevator waited. My reflection stared back; sharp, well-fed, untouchable. I’d handled her. Now it was time to handle them.
I climbed into my Spyder and sped off.
The board had summoned me. Someone wanted to play power games.
Let them try.
I had business to handle.
But once it was done?
I’d go home to her.
And I’d make sure the only name she remembered was mine.
The suite I’d brought her to had been designed with her in mind. Everything was deliberate; drapes drawn tight, dim lighting, a mattress firm enough to brace impact, and silk sheets cool against skin. There was no clutter. No distractions. Nothing to focus on but me.
I’d had the thermostat turned down slightly before she arrived. Cold enough that her nipples would peak through any fabric. A psychological trick, but effective. Her body would betray her before her lips ever did.
And God, her body.
Every inch of Zara Johnston was crafted to ruin men.
Rich brown skin that swallowed the light, absorbing it like a midnight storm. Wide hips. Strong legs. Breasts that defied gravity. Dark nipples, that stood prominently in the air, every time I touched her. She looked like she was carved out of want. And her fear only sharpened it.
I told myself I wanted to own her. But that was a lie. I wanted her to choose me. Freely. Even knowing the monster I’d become.
I traced every inch of her with my eyes, before I ever laid a hand on her. I wanted her to feel that. To know that being seen by me was its own kind of violation.
She didn’t understand that I’d created a religion around her. That this wasn’t lust. It was devotion.
