Her presence hit me like a gunshot to the skull—sudden, deafening, and fucking enraging.
Iris stiffened beneath me, her soft gasps barely reaching my ears over the blood roaring in my veins.
She curled inward instinctively, her small hands pressing against my chest in a feeble attempt to push me away.
I could feel her pulse hammering against my fingers where they rested on her hips—rapid, terrified, fragile.
My grip remained firm, but not crushing.
I stayed still, fingers splayed over her delicate skin, watching as she curled her toes and fisted the sheets so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
And then, I saw her.
Athena.
The sheer disgust on her face made something primal ignite inside me.
Fucking bitch.
She thinks this is funny?
Rage coiled inside me like a viper, a sharp, seething thing slithering through my bloodstream.
I was on my feet before my mind fully registered the movement, my hand clamping around Athena’s arm.
Her fear flickered—just for a second—before I yanked her out of my fucking room.
“You don’t belong in this room,” I growled, shoving her past the threshold.
She staggered, regaining her balance quickly, but before she could open her mouth, I slammed the door in her face.
Loud. Final. Done.
My jaw clenched, my body vibrating with the barely contained urge to break something.
I had been too lost in her. Too lost in Mini.
I hadn’t heard the door creak open. I hadn’t sensed someone watching.
Fucking reckless.
A shaky inhale from behind me pulled me back.
I turned.
Iris was pressed against the headboard, her body coiled tight with fear.
The frock that had once hung loosely off her shoulders now barely clung to her hips, leaving her more exposed than she probably realized.
She clutched the fabric to her chest, her fingers digging into the material.
A breath left me, slow and controlled, even as frustration gnawed at my insides.
I moved forward carefully, lowering myself onto the bed.
She flinched hard when I reached for the blindfold, but she didn’t stop me.
I removed it gently, watching as her lashes fluttered, her unfocused gaze struggling to adjust to the dim lighting.
She blinked once, twice. Then her eyes locked onto mine, filled with something raw and unsure.
Fuck.
“W-Who was—” she started, voice barely above a whisper.
I pressed a finger against her trembling lips. Soft. Warm.
“Shh… it was no one,” I murmured, my voice dipping into something lower, calmer.
My fingers found the loose strands of her braid, I tucked them back into place, smoothing them down like she was something delicate, something precious.
“Sleep, Bambi,” I whispered, pressing a kiss against her cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than I should have.
She hesitated for a moment, then quickly pulled her dress back up, covering herself.
The fear still lingered in her gaze, and it sent another wave of anger through me
I stood, my anger resurfacing.
Athena. I needed to deal with her.
I turned toward the door, my body rigid, my fists clenching.
But then—
“Ace.”
I froze.
Not because of my name. Not because of the sound of it.
But because of her voice.
Soft. Hesitant. Warm.
Why was it warm?
Something pulled at my insides, tightening, twisting.
Slowly, I turned back to her.
She was staring at me—not with fear, not with hesitation, but with something else.
Something I couldn’t place, something I couldn’t fucking handle.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she glanced to the left side of the bed before looking back at me.
“…You’re not s-sleeping?”
The innocence of the question nearly fucking ruined me.
My heartbeat picked up, an unfamiliar warmth crawling through my chest.
I swallowed hard, my fingers flexing at my sides.
"Sleep." My voice came out lower than intended. “You want to sleep with me.”
I moved toward her, slow and deliberate, savoring the way she fidgeted beneath my gaze.
She didn’t shrink away, didn’t retreat.
Instead, she just looked up at me, uncertain but open.
I hovered over her lazily, my presence casting a shadow over her small frame.
As I got face-to-face with her, I pressed my lips against her jaw, her neck, the corner of her lips—soft, teasing.
She closed her eyes as if I were lulling her into a trance, like a child soothed to sleep.
A soft chuckle escaped me as I let my weight settle onto her chest, my head resting right over her heartbeat.
It pounded against my ear, a wild, delicate rhythm.
“I thought you didn’t like to sleep with me,” I muttered, my lips brushing against her throat.
“You l-look so tired,” she whispered.
The simplicity of her words disarmed me.
I had expected her to shy away, to blush furiously, maybe even refuse.
But instead, she met me with concern— genuine, real concern.
For me.
I pulled back slightly, staring down at her with something close to bewilderment.
Why is she so nice? To me?
My chest ached in a way I didn’t fucking understand.
Instead of answering, I kissed her cheek and settled beside her, pulling her flush against me.
Her warmth seeped into my skin, her scent wrapping around me like a vice.
“Goodnight, Bambi,” I murmured.
She didn’t reply, but her fingers curled slightly against my chest, and for the first time in a long, long time, I let myself fall asleep without a fight.
Seducing.
The sight was fucking seducing.
Iris, dressed in the simple black dress I had chosen for her this morning, moved gracefully around the kitchen.
The dress— modest by any other standard— hugged her waist just right, accentuating the dip of her back, the delicate curve of her collarbones.
It was knee-length, with half-sleeves and a floral pattern, but the way it fit her made my throat dry.
After that night, something shifted in me.
I needed her cooking now, not just because of the food, but because I wanted to watch her, wanted to see her.
I sat at the dining table, phone in hand, but my eyes never left her.
Every movement was a fucking symphony.
The gentle sway of her hips when she reached for ingredients.
The slight jiggle of her chest when she shook the pan with too much force.
The way she bent down to fetch utensils, her braid falling over her shoulder, little strands framing her golden-brown eyes and plush lips.
It was a sight no man should be subjected to this early in the morning.
She had woken up at 4 a.m. with me, shaken from some ridiculous nightmare about a giant bubblegum chasing her.
Silly girl.
She had been panting, disoriented, her small hands gripping my arm like it was her lifeline.
And I had—fuck—I had calmed her down.
Pulled her onto my lap. Let her rest her head on my shoulder.
She had fallen back asleep on me.
And I had let her.
God, I loved it.
"Good morning."
Hudson's voice was an unwelcome break in the trance I had fallen into.
I hummed in response, not looking at him, my gaze still locked onto her.
I was still staring when I caught movement in my periphery— Hudson.
His gaze followed mine, and I saw the slight widening of his eyes, the quick flicker of realization. My shoulders tensed.
Stay in your fucking lane.
The dining hall slowly filled up as the rest of the bastards filed in, each one groggy and rubbing the last traces of sleep from their eyes.
But one person was missing.
Athena.
"Fuck."
The groan came from behind me. I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Leo.
He strolled in, moving with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been punched hard enough to change his personality.
The smirk was already on his face before he even reached the table.
“Man, if this is what mornings look like, I should wake up early more often.”
Hudson rolled his eyes. "Leo, you say that every time, and yet you're always the last one to show up."
Leo shrugged, stretching his arms above his head. “Not my fault the bed is so damn comfortable.”
Aiden snorted. “I thought it was because you keep sneaking out at night. What was it last time? Some redhead?”
Leo just grinned, unbothered, but I tuned them out. Their voices were just background noise.
She was the only thing I focused on.
The aroma of freshly cooked food filled the air as the maids helped her place the final dishes before us.
My stomach clenched, not in hunger, but in anticipation.
"Did you cook all this?"
Alex’s voice carried a mix of surprise and admiration, his wide eyes sweeping over the spread of food.
Iris nodded shyly, her hands gripping the hem of her dress.
“Melinda also helped me,” she murmured, her cheeks dusted pink.
"Oh, please, I just washed the vegetables," Melinda laughed, waving off the credit.
Melinda. One of the few I tolerated in this house.
She was easygoing, funny, and generally well-liked.
But she feared me. Like everyone else.
Well… everyone except my Mini.
Just kidding.
Probably.
"That's pretty good," Aiden said, licking his fingers, his face lighting up like a child who had just tasted sugar for the first time.
Hudson scowled in disgust. “Really? What are you, five years old? Still putting your fingers in the food to taste it?”
Aiden shrugged nonchalantly. “Come on, we’re about to eat. What’s the problem?”
And then—her giggle.
It was soft. Unintentional.
Like she was trying to hold it in but failed miserably.
A light sound, airy and warm.
Something curled in my chest. A strange kind of satisfaction. How pretty.
Liam, ever the fucking gentleman, set his phone down, turning his full attention to her. “So, what dishes did you make today?”
Iris perked up slightly.
“Um… Vegetable fried rice, pasta, egg fried rice, toast and eggs, urad dal vada—also known as black lentil cutlets.” She used her hands while she spoke, making little shapes in the air as if that would somehow make them understand.
I fought back a smirk. So expressive.
“Sounds great,” Aiden said, reaching for one of the vadas. The moment he took a bite, his eyes shut in bliss.
“Oh my God,” he muttered.
"Can we eat now instead of asking questions?" Leo groaned, clearly losing patience.
I sat back, watching. Observing.
Iris moved from one plate to the next, serving them with that quiet joy in her eyes.
She wanted to do it. Loved doing it. She was happy.
I should’ve been content watching.
I wasn’t.
Something twisted inside me as I watched her hand his plate, then his, then his.
I wanted to snatch the plates from her hands.
Wanted to pull her onto my lap and remind her who she belonged to.
That these men had no fucking right to be in the same room as her, let alone eating food she made with her delicate hands.
Instead, I did nothing.
I let her move. Let her smile. Let her be her.
For now.
I picked up my fork, taking a bite. The moment the flavors hit my tongue, something in me stilled.
Perfectly seasoned. Each grain of rice is soft but firm.
The pasta, rich and creamy.
The vada—crispy on the outside, warm and soft inside, with the perfect balance of spice.
__________________________________________
"Acey."
Athena's voice cut through my thoughts like nails against glass, grating and unwelcome.
I didn't look up immediately. I exhaled through my nose, reining in my irritation as I stuffed my phone inside my pocket.
I caught a glimpse of Liam rolling his eyes before he left the room, clearly uninterested in whatever the fuck Athena wanted.
Smart man.
I finally turned and lifted my gaze to hers.
Her eyes burned with anger.
Good.
Then, before she could take another breath, my hand struck her face with a force that echoed through the room.
Her head snapped to the side, a choked gasp leaving her lips.
I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed her by the throat, my fingers pressing into her soft skin, tilting her chin up so I could see the exact moment fear crept into her eyes.
She whimpered, her nails clawing at my wrist, her body jerking as she tried to free herself.
Pathetic.
"Next time, think before you do something," I growled, my voice laced with restrained fury.
Her face turned a deep shade of red, and her shallow, ragged breathing filled the silence.
I felt her pulse beneath my fingertips, erratic and fragile.
One squeeze, just a little more pressure, and—
Her body gave out.
She crumpled to the ground, gasping and coughing, clutching her throat with trembling hands.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, wide and wet, reflecting something between hatred and devastation.
She wouldn't dare speak again. Not right now.
But someone else was watching.
I turned my head slightly, my gaze meeting a pair of warm brown eyes.
Iris stood by the couch, her expression unreadable.
No fear. No judgment. Just quiet observation.
That did something to me.
"Come here," I said, my voice softer now, coaxing.
She hesitated only for a second before stepping forward, her fingers fisting the fabric of her frock.
So obedient.
When she reached me, I pressed a kiss to her forehead, my hands settling possessively around her waist.
I could feel the way her hands clutched at my waist, her fingers gripping me like an anchor, like she wanted my touch, even if she didn’t understand why.
"It's okay, Mini," I murmured, my lips grazing her cheek. "Go... Take care and be safe."
She left without looking back.
Not because she was scared.
But because she understood.
She knew why Athena had been punished.
Maybe she hadn’t expected how—maybe she hadn’t realized just how easily I could break someone—but she knew.
And she hadn’t flinched.
That... did something to me too.
Athena was still on the ground, staring up at me, her tears falling freely now.
"Why!" Her voice tore through the room like a storm, a sharp, desperate thing.
I raised my eyebrows, the corners of my mouth turning down in a cold, indifferent smirk.
"What's so special about her? Why am I even here when you don't care about my existence?"
I gave her a slow, disinterested look. "Then leave."
Her breath hitched, and I could see the moment my words sliced through whatever delusions she had been holding onto.
She was still waiting—waiting for me to contradict myself, to tell her she was important, that she mattered.
She didn’t.
"Athena, you're just a fuck," I stated, my voice cold and final. "I told you that from the very beginning. Don't blame me."
Her lip trembled, her nails digging into her palms as she sat frozen, absorbing the weight of my words.
She had always been a strong woman— intelligent, confident, and capable. But that didn’t make her irreplaceable.
"Ace," she hissed, her voice shaking with fury and humiliation. "You can't just treat me like this."
"Watch me. If you can't handle it, then you're free to walk out that door."
Her breath came out in a harsh, shuddering exhale. Her face was twisted with rage, her pride shattered at my feet.
"You're a bastard."
I smirked. "Maybe. But at least I'm honest."
I turned my back on her, not sparing her another glance as I left the room.
I could feel her eyes burning into my spine. The weight of her hatred. The ache of her bruised ego.
It didn’t matter.
She would leave. Or she would stay and suffer.
Either way, she had no power over me.
The only thing that did have power over me was the one thing I couldn’t have.
Iris.
And that was the most frustrating part of it all.
My nights had been fucking ruined, my body wound so tight I could barely think straight.
All because of her.
Because I wanted her.
Because I had let her get to me.
And now, I was left with this unbearable, maddening frustration—one I couldn’t just fuck away.
Not easily. Not with her.
.
.
.
.
.
.
By the time I arrived at the mansion, it was already past eleven.
The day had been relentless— meetings, negotiations, and the constant undercurrent of tension that never seemed to leave my fucking bones.
But none of that compared to what greeted me the moment I stepped inside.
Hudson.
Sitting in the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight.
His expression unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to put me on edge.
"Thankfully, you're alive," he murmured, voice low and gruff.
I didn't bother responding beyond a simple hum. I had no patience for whatever the fuck he was about to start.
My feet carried me past him, my mind already somewhere else—somewhere warmer, softer.
But then—
"Ace."
His voice, sharp and clipped, made me stop in my tracks.
I turned my head slightly, catching the way his cold gaze burned into me.
Something about his tone made my stomach coil.
"Do you like her?"
I rolled my eyes. What kind of question was that?
"Yes," I answered simply, not bothering to elaborate.
Hudson didn't blink. He didn’t nod.
He just stared, dissecting me with those fucking calculating eyes of his.
"Do you love her?" he asked, his voice like a blade against my spine.
My jaw tensed.
"No."
The word left my mouth before I could think, smooth and controlled.
Hudson let out a slow, measured breath, shaking his head slightly, like I had just confirmed something for him.
Like he knew.
"Then leave her."
A smirk tugged at my lips, but there was no humor in it.
So that’s what this was about.
Hudson had always been protective, always had opinions about what was best for me.
But this? This was something else.
"No," I muttered icily, the finality in my voice leaving no room for argument.
But of course, he fucking argued.
"Why!" His voice sharpened with frustration. "Let's be real here, Ace—she's not the prettiest girl in the world. You can have better girls than her—more mature, more beautiful, more experienced."
My fists clenched.
Tightly. Painfully.
How fucking dare he?
How dare he reduce her to that?
To some ranking, some shallow comparison?
Like she was an option on a fucking menu?
I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, my vision tunneling slightly as my knuckles burned with the effort it took not to put my fist through his face.
"Bye," I gritted out, each syllable dipped in the barely controlled fury thrumming inside me.
I turned on my heel, walking away before I did something I'd regret.
But his words stayed.
They stayed and festered.
Because he didn’t get it. None of them fucking got it.
It wasn’t about her being the prettiest.
It wasn’t about experience or maturity or whatever the fuck they thought mattered.
It was her.
Her whole existence was my problem.
And I had no fucking idea how to solve it.
The moment I stepped into the room, a deep sigh slipped from my lips, tension uncoiling slightly from my shoulders.
She was here.
That knowledge settled something inside me— something restless and violent that always seemed to quiet in her presence.
The soft glow of the room cast a golden hue over her, stretched out on the couch, small and peaceful.
Her lips were parted slightly, the slow rise and fall of her chest in sync with the steady rhythm of her breath.
I crouched down beside her, my movements slow, careful. My fingers brushed over her cheek, tracing the warmth, the softness.
She stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.
Leaning closer, I pressed a kiss against the first of the six tiny moles dotting her face.
Then another. And another.
Each one unique.
Each one mine.
Pretty girl.
Then—
What if I slit her pretty throat?
The thought struck sharp and sudden, slipping into my mind like an old habit.
I could see it so clearly— the slow drag of a blade over her delicate skin, the red pooling, spreading, soaking into the couch beneath her.
Her big, brown eyes locked on mine, wide, desperate. Her lips trembling as she gasped her last breath.
I would hold her close, let her go limp against my chest.
Let her become nothing.
And yet—
The thought passed as quickly as it came, dissolving into something else entirely.
Because the truth was, I couldn’t.
Not because I wasn’t capable.
Because I was.
But because it was her.
She had fucked up my mind.
Twisted something in me so completely that the idea of her blood spilling for any reason other than my pleasure made my stomach tighten in something dangerously close to– Nevermind.
I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down my face before forcing myself to stand.
I needed a reset.
The cold water in the bathroom helped—cooling my skin, grounding me back to reality.
By the time I stepped out, clad only in my boxer, my pulse had steadied, my control falling back into place.
I crossed the room in a few strides, reaching for her.
She barely stirred as I lifted her into my arms, her body warm and pliant against mine.
I eased her onto the bed with deliberate care, watching the way she instinctively curled in on herself, her body seeking warmth.
I gave it to her.
Sliding in behind her, I wrapped my arms around her, pressing my chest against her back, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my touch.
She gave a soft whine in her sleep, shifting slightly.
Then—
She rolled over, pressing into me, her body now facing mine.
The scent of her, warm and familiar, curled around me, filling my lungs.
She was wearing my shirt.
The same one I’d given her the second time she walked into my life.
The same one that should’ve meant something to her.
I don’t think she understood what it meant— what it did to a man to see a woman wrapped in his clothes, sleeping in his room, looking so fucking adorable.
A troubled expression crossed her face as she mumbled incoherent words in her sleep.
The fabric had slid down slightly, tightening against her chest.
Her brows furrowed in sleep, her lips parting as she mumbled something incoherent.
I exhaled, my fingers toying with the hem of the shirt.
I think the shirt is the problem.
Causing her discomfort.
I could fix that.
The moment I pulled her dress down, exposing the delicate swell of her chest, something in me settled— yet something else tightened, coiled like a spring wound too tight.
The marks I had left on her earlier still lingered, faint but visible, like echoes of a claim I hadn't even fully understood myself.
I hovered over her, my breath warm against her skin, watching the way her chest rose and fell in steady, unguarded rhythms.
So trusting. So vulnerable.
Did she have any idea what I wanted to do to her?
I dipped my head and pressed my lips against the sensitive skin of her neck, sucking softly, teasingly.
My hands roamed over her, palms ghosting over her faint curves, reacquainting themselves with every inch of her body.
She stirred at my touch, a soft sound slipping from her lips—a quiet mewl, warm and sweet.
"Mini." My voice was low, lazy with satisfaction as I murmured against her skin.
She sighed in response, her small hands instinctively gripping my shoulder, her fingers pressing lightly against my bare skin.
Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, fluttered open, unfocused, hazy.
Hell gracious, she was beautiful like this.
Disarmed. Pliable.
"Miss me?" I whispered, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear.
Her gaze drifted over me, slow and sleepy, catching on my tattoos.
She was barely processing the moment, her mind still fogged by exhaustion, and yet I could see it—that tiny hint of a smile threatening to curl at the edges of her lips.
Without thinking, I flipped us over, pulling her onto my lap, the movement effortless.
Her body melted against mine, fitting perfectly.
Her shirt was in the way. My shirt.
I peeled it off her with deliberate slowness, letting my fingers graze along her skin as I pulled it over her head, leaving in her slip on bra.
The air between us thickened, charged. I grasped her hips, guiding her closer, feeling the heat of her against me.
She took a slow breath—long, deep. Then another.
And then she relaxed.
I could feel the restraint in my body, the way my muscles tensed, coiled tight with barely leashed control.
She was greedy for warmth.
"Sweet girl," I murmured, my voice thick with something deeper than affection—something darker.
I leaned in, eyes locked on her lips.
They were parted just enough, soft, inviting. It would be so easy to take her mouth, to finally feel her surrender there, too.
But—
She turned her head at the last second, squinting up at me with tired, unfocused eyes.
I froze.
Then, a slow, dangerous smirk curved my lips.
So that's where she draws the line.
I had seen her bare, touched her, owned her in ways she probably hadn’t even processed yet.
And yet—this was what she wouldn’t give me.
It was ridiculous.
Adorable.
Frustrating.
I swallowed down the sharp edge of something I couldn't quite name and let my fingers tangle in her hair instead, gently stroking through the soft strands.
Her gaze softened as she met my eyes again, and this time, she smiled—small, drowsy.
I nearly sighed at the sight.
For a while, we just sat like that, silence stretching between us, warm and weighty.
I could feel the slight tremble of her breath as she relaxed further, her fingers moving idly to play with my chains.
She did that often, I realized.
Like she liked touching something that was mine.
I should have teased her for it, but instead, I just let her.
"Sleep," I finally muttered, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.
My lips lingered there, savoring the softness of her skin, the warmth radiating from her.
She yawned loudly, her voice thick with sleep. "You're… not sleeping."
I hummed in response, not answering.
I was too wired, too restless, my mind tangled in thoughts I didn’t want to examine too closely.
She just hummed in contentment and let her head drop onto my shoulder, arms going limp around my neck.
The weight of her. The trust in it.
It fucked with my head.
She had no clue how dangerous it was to let herself go so easily in my arms.
How dangerous I was.
After some moments, I pulled her closer.
Tighter.
Her head began to slide down my shoulder, her breathing deepening, body completely relaxed.
A quiet chuckle escaped me.
Carefully, I laid her down, making sure she was comfortable before slipping in beside her.
I pulled the blankets over us, the warmth settling in around me, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts.
She sighed in her sleep, pressing closer.
I didn't know what I was going to do with her.
Mature
Her whimpers, soft yet urgent, threaded through the air, weaving into the rhythm of my breath— ragged, deep, and controlled only by sheer will.
The first light of dawn bled through the curtains, painting her skin in soft gold.
She lay beneath me, panting and blindfolded, her wrists tied to the headboard in delicate but unyielding restraint.
Completely at my mercy.
She was stunning like this—flushed, helpless, chest rising and falling with each uneven breath.
Every inch of her bared for me, waiting. Trusting.
She lay there, her legs spread wide and her breasts moving rhythmically, her hands bound to the bedpost, toes curled tightly.
The sheets rustled beneath us, the only sound aside from our panting, ragged breath.
She was trying to steady herself, trying to regulate the frantic little gasps that slipped from her lips.
But her body—her trembling, desperate body—betrayed her.
The clock read 6 AM.
And here I was, humping into my sleepy little bambi, taking from her even as she drifted on the edge of dreams.
Her thighs clenched around me, small feet pressing against my calves as if trying to ground herself.
A needy little whimper tore from her throat—a plea, a protest, a prayer.
"Shh... It's okay, Mini... Breathe." My voice came out softer than I expected, rasping against her ear like a secret.
I grazed my tongue against her throat, tasting the thin layer of sweat that had gathered there.
She gasped, her pulse hammering wildly beneath my mouth.
Her hands twitched against the restraints, as if she wanted to reach for me, as if she needed to touch me.
I licked my lips, deep breaths leaving my lips.
She didn’t even know.
She didn’t know how close she was to being completely fucking ruined.
She was squirming beneath me, her body desperate for more friction, more contact, but she wouldn’t get it unless I gave it to her.
That was the difference between us.
She was all instinct, all messy need.
And I was calculated. Methodical.
Slowly, I sat back on my knees, just to watch her.
She was flushed, breasts rising and falling unevenly, her lips swollen from where she had bitten down on them to stifle her voice– voices which made her burn in shame.
My gaze drifted lower.
She was soaked.
And not just aroused— not just the kind of dampness that signaled readiness.
No, this was excessive. This was too much.
This was her body begging, pleading, crying out for something to fill the unbearable void inside her.
My hands skated down her waist, gripping her hips as I adjusted our position, mindful of her tied wrists.
And then, I moved again.
A slow, deliberate grind, letting her feel everything— the friction, the heat, the unbearable pleasure that neither of us could escape.
Her slickness coated me, each motion dragging a fresh, delicious shiver from her spine.
Leaning in, I captured one of her nipples between my lips, the sudden surge of pleasure making her gasp in a high-pitched cry that pierced the air.
Her loud mewls filled the dimly lit room, raw and broken, the echoes clinging to the heavy morning air.
She was unraveling.
Her body knew these sensations, accepted them, but her mind?
Her mind was still so fucking naïve.
And that thrilled me.
Because I could mold her. Shape her. Make her mine in a way no one else could.
I forced myself to pause, just for a moment.
To let her catch her breath. To let her feel the emptiness I’d left behind.
She didn’t even know how fucking good I was being to her.
I inhaled sharply, letting my gaze sweep over the sight before me.
She was a vision.
Her skin glowed under the dim light, a sheen of sweat glistening across her soft curves. Her cheeks flushed pink and burned.
But the best part?
The way her legs trembled. The way she squeezed her thighs together instinctively, desperate to soothe the ache between them.
Pathetic.
The thought sent a cruel shiver down my spine, my cock pulsing with the overwhelming need to wreck her.
She had no idea what I could do to her.
Not yet.
A desperate, breathless whimper escaped her lips.
She was trying to relieve the pressure, rubbing her thighs together in an effort to soothe the overwhelming sensation she didn’t yet know how to name.
God, look at her.
Confused. Tantalized.
I exhaled slowly, kneeling between her trembling legs, feeling the heat radiating from her.
Fuck! I am hard as fuck.
My hands settled on her soft thighs, parting them effortlessly, positioning her legs on either side of my hips.
A sharp inhale. A small, unsteady arch of her back. Her body recognized the intimacy of the position.
And yet, her mind still struggled to keep up.
That made it so much better.
She was learning.
My fingers traced the shape of her, from the gentle dip of her waist to the curve of her hips, to the softness of her thighs.
Perfect.
Every inch of her was fucking perfect.
As if she had been sculpted solely for my hands, for my pleasure, for my hunger.
In a deliberate motion, I began a slow and deliberate rhythm of movement, each grind bringing us closer.
A shudder wracked through her frame when I leaned in, my tongue warm against her neck.
"Ugh—" She gasped as my tongue flicked over the delicate skin, her pulse hammering wildly beneath my lips.
She was still so sensitive.
Still so fucking reactive.
I gripped her jaw, tilting her face up toward me, despite the blindfold covering her eyes.
"A...Ace," she stuttered, her voice fragile, trembling with something thick and aching and unspoken.
I hummed against her temple, letting my free hand slide lower, teasing, exploring, taking my time.
"Do you like this, Mini bear?" My voice was soft, coaxing, laced with something sinister beneath the surface.
A breathy, desperate "uh-huh" was all she could manage.
Untying her one wrist, I guided her hand to my hair, wordlessly telling her what I wanted.
She obeyed— fingers curling around my locks, tugging me closer.
Good girl.
She was learning so quickly.
I rewarded her by rolling my hips against her—slow, deliberate, torturously deep.
Her body jerked in response, a breathless gasp falling from her lips.
"Look at you," I murmured, shifting to hover over her fully, my hand gliding up over her hard pebbles.
My thumb brushed over the soft swell of her breast, watching the way she jerked at the sensation.
"So fucking pretty like this," I murmured, dragging my lips down the curve of her throat, savoring the way she shivered beneath me.
She whimpered, her head lolling to the side, her breathing uneven, erratic.
And fuck— I was slipping.
My control was slipping.
Every muscle in my body was coiled tight, my breathing heavy, my restraint fraying at the seams.
She had no idea how much I was holding back.
I swallowed back a groan, shifting my weight.
My cock ached, painfully hard, slick with her wetness.
I pulled back just enough to coat myself with her arousal, my jaw tightening as I wrapped my hand around my shaft, stroking myself in slow, controlled movements.
She was too fucked-out to notice at first.
But then—
"Ace?"
A hesitant, breathless whisper.
My name on her tongue sent a sharp, dark thrill through my veins.
Her fingers twitched, grasping for the sheets, instinctively seeking me out, seeking more.
She wanted me.
And that was enough to fucking undo me.
A low, guttural groan rumbled in my throat as my release hit—hot, messy.
My cum spilled onto her stomach, branding her. Claiming her.
I forced myself to breathe, to steady the sharp rush of pleasure searing through my veins.
For a moment, there was only silence. Only the sound of our labored, harsh breathing.
Then—
"D-Did I... p-peed in bed?" Her voice was so soft, so fucking innocent.
My lips twitched.
I exhaled a quiet chuckle, pressing my lips against her forehead.
"No, Mini." My voice was a low murmur, tender yet possessive, laced with something dark, something undeniable.
I left her for a moment, stepping into the bathroom, washing myself, calming myself.
She called my name.
Soft. Needy.
I let her wait.
Because she needed to learn.
She needed to understand that she only got what I allowed her to have.
The damp towel was warm against my fingertips as I wrung out the excess water.
As I returned to the bedroom, clad in comfortable pants and a t-shirt.
The room was quiet now— too quiet— except for the sound of her shallow breathing, still uneven, still trying to grasp the reality of her situation.
I sat beside her, pressing the towel to her stomach with slow, deliberate motions, wiping away the mess I’d left on her.
Her skin twitched under my touch, oversensitive and raw.
A faint tremor ran through her limbs as she exhaled shakily.
"Ace," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. A tremor, not of fear, but uncertainty.
I hummed in response, nonchalant, as if none of this meant anything.
As if she hadn’t just lain beneath me, pliant, helpless, utterly mine.
I placed a chaste kiss on her cheek and casually, I tossed the towel aside.
My fingers worked the knot on the silk blindfold, and as the fabric slipped away, I watched her lashes flutter— golden-brown eyes blinking rapidly as if waking from a long, disorienting dream.
A dream she didn’t quite understand.
She had no idea.
No idea what she had done. No idea what I had done.
No idea that the innocence in her gaze was something I wanted to keep bottled up forever, untouched by the filth I had already introduced her to.
The silk around her wrist loosened easily in my grip.
I could see the faint indentation left behind, a whisper of resistance against her fragile skin.
Her fingers flexed instinctively as if testing her freedom.
A part of me wondered if she would bolt, if her flight response would kick in.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t even try.
Instead, she lay there, eyes glossy with unshed tears, her lips parting slightly as if trying to form words that wouldn’t come.
The opportunity was there— her wrist was free, her legs weren’t bound, the door stood only a few feet away— but she didn’t run.
She didn’t even shrink away from me.
She called my name instead.
“Ace,” she whispered again, barely audible, like she was seeking reassurance from the only person who could give it.
A slow, satisfied smirk curled at the edge of my lips.
Of course, she stayed.
Because maybe she knew—deep down, in that naive, untouched part of her soul—that she belonged here, with me.
Her gaze flickered around the room, eyes darting between the disheveled bed, the twisted sheets, the discarded blindfold.
The air was thick, heavy with something she couldn’t name, something that clung to her skin like an unseen brand.
Panic flickered in her expression, a fleeting moment of doubt.
I saw it in the way her hands clutched at the blanket, pulling it over her body like armor, in the way her brows knitted together as she glanced down at herself.
She touched her fingers to her stomach. Sticky. Damp.
Her voice wavered. “What’s… happening?”
Ah. There it was.
That fragile uncertainty.
The part of her that still clung to the belief that none of this was real, that there was some explanation, some reason that made sense.
She was trying to rationalize the irrational.
How adorable.
I reached out, pressing my palm to her shoulder in what should have been a comforting gesture, but it only made her shudder beneath my touch.
"Go freshen up,” I instructed, voice calm. Deceptively soft.
She hesitated.
Her fingers curled into the blanket tighter. A sliver of defiance sparked in her gaze, a tiny ember that should have been insignificant—should have been—but something about it made my grip on control slip, just a fraction.
"What happened to my—my body?” she asked, voice laced with confusion, with fear.
I exhaled slowly. Controlled.
I leaned in, brushing my knuckles over her cheek, watching as she instinctively stilled under my touch.
“It’s okay, Mini,” I murmured. “It was just a game.”
Lies dripped effortlessly from my lips, smooth as silk, as natural as breathing.
"A… game?" she echoed, blinking up at me, still trying to grasp something solid in a situation that was anything but.
I smiled. God, I love her innocence.
"Just a game that you and I can play. Only us," I reassured her.
She tilted her head, childlike confusion flickering across her face. "Game name?"
A chuckle rumbled in my throat. "Humpy game."
Her brows furrowed instantly. A pout settled on her lips.
"I never played that game," she huffed, her tone laced with petulance, like I had tricked her out of something.
I leaned back, watching her with amusement. "You have now."
With unexpected determination, she shifted, kneeling before me.
Small hands grabbed at my shoulders, eyes searching mine.
"It was a weird game," she confessed, voice small.
I cocked my head, pretending to consider it.
"And here I thought you'd be a pro at this," I mused, smirking. "I guess we’ll have to practice more. After all, it’s all about teamwork.”
She blinked at me, digesting my words.
Before she could respond, I swept her into my arms with ease, cradling her against my chest as I carried her to the bathroom.
She gasped, gripping my shirt. “eek—!”
“Shh,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Just freshen up. I’ll have breakfast ready.”
She squirmed a little, but I tightened my hold ever so slightly, just enough for her to know I wasn’t letting go until I decided to.
When I finally set her down inside the bathroom, I gave her a long, lingering look.
Then, I placed a simple frock and lace undergarments on the bed, making sure that every item she wore was handpicked by me.
A small detail, but an important one.
Every part of her—her body, her mind, her choices—were mine.
She just didn’t realize it yet.
I left the room before she could ask any more questions, closing the door behind me.
My steps were slow, measured, as I made my way into the living room.
And then—
SMACK.
The sharp sting registered before the realization did.
My head barely turned from the impact, but the force of it was respectable— weak, but respectable.
I exhaled. Blinked once. Slowly.
And turned to face Susan.
Ah.
The fire in her eyes. The disgust. The anger.
It was amusing, really.
I flexed my jaw, rolling my tongue against the inside of my cheek before letting my lips part into a slow, lazy grin.
"That supposed to hurt?” I asked, voice like silk.
Her hand was still trembling.
Her fists clenched and unclenched as if she couldn’t decide whether to strike me again or reach for her gun.
"You're disgusting," she spat, fury burning in every syllable. "You’re sick."
I tilted my head, running my tongue along my teeth. “I’m a lot of things, Susan. But let’s not pretend you’re surprised.”
A shift in the room. A collective breath, sharp and ragged.
My friends— my dear friends— stood stiff, their faces carved from stone, their eyes swimming with something I couldn’t quite name.
Disgust. Anger. Maybe a sliver of fear.
The weight of their judgment settled over me, thick like the scent of gun oil and sweat.
They were all waiting for something.
Waiting for me to do something monstrous.
Waiting for me to prove them right.
I obliged.
I moved without thought, my fingers finding Susan’s throat in a grip that was neither rushed nor clumsy.
Just firm. Unyielding. Controlled.
Her breath stuttered, her hands flying to my wrist, nails digging into my skin as she choked.
Silence.
The kind that stretches, that warps reality and steals the air from the room.
Every single person froze.
Aiden stepped forward, his hands trembling at his sides, barely keeping himself from drawing his gun.
His breath hitched, his voice thick with rage. "Ace—let her go."
Hudson’s grip on his weapon tightened, his knuckles white.
Alex’s mouth was a hard line, his gaze flickering between me and Susan like he was weighing his options.
Felix and Leo were motionless, but his fingers twitched near his holster.
Liam was unreadable, but the storm in his gaze was undeniable.
The fear in the room wasn’t just for Susan.
It was for me.
For what I was becoming.
Susan gagged, her nails raking down my forearm. She gasped in air, her voice hoarse, raw with fury.
"I don’t like her," she choked out, "but she’s a fucking kid!"
I turned her around forcefully, fingers still pressing into her throat, watching the way her pupils blew wide, how her body stiffened in response to the cold muzzle of my gun pressing against her temple.
The shift was instant.
Weapons were drawn.
Hudson. Alex. Felix. Aiden. Liam.
All of them.
All of them had their guns aimed at me.
And yet, amidst all that fury, all that growing mutiny— there was still Ivan. Loyal, unwavering Ivan.
His gun was up, but not at me.
He had it trained on Alex, his stance relaxed, his voice as smooth as ever.
"Sorry, guys," he said, his calm, almost lazy drawl cutting through the heavy silence. "But he is the boss. It’s my duty."
That was what loyalty sounded like.
Pure. Absolute. Unflinching.
And it made me smirk.
Susan’s breath hitched, her pulse thrumming beneath my fingers. "You’re a disgrace."
The words weren’t a yell this time. They were quieter, more venomous, something final.
She meant it.
For the first time, she truly meant it.
And it should have done something to me.
It should have— should have cracked something open.
But it didn’t.
The words barely registered as I released her throat.
She stumbled, coughing, her body shaking as she touched her throat, like feeling my raw imprint of my fingers.
Her eyes were still full of fire, still burning, but beneath it—
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