And then something snapped.
I threw the first thing I could grab-a glass-watching it shatter against the wall. My screams echoed in the room, incoherent sounds of rage and despair. My hands fumbled over the objects around me, hurling them with reckless abandon. A vase, books, a lamp-they all met the floor, the walls, splintering, breaking, just like me.
I fell to my knees, my nails digging into my scalp as I tugged at my hair, sobs wracking my body. The pain was suffocating, crushing me from the inside out. “Why?!”
But then I knew: This wouldn’t matter. He didn’t care.
I let out a broken laugh, choking on my tears as I forced myself to stop. My hands stilled in my hair. My breathing slowed. This was pointless. He was a psychopath. He would never understand.
I stood shakily, my chest heaving, my face damp with tears. The room was a mess-a reflection of the chaos inside me-but it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
I craved destruction of anything. To make me believe I was not that broken.
My eyes landed on the clothes piled. He got them for me, right? I didn’t need them. I didn’t need anything he had to give me. I was so angry I didn’t understand what I was doing. Grabbing them, I stormed to the fireplace and threw them in one by one. The coats, the scarves, sweaters, the pants…. Everything. The flames consumed the fabric, licking and curling around them until they were nothing but ash.
And then my eyes fell on the red lace lingerie. The one he had given me. The similar one he’d wanted to see me in the first time.
That changed my fate.
Fine. If he didn’t care about me, then he wouldn’t care if his men saw me like this. But he would see me. He’d get exactly what he wanted.
I slipped into the lace, the fabric cold and unfamiliar against my skin, and stared at my reflection. Hollow eyes. Red cheeks. Swollen lips.
I didn’t look like myself anymore.
Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath as my limbs shivered. The icy floor bit into my bare feet as I moved through the silent house I walked out of the room and into the kitchen, my bare feet silent against the cold floors.
Just as I reached the door, I felt it. The warmth of people. And my body froze.
I hadn’t expected this-ten, maybe twelve men milling about, more than I was used to seeing. No Kyle. My stomach dropped, heat rushing to my face. What the hell?
And then I felt him.
Judas’s eyes lifted, locking onto me.
The air shifted. His gaze burned, smouldering with anger, possessiveness, something primal. It was suffocating as the world shrank to just the two of us.
The men stilled, some glancing my way, others too afraid to look. But Judas didn’t care about them. He only cared about me-his rage, his claim, written all over his face.
I swallowed hard, my breath uneven. I had wanted to provoke him, to lash out at him in my own way. But now, standing here under his scorching gaze, I wasn’t so sure.
The room was silent but I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, the rush of blood drowning out everything but his searing presence. He didn’t move, not yet. But his aura coiled.
I forced myself to stand tall, to not shrink under him, though every instinct screamed at me to run. My lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. What could I possibly say to him now? My defiance felt fragile, paper-thin compared to the storm brewing in his eyes.
Anger. And the sickening tick of his jaw. I tried not to flinch.
“Leave,” he growled lowly.
The men hesitated, looking between us, unsure if the command was meant for them or for me. He didn’t clarify. He didn’t need to. One by one, they shuffled out until the door clicked shut behind the last of them. And then, it was just us.
My pulse spiked. He stepped closer like he was giving me time to back away, to fight or to flee. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. My feet felt rooted to the spot, my body betraying me even as my mind screamed to do something, anything.
“You love testing my patience, don’t you?” He growled glaring at me. Before I could even think to respond, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist with a bruising intensity, pulling me flush against his chest. His other hand found the curve of my neck, his thumb brushing against the rapid beat of my pulse.
And I stiffened breathing heavily. But he didn’t relent. His fingers tightened around my wrist, as fiery orbs held me down and I realised this was more than anger. “What are you trying to do? You think walking half-naked in front of my men will give you your fucking pathetic freedom?”
His grip on my neck shifted and his thumb pressed down, not enough to cut off my air, but enough to make me feel helpless. “You’re mine,” he growled darkly, his teeth grazing my jaw before he bit down-not gently, but hard enough to sting, to mark me. “Do you think I’d let those bastards even fucking look at you? Should I gouge their goddamn eyes out and make you watch? Would that teach you a fucking lesson?”
I whimpered and the sound barely left my lips before his hand moved to my jaw making me gasp. His grip was rough, his fingers biting into my skin as he forced my head up to meet his blazing eyes.
“You’re pushing me, and I’m fucking done playing nice,” he spat, his voice filled with raw, unrestrained anger. “I should punish you for this. I should make you regret every goddamn second of it. Is that what you fucking want, huh? To see what I’ll do when I lose my patience?”
His hand on my wrist tightened painfully, his fingers digging into the delicate skin as though he wanted to leave a permanent reminder. I bit back a cry, my nails digging into his arm in a futile attempt to free myself.
He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my neck, his control slipping with every ragged breath.
But just as I thought he’d snap completely, he froze. A sharp exhale escaped his lips as he abruptly released my wrist. His chest rose and fell with the effort it took to rein himself in, his fingers trembling for a brief moment before they steadied.
“You’re pathetic,” he muttered coldly, stepping back just enough to let the tension breathe. “But you’re my pathetic mess to deal with.”
He grabbed my arm roughly and dragged me toward the table, his grip still firm but no longer punishing. He shoved me down into a chair with a force that made it scrape against the floor.
“You’ll eat,” he snapped, slamming a plate of food in front of me. His tone was commanding, devoid of any gentleness.
When I hesitated, his glare darkened. “Don’t fucking make me say it twice,” he barked and the warning was clear. “Pick up the goddamn fork and eat.”