I felt like my blood was boiling as I struggled to pull away from him, but he yanked me closer, his hot breath grazing my ear.
"You've got some nerve, pony," he whispered, the words dripping with menace as the cold steel of a knife skimmed the exposed skin of my body.
He moved it up to my chest, then slowly, deliberately, brought it down. Panic surged through me as I felt the sharp edge of the knife tearing at my dress.
His hot lips on my earlobe, giving it a little bit.
I quickly tore off the night robe and handed it to him, my voice trembling. "I'm sorry, please don't hurt me," I begged, my fear so thick I could barely breathe.
A wicked smile curled on his lips as he took the robe and tossed the knife aside. With one swift motion, he cleared everything off the table—glass crashing to the floor, but he didn't seem to care. Then, without a word, he shoved me down onto the table, his gaze never leaving the night robe he held in his hand.
My heart hammered in my chest. What was going on? How do I explain this?
After an agonizing silence, he turned back to me, eyes burning with hellfire. My grip on the table tightened as I gasped in terror. Was he angry? Was he going to kill me?
"What the hell are you doing with Damien's night robe?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped closer.
I shivered, shrinking back as he advanced.
"Answer me," he growled, his hand clamping around my neck, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"I swear, Mr. Grey, it's not what you think," I stammered, my heart in my throat.
"That's not what I asked you," he tightened his grip, and I felt a panic like I'd never known. I tried to pry his hand away, but it was no use—his strength was too much. His fingers pressed down harder.
"Mr. Grey, please," I gasped, the air in my lungs thinning. My vision blurred, and I thought for sure I was going to suffocate.
Finally, with a brutal shove, he slammed me back onto the table. I choked for air, my throat raw.
"Mr. Grey... please... I… I can't breathe," I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
He released his grip, but his eyes never left mine. His anger was palpable, suffocating.
He didn't let go out of kindness. No. He did it because he wanted me to speak.
I held my neck, gasping for air, my chest heaving.
"Am I supposed to wait for you or what?" he asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.
"No... no," I stammered, trying to steady myself. "Mr. Cross came to the garden and offered me his night robe because it was cold," I confessed, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush, waiting for his response.
He didn't say a word. He just stared at the robe in his hands, his expression unreadable.
His silence was killing me. I wanted to run. I really did. The window seemed like my only escape—jump, break a bone, anything to get away from him.
But before I could make a move, his dark eyes snapped back to me, filled with a fury that made my stomach turn.
"Why?" he asked simply, his voice low and lethal.
I froze, my mind scrambling. I was sure I'd just explained this to him, but I couldn't answer. My body trembled as he closed the distance between us.
"What?" The word slipped out before I could stop it. It wasn't a question I meant to ask, but it came out anyway.
He looked at me, his gaze icy, like a predator sizing up its prey. "You dare question me?" His voice was deathly quiet, but the threat was there, sharp as ever.
I flinched, my hands instinctively flying to cover my face. "Mr. Grey, please," I begged, my heart racing. I could feel my pulse pounding in my neck as he loomed over me, his presence suffocating.
And still, he didn't speak, just stared at me—cold, unyielding, like some cruel force of nature.
Xavier POV:
The night robe obviously belonged to Damien. We've been friends since childhood, so I knew his taste, his scent, even the feel of his things. This one was Louis Vuitton, one of his favorites.
Good thing she didn't try to lie, because if she had, I'd have made her pay, painfully.
I watched her, feeling a strange mix of amusement and irritation. She looked ridiculously cute trying to shield herself—afraid I might pull her hair or tighten my grip on her neck.
I slid a hand around her waist, feeling her shudder like a frightened puppy.
"Remove your hand," I ordered, and slowly, hesitantly, she obeyed, her teary eyes locking with mine.
Jeez, does she have an ocean in those eyes?
I leaned in close, my lips brushing against her earlobe. She flinched.
"A single tear falls, and you're dead," I whispered, my voice low and filled with authority.
I moved away, watching as she struggled to hold back the tears. A satisfied smile tugged at my lips.
But then, I thought... why not make this more interesting?
"Look at me," I commanded. She hesitated, but finally, her eyes met mine. I could feel her fear, almost taste it in the air. Her grip on the table was so tight her knuckles were turning white.
God, I loved this.
"Mr. Grey, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. A tear threatened to spill over, but she fought it.
"You know what I hate, pony?" I said, stepping closer. "When something that belongs to me is touched by someone else."
I closed her eyes with my palms, her body trembling beneath my hands. Tears spilled out, and my satisfaction only deepened.
Removing my hands, I slid them around her waist, lifting her top just enough to feel the soft curve of her slender figure. She shuddered.
"On no account should anyone else touch you, or offer you help," I ordered, pulling her closer. "For the next three months, you belong to me. And I don't entertain any visitors when it comes to what's mine. Is that clear?"
She nodded frantically. "Yes, yes, I won't look at another man. I swear," she vowed, her hand pressed to her chest like she was making some sacred oath.
I scoffed, then turned to leave.
"Get some sleep," I said over my shoulder. "Tomorrow's going to be raw."
I retreated to my bedroom, lit up a cigarette, and collapsed onto the couch. I hated sleeping. The memories of that one night—the night that shattered me—always haunted me.
I sat there, smoking and scrolling through my phone, one cigarette after another. Eventually, I stood up and opened my drawer, pulling out two small bottles of pills. Damien's stupid psychologist prescriptions weren't working, so I just took whatever I felt like.
I spilled some pills into my hand, ready to swallow them, when a soft, timid voice stopped me.
"It's not right to take drugs immediately after smoking that, sir..."