CHAPTER THREE
—Aphrodite—
He doesn't knock.
He never knocks.
The moment I step into my penthouse, I already know he's inside. The lights are off, but he doesn't need them. Shadows are his territory. Silence is his announcement.
I don't speak. I don't breathe too loudly. I just wait.
And then, like gravity shifts around me, I feel him.
His presence, vast and unrelenting, sweeps through the room like smoke. It curls into my lungs, wraps around my ribs, presses down on my skin. He's always been like this—more force than man. He doesn't need to touch me to make me feel owned. He doesn't need to say a word to command my body.
But tonight, he speaks.
"Strip."
One word. No inflection. No room for negotiation.
I obey.
My coat slips from my shoulders. My heels come off one at a time. I reach behind me and unzip my dress slowly, letting the satin fall. It pools at my feet, whispering against the marble.
I'm left standing in nothing but the delicate scrap of lace between my legs and the tension crackling in the air.
His footsteps echo behind me—measured, soft, terrifying.
"You wore this to see him?"
"Yes," I whisper.
His fingers trail down my spine like a knife grazing skin. My breath catches.
"Did you let him take it off you?"
"No. I took it off myself."
"And did he thank you for the gift?" His voice dips, amused. "Did he grovel for it? Did he worship you, like the good little boy he's becoming?"
"He wanted to," I say. "I didn't let him."
He laughs—low, dark, and pleased.
I shouldn't be proud of that. But I am.
Because with him, pleasing is survival.
"You're learning," he murmurs, coming to stand in front of me. "That's good. You're almost ready."
"Ready for what?" I ask before I can stop myself.
His smile fades. Just slightly.
And then he slaps me.
Not hard enough to leave a bruise. Just enough to remind me.
I don't ask questions.
"I'll tell you when you need to know," he says flatly. "Until then, you keep doing what I told you. Make Duncan Moretti yours. Make him so obsessed he can't breathe without you."
I nod, eyes stinging. "Yes."
"And then?" he says, grabbing my jaw, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, "You break him."
His mouth crushes mine before I can respond.
There's no warmth in the kiss. No tenderness.
Just domination.
Just punishment.
He tastes like wine and smoke and sin. His tongue forces mine down, his teeth nip my lip until I whimper. He drinks the sound, presses me back until my thighs hit the glass dining table.
With one hand, he sweeps the surface clean—papers, candles, my handbag—all crashing to the floor. With the other, he rips the lace panties down my legs.
Then he lifts me and tosses me onto the glass like I weigh nothing.
His coat drops. His belt unbuckles.
He doesn't even take his shirt off.
I brace myself, but it's not enough. The first thrust is brutal, nearly knocking the breath from my lungs. He buries himself deep, impossibly deep, stretching me, splitting me open around his cock like I was made for this.
Like I was made for him.
"You're dripping," he growls, thrusting again, deeper. "Do you get this wet for him?"
"No," I cry out.
He fucks me harder.
My back arches. The glass table creaks beneath us.
His fingers find my throat again—tightening, owning, grounding me in pain and pleasure that blur into something holy.
"Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns you."
"You do," I gasp. "You own me."
"Louder."
"You own me!"
He growls in satisfaction, one hand gripping my waist, the other forcing my legs wider. He drives into me like he wants to carve his name into my womb. And maybe he is. Maybe he already has.
The table rocks violently beneath us, his thrusts growing erratic, vicious. Each time he slams into me, a scream claws its way from my throat. My legs shake. My vision blurs.
I'm not Aphrodite anymore.
I'm nothing but a body beneath his.
I shatter with a cry that tears from the core of me. My orgasm blinds me, burns me, drowns me in the heat of his control. I've never come like this. Not even with Duncan.
Especially not with Duncan.
He doesn't stop.
Even as I tremble, he flips me over, yanks my hips up, and drives back into me from behind.
"Does Duncan know what a filthy little toy you are?" he breathes against my ear, slamming into me over and over. "Does he know how easily you break for me?"
"No," I sob.
"He will."
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat. He sinks his teeth into my shoulder—hard enough to mark. A territorial bite.
"You'll keep playing sweet for him," he whispers. "Keep letting him think he's saving you. Let him kiss your pain. Let him love you."
"Yes," I whisper, body quaking.
"Then I'll rip it all away."
He comes with a growl, thick and hot and possessive, flooding me like a claim. My name on his lips isn't a plea.
It's a command.
He pulls out and steps back.
I collapse onto the cold table, spent, sore, shaking.
And he... buttons his shirt like none of it happened.
I stay still, too afraid to move, too broken to think.
"You'll text him tonight," he says as he zips his pants. "Tell him you want him."
He pauses at the doorway.
Then, in a voice laced with quiet poison, he says, "And remember, Aphrodite—if he ever finds out who you really are, I'll bury him before sunrise."
The door closes behind him.
I don't cry.
I don't scream.
I just slide off the table, legs weak, skin marked, lips swollen. I wrap a robe around myself, walk barefoot across the glass and broken candlewax.
I pick up my phone.
I stare at Duncan's name.
And I do what I'm told.
Come over. I need you.
Because he needs to believe he can save me.
And I need to believe I haven't already been damned.