Afterwards, when Dornan is finally sated, I take a shower. All the soap in the world won’t wash away the feeling of his skin on mine, but I lather up anyway, the water as hot as I can stand it without causing burns, comforting as it bites at my skin.

When I’m done, I re-enter the bedroom to see Dornan dressing. I sit on the edge of the bed, naked save for a towel around me, and watch.

As he pulls his jeans on and closes his belt, he eyes me thoughtfully.

“Damn,” he says, as if the thought has only just occurred to him. “I’ve been pumping you full of juice for weeks, baby girl. You gonna get pregnant on me?”

I smile, propped on my elbows, the thin towel hiding nothing about my naked body. “I’ve taken care of it,” I say, smiling.

“Well, good,” he says. “But then again, damn, you’re so good-looking I might need to knock you up to keep you here.”

The thought of carrying another child related to this family fills me with cold dread, a feeling that seeps into my bones and takes up residence.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say, giggling. “I’ll always be your girl.”

He is apparently thinking about impregnating me quite seriously. “You could use a little extra meat on your bones,” he says, caressing my upper thighs under the towel. He pulls it away, exposing me to the damp night air, and slides one finger along my slit, cupping my pussy with his hand. I writhe a little underneath his touch.

“The boobs,” I say, taking his other hand and cupping it to my breast. “A baby would ruin them.”

He withdraws his hand from between my legs and squeezes both of my breasts in his hands. “I could just buy you some more,” he says.

“Dornan!” I say sharply, breaking him out of his funk. He cannot seriously be thinking of getting me pregnant a mere few weeks after he’s met me.

“Sammi,” he mimics, setting his jaw squarely and grabbing my elbow. Before I can fight him off, he has flipped me onto my stomach, his knee pressed into my back, pinning me in place.

“What?” I ask, before I hear a whack and feel a sharp sting at my ear.

“Be quiet,” he instructs, laying on top of me, crushing me with his weight. “Listen to me. You keep taking your little pills for now, and when I decide I’m ready for another son, you’ll give me those pills and we’ll make a baby. I decide what happens. Understood?”

I nod minutely, pinned and useless. I’d kill him before I ever let him do that to me again. I’d rather die.

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, he releases me, and I sit up, gathering the sheets around me. My next question escapes my lips before I can think.

“What if it was a girl?” I ask him. Oh my God. Why did I just say that?

He smiles a wide grin that beams so bright, it threatens to break his face.

“I’ve always wanted a little girl,” he says. “A daughter to call my own.”

I smile, swallowing thickly, because if I don’t, I will scream.


He pulls a T-shirt over his head and dons his leather cut. “I’m going back to see my wife,” he says dismissively. “Poor woman loved Chad like he was her own son. She’s devastated.”

She’s probably fucking glad, I think.

“I’ll miss you,” I say, because this is my role and this is what I’m supposed to say.

“I’ll tell Jase to keep an eye on you,” he says.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say evenly. “I’m fine. I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

He cocks his head to the side, surveying me with cold calculation. Grief has left him exposed, blunt, even more fucked-up than before. I need to start being more careful when I speak back to him, because he is like a loose cannon ready to explode at any moment.


“Lay down,” he says, stalking over to his discarded funeral clothes. I watch him as he extracts his tie from the pile, the same tie he wore to his son’s funeral only hours ago. My smile vanishes as I realize what he is going to do.

He approaches me with the grace of a tiger stalking its prey, and suddenly, I am very afraid. I fear that his sudden realization about who I look like—Mariana, the beautiful bitch who fucked him over—has ignited some old feud within him, some desire for vengeance. And, although I don’t believe for one second that his vendetta against the dead woman is warranted, I can understand that burning, crippling desire to get an eye for an eye that must be coursing through his veins.

“You’re not laying down,” he says, punching me square in the face, making contact with my cheekbone. He doesn’t punch very hard, and thankfully his wedding ring is on his other finger, saving my skin from being cut. It hurts like a bitch though, and as I’m clutching my cheek, Dornan grabs my ankles, dragging me down so that I am laying flat on my back. He straddles me, and as I put my palms forward in a defensive gesture, he grabs them and wraps the tie around them tightly.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I fight against his stronghold, the worry in my voice tangible.

He ignores me, pulling the silk tight and threading it through the metal bedhead. With a sharp tug, I am effectively pinned in place.

The first thing I do is struggle, pulling on the binds that are now around my wrists, only making them tighter, cutting off my circulation.

I am so fucking stupid. I’ve trained for this! I know every self-defense maneuver Elliot taught me off by heart. And I just let him tie me up without even putting up a fight?

I am such an idiot..

I see a flash of metal, and the next thing I know, Dornan has a switchblade in his hand. Fuck.

I keep my mouth shut and my face passive, because if there’s anything I’ve learnt, it’s that words and expressions will sign my death warrant faster than my silence.

I watch him, panting slightly, as he approaches.

“You’re right,” he says, smartass. “I won’t tell Jase to keep an eye on you. I’ll just leave you here until I get back in a few days.”

I don’t respond. Anger burns inside me. How dare he tie me up like an animal. I decide, here and now, that this is exactly how I’ll restrain him when it’s his turn to die.

“You’ll learn, Sammi, that the best way to be is in agreeance with anything I say. You hear me?”

I nod, my arms pulled impossibly tightly above me.

“You’re mine now,” he says, slithering onto the bed. He grabs each of my ankles and rips them apart, six years of nightmares slamming into me like a freight train.

Play the part, I tell myself. Submit to him. Make him believe the lie.

“I’m yours now,” I echo, motionless, as he brings the switchblade up to the light.

What the fuck is he going to do with that?

The question must be written all over my face, because he smiles, dragging the cold metal up my inner thigh.

“You know,” he says, scraping the blade against my clit, making me shudder, “If you don’t want to do what you’re told, maybe I’ll just put this inside you instead.”

My eyes are watering. I’m terrified. The only thing I can think of is that he likes to fuck me so much, surely he won’t be fucking me with the sharp end of the knife.

He seems to read my mind. “There are other girls with tight pussies like yours,” he says, the tip of the knife barely grazing my sensitive nub, but enough to make me quiver in deathly anticipation.

“What do you want?” I ask breathlessly, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “Do you want me to beg? I’ll beg. Please untie me. Please put the knife away.”

He smiles at me. “I don’t want you to beg. Begging means I might listen to you. And you’re mine. I decide what happens to you.”

He trails the knife away, back towards my inner thigh, and I relax minutely.

I watch as his head disappears between my legs, but I can’t see anything, and suddenly I am terrified. I feel his hot breath on my clit, and I moan, fighting against the silk that binds me, looking for a futile escape. He’s threatening me with the knife, but I don’t really believe he’s going to hurt me for something as minor as challenging him in a conversation.

I arch my back as his tongue makes contact with my clit, shallow circles at first that become faster and more concentrated. He doesn’t take his tongue anywhere else, just focuses on my clit, making me writhe beneath his mouth. A sob dies in my throat as he stops and raises himself enough to make eye contact with me.

“Feel good?” he asks, his eyes still full of pain and hate.

I nod. “Yes,” I whisper. Don’t cry. Do not cry.

He chuckles, resuming his licking and sucking between my legs. My hips begin to grind against his face involuntarily as I climb towards that shattering peak his tongue is promising me.

It feels so unbelievably good, and at the same time, as Dornan’s open palm rests against my thigh, the flat side of his blade pressed into my flesh, I know he hasn’t finished taunting me with promises of pain. I swallow down my shame, repulsed at myself that I could be aroused at all with this man, let alone when he’s got me tied up with a knife to my skin. It’s all kinds of wrong, and depraved, and I can’t help but wonder what living here with him is doing to my already messed-up head.

How can someone so cruel, so horrifyingly devoid of goodness, make me feel, physically anyway, so goddamn good? My brain might know that what I’m feeling is fear, but my body mistakes it for excitement.

I guess it’s all the same feeling of trembling and frantic heartbeats in the end.

My legs start to shake, even though I’m trying beyond hope to stop what is about to happen.