Chapter 2 No.2

The ride to The Cosmopolitan was silent. Not the comfortable silence of a finished joke, but the heavy, pressurized silence of deep water. Calla pressed herself against the door, trying to put as much leather between her and the man sitting next to her.

The car slipped into the underground VIP entrance. The flashbulbs of the paparazzi were nonexistent here. Christ valued privacy above oxygen.

They took the private elevator straight to the Penthouse. As the numbers climbed, Calla's stomach dropped. The reality of the certificate in his pocket was starting to claw at her throat.

The doors slid open. Calla stepped out, her legs wobbling. She reached for the wall to steady herself.

Suddenly, the floor was gone.

Christ had scooped her up. One arm under her knees, the other around her back. It wasn't romantic. It was efficient. Like he was carrying a package.

"Put me down!" Calla gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck to keep from falling. Her fingers brushed the coarse hair at the nape of his neck. He smelled of scotch and danger.

He didn't answer. He walked through the sprawling living room, past the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the glittering strip below, and kicked open the door to the master bedroom.

He dropped her on the bed.

The mattress absorbed the impact, but Calla bounced, her hair fanning out around her. The room was freezing. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that felt like a morgue.

Christ stood at the foot of the bed. He began to undo his tie. His movements were slow, methodical. Zip. Slide. He pulled the silk from his collar and dropped it on the floor.

Calla scrambled backward, her heels digging into the duvet.

"Wait," she stammered. A nervous laugh bubbled up. "Everyone says... I mean, Francis told me... you're asexual. That you don't..."

Christ paused. His hands were on his cufflinks. Click. One gold link hit the nightstand. Click. The second one followed.

"That I don't what?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion.

"That you don't... like people. Like that." Calla pulled her knees to her chest. "Uncle, if you can't... perform, we can just sleep. I'm tired."

Christ's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

He moved. It was a blur of motion. One second he was standing, the next he was over her, his knees bracketing her hips, his hands pinning her wrists to the pillows above her head.

"Who told you I can't perform?"

"Francis," she squeaked. "He said you were... broken."

Something dark and ugly flashed across Christ's face. A vein in his temple throbbed.

"Francis," he spat the name like it was a curse. "You listen to him? You trust him?"

"He's my guardian! He protects me!"

"He owns you," Christ corrected, his voice dropping to a growl. "But now... I own you."

He lowered his head. Calla expected him to yell. Instead, he kissed her.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim. His lips were hard, unyielding, crushing hers with a bruising force. He tasted of anger. Calla tried to turn her head, to whimper, but his grip on her wrists tightened until her bones ground together.

His hand left her wrist and ripped at the bodice of her dress. The sound of expensive fabric tearing was a gunshot in the quiet room.

Calla screamed, the sound muffled by his mouth.

He pulled back, staring down at her exposed skin. His chest was heaving. The mask of the cold machine was gone, replaced by something feral.

"Christ, stop!" tears leaked from her eyes, hot tracks on her cold skin. "Please!"

He froze. He looked at her tears. For a second, she thought he would stop. He reached out, his thumb brushing away a droplet on her cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle compared to the violence in his eyes.

"Say it," he rasped.

"What?" Calla sobbed.

"Say 'Husband'."

Calla clamped her mouth shut. She shook her head, her hair whipping against the pillow.

Christ's jaw tightened. "Fine."

He didn't ask again. He moved with a terrifying purpose. There was no preparation, no kindness. When he entered her, Calla arched her back, a silent scream trapped in her throat. It hurt. It felt like he was carving his name into her very being.

He moved above her, a relentless rhythm that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession. He watched her face the entire time, his eyes wide, unblinking, drinking in every wince, every tear.

"You are mine," he whispered against her sweat-dampened forehead. "Legally. Physically. Forever."

Calla squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image of the man she had feared since childhood now dismantling her piece by piece. The darkness took her slowly, dragging her down into an exhausted, black sleep.