The Billionaire's Dare: My Secret Husband

The burn of the third tequila shot did nothing to warm the ice in Calla's veins. It sat in her stomach, a pool of liquid courage that felt more like poison. The music in the private VIP box at the Omnia was deafening, a bass that rattled her ribcage, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the voice in her head telling her she was making a mistake.

She stared across the velvet-roped enclosure. In the corner, shadowed and still, sat Christ Carlson.

He was a tear in the fabric of the party. While everyone else was a blur of sequins and sweat, he was static. A monolith in a black bespoke suit that probably cost more than the tuition Francis paid for her art school. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, his fingers long and pale against the glass. He wasn't drinking it. He was just holding it, watching the chaos with eyes that looked like they had seen the end of the world and found it boring.

"I bet you won't," Gemma shouted over the drop of the beat. Her breath smelled like peppermint and vodka. "Go on, Calla. You've been complaining about how suffocating the manor is for months. Poke the bear."

Calla looked at Gemma, then back at Christ. The "bear." The machine. The man who signed the checks that kept the Carlson empire-and Calla's comfortable, caged life-afloat. He was technically Francis's uncle, though only ten years older than his nephew. To Calla, he had always been the looming shadow in the hallway, the figure who barely acknowledged her existence unless she made a noise he didn't like.

The alcohol surged. It hit her brain with a dizzying wave of rebellion.

"Watch me," Calla slurred.

She stood up. The room tilted. She steadied herself on the back of the sofa, took a breath that tasted of recycled air and expensive perfume, and walked toward him.

A bodyguard stepped forward, a wall of muscle in a cheap suit. Christ didn't even look up, but his index finger lifted off the glass. One inch. The bodyguard froze and stepped back into the shadows.

Calla stumbled the last few steps. She didn't stop until her knees bumped against his. She leaned down, planting her hands on his thighs to keep from falling. The muscle beneath the expensive wool was rock hard.

He looked up.

His eyes were dark, devoid of light, like looking into a well. There was no surprise in them. No annoyance. Just a terrifying, hollow focus.

Calla leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, brushing against his lapel. "Uncle," she whispered, the word heavy and clumsy on her tongue. "Do you dare to marry me? Right now?"

The air around them seemed to vacuum out of the room. The music faded into a dull thrumming in her ears.

Christ set his glass down on the table. The clink of crystal against marble was the loudest sound in Vegas.

He looked at her hands on his legs. Then he looked at her mouth.

"I dare," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, a tectonic shift deep underground.

Before Calla's alcohol-slowed brain could process the answer, Christ stood up. The movement was fluid, predatory. He towered over her, blocking out the strobe lights.

His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't a hold meant to guide; it was a shackle.

"Wait," Calla blinked, her buzz flickering with a sudden shot of adrenaline. "I was just..."

He didn't listen. He turned and walked out of the VIP box, dragging her behind him like a doll. Gemma's jaw dropped in the background, but she didn't move. No one moved when Christ Carlson decided to leave.

They bypassed the elevator and took the service stairs. His stride was long; Calla had to half-run to keep up, her heels clicking frantically on the concrete.

"Christ, you're hurting me," she gasped.

He didn't loosen his grip. He shoved open the heavy fire door and the desert heat hit them instantly. A black Rolls Royce was idling at the curb, the engine purring.

He threw the back door open and practically tossed her inside. The partition was already up. He slid in next to her, filling the space with the scent of sandalwood and cold, sharp air.

"Drive," he said to the intercom. "The Chapel. You know the one."

Calla slumped against the leather seat, the adrenaline fading back into a hazy confusion. She let out a giggle. It sounded hysterical.

"You're crazy," she mumbled, her head lolling against the window. "We can't get married. Francis would..."

"Francis isn't here." Christ's voice was right next to her ear.

The car stopped ten minutes later under a pink neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect. A Little White Wedding Chapel.

Christ pulled her out. The pastor looked tired, his suit rumpled, but when Christ produced a black Amex card, the man's spine straightened as if he'd been electrocuted.

Everything happened in a blur of technicolor absurdity. Calla stood at the altar, swaying slightly. Christ stood next to her, a dark pillar of stability.

He produced a ring. It wasn't a simple band. It was a diamond solitaire, far too big, far too expensive to have been bought at a chapel gift shop.

He took her left hand. His skin was dry and cool. He didn't slide the ring on gently. He pushed it past her knuckle with a force that scraped her skin. It was tight. Too tight.

"Do you, Calla..." the pastor droned.

"I do!" Calla chirped, feeling like she was in a sitcom. This was the best prank ever. Francis was going to have a heart attack.

"And do you, Christ..."

Christ turned to her. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't laughing at the joke. He was staring at her with that same intensity he used when he was acquiring a competitor company.

"I do."

The words were final. They were the sound of a cage door slamming shut.

He guided her hand to the paper. She signed her name with a flourish, the pen slipping in her sweaty fingers. He signed his below hers. Sharp, angular strokes. Christ Carlson.

He took the certificate, folded it once, and placed it inside his jacket pocket, right over his heart.

They walked back out into the night. The desert wind had picked up, drying the sweat on Calla's neck. A shiver racked her body. The alcohol was starting to wear off, leaving behind a headache and a creeping sense of dread.

She looked down at her hand. The diamond caught the neon light, flashing red. She tugged at it. It didn't budge.

"Okay," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Fun's over. That was... wild. Let's get this off and go back to the hotel."

She pulled harder at the ring. It was stuck fast.

A hand covered hers. Christ's hand. He pressed her fingers down, stopping her struggle.

"Stop," he commanded.

Calla looked up at him. The neon sign reflected in his eyes, making them look like burning coals.

"Wear it," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. The heat of his breath made her knees buckle. "The game is over, Mrs. Carlson."

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.

The sun was a physical assault. It sliced through the gap in the curtains, burning Calla's retinas before she even opened her eyes.

She tried to roll over, but her body screamed. Her hips ached, her thighs felt bruised, and there was a dull, throbbing soreness between her legs that brought the memories rushing back.

The chapel. The ring. The ripped dress. The look in his eyes.

Calla sat up, gasping. She looked around the massive bed. It was empty. The sheets on the other side were rumpled but cool.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Christ.

He was wearing nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over abs that looked like they were chiseled from marble.

Calla's breath hitched. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her face burning.

Christ walked to the bed. He didn't look ashamed. He didn't look apologetic. He looked like a king surveying his conquered land.

"Awake?" he asked. His tone was back to business-casual, as if he were asking if she'd finished a report.

"Turn around," Calla croaked. Her voice was hoarse. "I need to get dressed."

Christ raised an eyebrow. He gestured to the floor. "Your dress is... compromised."

Calla looked down. The silk heap on the carpet was unrecognizable. Panic flared in her chest. "That was... Francis bought that for me."

Christ's expression hardened instantly. He walked to the closet, ignoring her request for privacy, and pulled out a white dress shirt. He tossed it at her.

"Put it on. Breakfast is in the living room."

Calla caught the shirt. It smelled like him. Cedar and starch. She wrapped the sheet tighter around herself and tried to stand. Her legs gave way.

She stumbled. Christ was there in a second, his hand gripping her arm to steady her. His skin was hot against hers.

The contact made Calla flinch. She shoved him away, hard. "Don't touch me!"

The rejection sparked something in his eyes. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her messy hair, and pulled her face to his.

He kissed her again. Hard. Possessive.

Calla didn't think. It was pure instinct. A cornered animal reaction. She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.

She tasted metal.

Christ pulled back with a hiss. He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.

Calla froze. The silence in the room was deafening. She had just drawn blood from Christ Carlson. The man who made grown men cry in boardrooms.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, trembling. "You... you started it."

Christ looked at the blood on his thumb. He didn't look angry. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. He slowly licked the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Feisty," he murmured. It sounded like a compliment. It sounded dangerous.

"Eat," he ordered, turning away as if nothing had happened. He gestured toward the living room, where a small foil packet sat next to a glass of water on the coffee table. His gaze lingered there for a moment, an unspoken command.

Calla scrambled into the shirt. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her frame. She buttoned it with shaking fingers and walked into the living room.

A spread of fruit and pastries sat on the glass table. Next to the water, the foil-wrapped package seemed to glare at her. Plan B.

Calla felt a wave of nausea. She sat down, staring at the pill.

Suddenly, a buzzing sound vibrated against the glass.

Calla's phone.

The screen lit up. Francis.

Calla's heart stopped. She stared at the name blinking on the screen.

Christ, who had been reading something on a tablet, looked up. He saw the name.

The air in the room vanished.