POWER HAS A PULSE

The mansion looked darker at night.

Not just in light—but in intention. Like every shadow was waiting for her to misstep, for her to fall.

Riva stepped out of the car with quiet dread, her heels clicking against the stone steps as the door opened before she could even knock.

Ares stood at the top of the stairs. No jacket. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Cufflinks undone. Veins along his forearms like art.

“You’re late,” he said softly.

“It’s been exactly two hours.”

“I said not a second more.” He stepped aside. “You owe me now.”

Her jaw tightened, but she walked past him.

The dining hall wasn’t a hall. It was a stage—long glass table, candles flickering low, wine already poured. Two plates. Two chairs.

She sat without being asked. Picked up the napkin and set it in her lap like she belonged there.

Ares raised a brow but took the seat opposite her.

Silence hummed between them.

The steak was untouched. The salad ignored. Only the wine drained.

“I have conditions,” she said after several long minutes.

His eyes met hers, slow and deadly. “You’re negotiating?”

“I’m not a prisoner.”

“You sold yourself.”

“For one night.”

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine. “And yet you’re still here.”

“For my brother,” she snapped.

“Exactly. So speak your terms, and we’ll see if they please me.”

Her hand trembled just slightly on the stem of the glass. “I want to stay in touch with him. Visit when I want. No surveillance. No gatekeeping.”

His response came too fast. “Granted.”

She blinked. “Just like that?”

“I’m not cruel,” he said. “I bought your body, not your grief.”

She exhaled slowly. “And I want to continue my degree. I’ll show up for classes, finish the year. You can assign men to follow, I don’t care. But I want to graduate.”

He didn’t smile this time.

He leaned forward instead, both forearms resting on the table like he was preparing to strike.

“You’ve barely attended,” he said, tone measured. “You took night shifts. You’ve been scraping by. You think you were studying, but all you did was survive.”

She stiffened.

“I’m not saying that to shame you,” he said. “But if you’re mine, Riva—you don’t hustle anymore. You’re not crawling through life for scraps.”

“I don’t want your money,” she snapped.

“Then what do you want?”

“My dignity.”

He laughed once—low, dark, not unkind. “You sold that to me on a velvet couch.”

She stood, knocking the chair slightly.

“I’m not done speaking.”

“You don’t have to be.” He stood too, stepping around the table with slow, calculated grace. “You’ve made yourself very clear.”

“And?”

“I’ll give you access to your brother. That’s all. No classroom, no part-time academic redemption arc.”

Her breath hitched. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t buy a schoolgirl,” he said, reaching her. “I bought a woman who knew how to look me in the eye and still part her legs.”

His fingers brushed her jaw. “Now come upstairs, Riva. It’s time you learn what it really means to be owned.”

His bedroom smelled like expensive sin.

Dark wood. Warm leather. Whiskey and him.

The lights were low. Soft music played—instrumental, haunting.

He didn’t touch her at first. Just watched as she stood in the center, the air too thick to breathe.

“You’ll follow every instruction tonight,” he said. “No questions, no hesitation. You don’t speak unless I ask you something. And if you want to stop, you use one word.”

“What word?”

His voice dipped like smoke. “Velvet.”

She nodded.

He stepped behind her. "Undress."

She hesitated. His silence sharpened.

Slowly, she reached behind and pulled the zipper of her dress. Let it fall.

She was bare underneath.

Ares hissed through his teeth. “You came prepared.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, Riva. You just made the one that cost the most.”

He walked around her once, like a hunter admiring his prey.

She was silent too long. Her arms crossed now, tension creeping back in like a defense mechanism.

“You’re nervous again,” he said, voice calm.

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding your breath.”

Her lips parted just slightly. “I’m just not sure I should be here.”

“You think you have a choice?”

“I think you want me scared.”

“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I want you obedient.”

He crossed the room and stopped just in front of her.

“You’ve never done this before.” It wasn’t a question. It was a conclusion.

Her jaw clenched. She didn’t confirm it.

He leaned in. “You tried to act like it was just a transaction. But you don’t know what you sold.”

Her silence said enough.

“Say it,” he murmured. “Say what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.

“You’re afraid of how I’ll feel,” he corrected. “You’re afraid I’ll ruin this. You. That you’ll enjoy it too much.”

He ran a hand down her side—not touching her breasts, not going lower. Just tracing her.

“You’re afraid because no one’s touched you like they wanted to own you.”

She breathed in sharply.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Riva,” he whispered. “But I won’t be gentle either.”

Her spine straightened. “I’m not asking for gentle.”

“But you’re asking for control.” He tilted her chin up. “And that’s exactly what you’re not getting.”

She glared at him. “You think because I’ve never done it, you have the upper hand?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he led her to the bed.

---

The blindfold returned, but not as an order—this time, a slow, careful choice. He let her feel it. Let her protest if she wanted.

She didn’t.

Then his hands.

Not teasing. Not coaxing.

Just... patient.

Skilled.

He kissed her shoulder, her spine, the inside of her thigh—and didn’t ask permission. Just read her body’s reactions like a script written for him alone.

She tried to hide it. Clench her legs. Turn her head away. Anything to resist the way she burned beneath him.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he said, fingers teasing the edge of her core. “You’re fighting me.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie. Not here.”

She trembled.

He didn’t stop.

Two fingers. Slow. Deep.

Her hips lifted before she could think.

“Still think you're in control?” he whispered, lips brushing her ear.

Her fingers twisted into the sheets.

She shook her head.

But she didn’t beg.

Not yet.

So he kept going.

Until her breath started catching.

Until she choked out a broken moan and tried to pull away—not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.

Because it felt too good.

“You’ve never felt this before,” he said, voice low and wicked.

“Stop talking.”

He smirked. “That’s not how this works.”

He paused only when she was right there—trembling, panting, holding back the wave building inside her.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmured.

But she was fighting it.

Because giving in meant giving him power.

Giving in meant surrender.

And still—her body didn’t listen.

Her moan broke like glass.

And when it was over, she curled slightly into herself—shaken, breathless, wrecked.

He leaned over her, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “You’ll hate me more tomorrow.”

She didn’t answer.

He reached around and pulled off the blindfold. Her eyes were glassy. Her lips parted.

“You’re not mine yet,” he said.

“But you will be.”

And she believed it.

Because right now...

She didn’t know who she was anymore.