Chapter Thirteen: The Claim

The private elevator ascends in a suffocating, pressurized silence. Rhea stands huddled in the corner, her glasses clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Her thighs still burn with the memory of the car, and every time the floor numbers chime, her heart gives a frantic, painful leap.

They step into the foyer: a cold, vast expanse of glass and polished steel that overlooks the sleeping city. 

Dominic doesn’t spare her a glance. He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it onto a designer chair like a discarded skin, and heads straight for the crystal decanter.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound is small, but in the tomb-like quiet of the penthouse, it screams like a siren. Rhea’s phone is vibrating inside her handbag.

Dominic freezes, his hand hovering over the crystal stopper. He turns slowly, his eyes narrowing into lethal, obsidian slits. "Who is calling you at ten o'clock at night, Fragile?"

"I... I don't know," she whispers, her pulse hammering in her throat.

She fishes the phone out. The screen lights up, illuminating her pale, tear-streaked face.

Incoming Call: Julian.

It is him. She can almost picture him, probably pacing the floor, haunted by the cold, harsh way she treated him earlier.

"Give it to me," Dominic commands.

"Sir, it's probably just a telemarketer... or my father’s caregiver—"

"I said, give it to me." He crosses the room in three predatory strides, snatching the device before she can even think to lock it.

The phone stops ringing, only to immediately shudder again with a text.

Message: I can’t sleep. I’m worried about how you spoke to me today, and you aren't picking up. Please let me know if I’ve done something wrong.

Dominic’s jaw tightens so hard the bone looks ready to snap.

A low, guttural sound escapes his throat; a growl of pure, territorial rage. 

How dare he? How dare this boy think he has a right to worry about Dominic Ashcroft’s property?

"He’s bold," Dominic murmurs, his voice terrifyingly calm. "He’s calling you while you’re under my roof. Did you forget to tell him I own you, Fragile?"

"Sir, please... he doesn't know anything. He’s innocent..."

Dominic spins the phone around, thrusting the screen against her nose. "If he’s so innocent, then call him. Right now. Put it on speaker. Tell him exactly where you are and exactly what I just did to you in the back of that car."

"No!" Rhea gasps, reaching for the phone. "I can't. It would ruin him. He’s a good man, Mr. Ashcroft. Please, don't get him involved."

"A good man?" Dominic’s laugh is a cold, jagged shard of glass. "So you like them 'good,' do you? You want to protect his precious little feelings?"

He tosses the phone onto the oversized sofa. It bounces, the screen still glowing with Julian’s unanswered plea.

The penthouse falls silent again, save for the rhythmic, persistent buzz of the device. Each vibration feels like a heartbeat - Julian’s heartbeat, trying to reach her through the dark.

Dominic doesn’t lead her to the bedroom. He wants her here, against the glass, with the world watching and the phone haunting them. He rips the trench coat from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

Now, there is only the emerald silk. In the moonlight, it looks like liquid poison.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice thick with a dark, primal hunger.

Rhea looks up, her eyes swimming. She is shaking so violently her teeth chatter. "Mr. Ashcroft, please... just stop."

"Stop?" He laughs, the sound vibrating against her chest as he hooks his fingers into the gold chains at her back. With one sharp tug, he slams her flush against his heat.

"I haven't even started. I’m going to erase him from your mind. I’m going to make it so that every time you close your eyes, you see my face. Every time you feel a touch, you crave my hand."

He leans down, his mouth crashing onto hers. 

It isn't a kiss; it is a conquest. It tastes of expensive wine, salt, and raw, unchecked possession. While he crushes his lips against hers, his hand slides down, bunching the emerald silk in his fist. 

He hikes it up with a violent jerk, exposing her to the biting chill of the penthouse air. Rhea feels herself being lifted, her legs instinctively locking around his waist as he pins her against the glass wall. The contrast is a shock to her system; her soft, bare skin meets the abrasive, expensive wool of his dress slacks.

On the sofa, the phone shudders again. One long, desperate vibration. A voicemail.

Dominic pulls back just an inch, his breath coming in ragged, heated hitches. He cuts a look toward the glowing screen, then back at her, his eyes dark with a lethal jealousy.

"He's persistent," he hisses. "He really thinks he has a claim on you."

In a sudden burst of territorial rage, he hooks his fingers into the neckline of the emerald silk dress and rips it. The sound of the silk shredding is loud in the empty room; a final scream of her dignity. 

Rhea shivers, the shock of her total nakedness leaving her breathless as the ruined fabric falls away.

He doesn't give her time to hide. He claims her breasts, his mouth punishingly hard. He grinds his teeth against her sensitive peaks, nursing with a bruising force that elicits a high, broken moan. 

“Arrgghhh!”

He moves like a man possessed, branding her neck and the curve of her chest. Every bite draws a sharp, jagged cry from Rhea’s throat; a map of his ownership written in dark, blooming bruises.

His hand finds the aching, sensitive heat he stirred in the car. He drives two fingers deep inside her, his thumb grinding ruthlessly against her swollen nub. Rhea’s head thuds back against the cold floor-to-ceiling window.

"Ah! sir... please..." The moan is thick, wet, and desperate. She is a chaotic mess of sound, her breath hitching in a rhythmic, pained "Mmmph... ah!" as he stretches her, his touch unyielding and clinical in its precision.

The sensation is a sensory overload: the ice-cold glass against her spine, the furnace of his body in front of her, and the crushing weight of a desire she is too terrified to name.

"Tell me," Dominic growls, his thumb dragging across her swollen lower lip. "When he looks at you, does he see this? Does he see the way your skin flushes when I touch you? Does he know how loud you scream for me?"

"No sir," she sobs, her hands clawing at the air. "He doesn't know... he doesn't know anything."

"Good. Because he never will. By the time I'm finished with you tonight, Fragile, you won't even remember how to type a response."

He pins her wrists to the glass on either side of her head, locking her into place. She has no escape; she can't touch him, can't steady herself. She is completely at his mercy.

Then, he claims her; not with a pen, not with his fingers, but with the full, overwhelming weight of himself. He drives into her in one powerful, bottoming-out thrust that shatters the air in her lungs.

"Ahhh!!" Rhea screams, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings - a jagged mixture of pain, release, and the terrifying realization that she is being permanently branded. It is the physical seal on the contract she signed in ink.

He moves with a relentless, punishing pace. He doesn't want to make love; he wants to conquer. He pounds into her, the sound of their bodies colliding rhythmic and wet in the silent room. His eyes stay locked on hers, searching for the exact moment Julian’s memory flickers and dies in her gaze.

Rhea gasps for air, her back hitting the glass window with every hard, feral thrust. Her wrists throb where he holds them painfully firm. She is weeping now, her moans turning into gutteral, animalistic sounds of "Please... more... sir, please..."

Every time the phone on the sofa lights up, his movements grow more demanding. It isn't just passion; it is a war. He is punishing her for defending Julian, proving through sheer force that her body belongs to no one but him. 

He reaches his peak with a low, territorial roar, filling her completely as Rhea convulses against the glass, her vision spinning into darkness.

The phone gives one final, short buzz - the battery finally dying, or Julian finally losing hope.

In the sudden, heavy silence that follows, Rhea collapses against Dominic’s shoulder. Her body is a wreckage of sensation. She feels the heavy, thundering thud of his heart against her ribs, the sting of his teeth on her skin, and the cold reality that she has crossed a line from which there is no return.

Dominic holds her there for a long time, his grip tight enough to bruise, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

"You're mine," he whispers into her skin, his voice a ragged shadow of its usual iron strength. "No more dresses for other men. No more secret smiles. From tonight on, you breathe because I allow it. Do you understand, Fragile?"

Rhea can’t find her voice. She only nods, her forehead resting against his damp skin as she surrenders to the dark.

He carries her to the bed, but as he lays her down, he steps back toward the sofa. He picks up the dead phone and slides it into his pocket. He doesn't say a word, but the message is absolute.

He hasn't just claimed her body. He has cut her off from the world.