Morning after

I woke up to the feeling of silk sliding against my bare skin and a dull, deep ache between my thighs.

For a blissful three seconds, I forgot where I was. The sheets were impossibly soft. The pillow smelled like lavender, not mildew. There was no distant sound of traffic or the drip of a leaking pipe.

Then, I moved, and a sharp pain shot through my ribs. The bruise Linda had left on my chest throbbed violently.

My eyes snapped open.

The ceiling was white, pristine, and arched. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a sprawling cityscape bathed in the soft, grey light of early morning. I was in a bed the size of a small country, tangled in black silk sheets, and my body was a roadmap of purple bruises and dried sweat.

And I was alone.

Where is he?

I pushed myself up, hissing at the pain in my wrists where the ropes had cut into my flesh. The penthouse was silent. Deathly silent.

Maybe he left, a tiny, hopeful voice whispered in my head. Maybe he dropped me here, paid the rent, and disappeared. Maybe I'm free.

I swung my legs out of the bed, intending to find a bathroom, when the bedroom door clicked open.

He was standing in the doorway.

Drake.

He wore a crisp, black button-down shirt, the top two buttons left undone, exposing a sliver of tan, muscular chest. His hair was still slightly damp from a shower, and the morning light caught those gold flecks in his grey eyes, making them burn like embers.

He looked like a god. A cold, ruthless god.

He was holding a tray. On it was a glass of orange juice, a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and a glass of water with a pill on the side.

My stomach growled violently.

"Breakfast," he said flatly. Not a question. A statement.

He walked over to the bed and set the tray down on the nightstand. He didn't smile. He didn't ask how I felt. He just stood there, looking down at me with that predatory, clinical gaze.

"Eat," he commanded.

I hesitated, my hands shaking. "Look, I... I need to go to the bathroom. And I need to know—are you letting me go? Can I just take some of that money you gave me and leave?"

His expression didn't change. He simply reached out, grabbed my chin, and tilted my face up to his.

"No," he said. His voice was soft, but it was absolute. "You are not leaving."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "Drake—"

"Listen to me," he interrupted, his thumb brushing over my chapped bottom lip. The touch was light, almost tender, but his eyes were deadly serious. "You were going to die in that basement. You were starving on the streets. Do you know what would have happened to that baby if Linda had hit you one more time? You would have bled out on a concrete floor, and your body would have been thrown in a dumpster."

I flinched. He wasn't wrong.

"Here," he continued, letting go of my chin. "You eat. You sleep. You don't get beaten. The baby grows. And you do exactly what I tell you to do."

"What about my life?" I whispered, tears burning in my eyes. "I can't just be a pet. I'm a person."

"You're a person who is carrying my heir," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "That makes you the most important person in this city. And I protect what is mine. If you walk out that door, your pimp's friends will find you. They'll sell you to a worse monster, and I will have to kill them all. Do you want blood on your hands?"

I shook my head, a single tear slipping down my cheek. "No."

"Then eat. And listen."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He pointed to the pill on the tray.

"That's a prenatal vitamin. You'll take it every morning with breakfast. The maid will bring you three meals a day. You will not leave this apartment. The doors are key-coded, and you don't have the code."

"Locked in," I breathed.

"Protected," he corrected, his voice hardening. "There's a gym down the hall. A library. A movie theater. You're not a prisoner. You're a queen in a gilded castle. But queens don't leave their castles without the king's permission."

I stared at the tray of food. The eggs smelled incredible. My stomach cramped violently.

I picked up the fork, my hand trembling, and shoved a bite of eggs into my mouth.

He watched me eat. It was unnerving, the way his eyes tracked every movement of my jaw.

When I was halfway done, he spoke again.

"I have business tonight," he said. "I'll be back late. When I come back, I expect you to be clean, fed, and waiting for me."

"Waiting for you?" I whispered, looking up. "For what?"

He leaned in. His hand moved to my thigh, sliding up beneath the silk sheet, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. I gasped, instinctively spreading my legs a little.

"For this," he murmured, his voice turning dark, filthy. "For my cock. Every night I come home, I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fill you up, make sure my seed stays planted in that belly. I'm going to remind you exactly who you belong to."

"Drake," I breathed, my cheeks flushing red. "I'm sore. You already—"

"I know." He squeezed my thigh, just hard enough to make me wince. "Which is why tonight, I'm going to be gentle. I'll start slow. I'll lick every bruise on your body until you're begging me to fuck you. Because I own your pleasure now. Not you."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing my ear. His voice dropped to a hot, ragged whisper.

"You're going to learn to love my touch. You're going to crave it. And when you're lying in this bed, aching and desperate for me to fill you up again, you're going to call me 'Sir.' You're going to beg me to breed you. Do you understand?"

I was shaking. Not from fear. From the heat pooling low in my belly. My body, the traitorous bastard it was, was getting wet just from his words.

"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was asking for.

He pulled back, looking at my flushed face, my parted lips, the way I was breathing shallowly. He smirked—that cruel, beautiful smirk.

"Good boy," he said.

He stood up, smoothing down his shirt. He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at me.

"One more rule," he said. "No crying in the shower. No screaming into your pillow. If you're unhappy, you tell me. I don't like weak things. But I love broken things that beg for me to fix them. So when you want to break down, you come to me. I'll give you something to cry about."

With that, he walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

And I was alone.

I stared at the closed door, the food growing cold on the tray, the tears streaming down my face.

He was a monster. An absolute, terrifying monster.

But as I sat there, naked and bruised, the phantom feeling of his fingers on my thigh still burning my skin, I realized something horrifying.

I wanted him to come back tonight.

I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to take me apart. I wanted to feel that deep, painful stretch again, because at least when he was inside me, I didn't feel alone.

I hated him. And I craved him.

I looked down at my swollen belly, running my hands over the small bump.

You are my salvation, I thought, feeling the tiny life inside. And you are my damnation.

I finished the eggs, swallowed the vitamin, and lay back against the silk sheets. The penthouse was silent, cold, and beautiful.

I had been saved from the gutter.

But as the hours crawled by, and the daylight turned to dusk, I realized I was just waiting for the monster to come home and claim me.

And the worst part? I couldn't wait to let him.