MasukMy wrists were bound above my head, the leather strap biting into my skin as I struggled uselessly. He circled me, his dark gaze devouring every inch of me. “You’re trembling,” He said, stopping in front of me, his voice a toxin. “Do you always tremble like this, or is it just when I’m about to ruin you?” I bit my lip, refusing to answer, though my body betrayed me. He stepped closer, his hand encircling my throat, the pressure a seductive command. "Speak." “I… I don’t know,” I stammered, my voice breaking. “Liar.” His fingers gripped my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You belong to me, don’t you?” My heart pounded, the words caught in my throat. “I—” “No hesitation,” he growled. “Say it, or I’ll remind you how I deal with defiance.” “I belong to you,” I whispered, trembling. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to tease the curve of my breast. He undid his belt, the leather slipping free with a deliberate snap. “Let me remind you who owns you.” ……. Allison Blackwell’s life unravels when she’s abducted by the ruthless Blade mafia family, only to uncover her father’s secret—he’s been their partner all along. Allison is trapped in a mansion caught between the Blade brothers—one cold, the other ruthless. As her father arranges a marriage to further solidify his ambitions, forbidden passion erupts, leading Allison to sleep with her bodyguard the night before her wedding. The stakes are high, and freedom’s price may be too much. Can she control her fate, will she become what she hates or will she remain a pawn in a deadly game? An erotic dark romance novel with violence, coercion, and adult themes.
Lihat lebih banyakShe didn’t understand it and maybe she didn’t need to.Because she still saw the world in soft, redeemable tones. Even after what my father did. What Dontrell did. What I did.And maybe that’s why I fought so hard to deserve her. Because someone like her doesn’t end up in a life like mine by accident. She was chosen by fate—or cursed by it. Either way, I knew I’d burn down every version of this world before I let it take her from me again.I looked at my phone. The hospital report came in.Same condition. No progress. The nurses said Dontrell hadn’t spoken since; instead, he started having seizures often and often, and yet… I still sent money. Still made sure his room had sunlight. That his sheets were clean. That the men standing outside his door reported only to me.Because he was my brother. And that still meant something.I heard her voice behind me. “Again?”God, that voice. The way she could make one word feel like a thousand. She’d seen the worst of me—every bloodstain, every
I watched Clayton from across the rooftop garden as the breeze rustled the edges of his open shirt. The golden sunset flared behind him, but he didn’t look up. His gaze hovered on his phone, thumb paused over the screen, like whatever he was reading had pulled him somewhere far from me.“Again?” I asked, pitching my voice to be loud enough.He looked up slowly, locking eyes with me. That same determined gaze he wore when things got hard. When his emotions ran too deep to show.“Yes,” he said, voice low, firm. “I have to do it.”I crossed the space between us, barefoot, heart steady. “But you know you don’t owe him anything.”Clayton’s lips curved, soft and sad. “He’s my brother.”My heart ached for the way he said it. Not because it was a lie, but because it was true.Five years since the trial, since the feds shattered Dontrell’s empire. Clayton hadn’t run from the damage—he stood in it. Quietly, fiercely, with no cameras watching.He bought back every property the feds didn’t bury.
I peeled off his suit jacket slowly, my fingers trailing over the dark silk. The tag glinted on the inside of his chest—*Godfather.* A title barely a few hours old, still hot from the Circle’s overnight meeting where he had been crowned.We were supposed to be at the Victory Gala right now—celebrating his hotel expansion in partnership with my new dance company. But we couldn’t wait—his mouth claimed mine the second the car door shut and his men stepped down. Instead of champagne and niceties, we were tangled up in the back seat of his car—completely unable to keep our hands off each other.His men stood like statues—guns, suits, dead stares. No one came close.Our mouths were locked. The windows fogged as we kissed like starved souls. His lips, greedy and sweet, erased the ruthless man crowned by the ‘CIRCLE’ just hours ago.“Congratulations, Godfather Clayton,” I whispered against his lips.He chuckled, dark and low, then kissed me harder. “Thank you, my queen.”I dragged my hand
"What are you doing here?" Clayton's voice cut through the silence. He stepped inside, his figure shadowing the doorway. "Why couldn't you stay in the living room downstairs, or at least stay in the fucking room? Why come here?"I didn’t flinch. I’d heard that bark before. Clayton Blade had always been a man of biting words. I stood there, tears wet on my face, paper clenched in my hand.I ignored his harsh words and the sting and asked, my voice trembling, "Did you mean this?" I held out the paper. "Did you mean everything you wrote here?”His jaw clenched, a muscle working beneath the skin. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me, walk away, or tell me I was being foolish. But instead, he scoffed and muttered, "You shouldn't be here.”That was all. He didn’t give me an answer. Just that damn, dismissive line—like none of it mattered. He wasn’t even looking at the paper. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking somewhere past me, somewhere I couldn’t follow.I couldn’t stand there
The sun beat down as we gathered at the cemetery, a sea of black filling the field. The air buzzed with murmurs and shuffling feet. Everyone wore black. The police. The people. The priest is standing by the open grave. Even I was covered head to toe in black, a light scarf tight around my hair. I
(Six Days After the Explosion)The TV blared, the reporter's voice urgent and sombre."Good morning, this is Channel Nine. We begin today with breaking news: on March 5th—six days ago—panic struck the Hilton Grand Ballroom. A private anniversary party hosted by Verve Noir’s CEO, Celine Laurent, end
I was still shaking. My ragged breaths echoed in the sterile hallway, the air thick with antiseptic. My hands trembled, the pain and marks on my wrists a sharp reminder that I was tied up overnight. But no pain or sting of anxiety could compare to the uncertainty that clung to me as they rushed D
The house was eerily quiet. The walls that once echoed with laughter and whispered promises now felt like a mausoleum of all that had crumbled. The past weeks blurred into courtroom drama and hospital visits. Dontrell lay in a hospital bed, battered and broken. My father was also locked away fo
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