Semua Bab Daddy's filthy little pet : Bab 171 - Bab 180

Zara’s POVThe ropes burned my wrists even after Victor cut them—raw, angry welts throbbing with every heartbeat, the skin rubbed open in places where I'd twisted and pulled against the knots during those endless hours tied to the chair. The pain was sharp, almost welcome in a twisted way because it meant I was out, I was moving, I was no longer frozen in place waiting for the next thing he might do. But the relief was drowned out by everything else crashing in at once: the cold bite of the outside air hitting my face, the sting of tears mixing with sweat and dust, the way my legs felt like they belonged to someone else—wobbly, numb, barely holding me up.Rae caught me the second we stumbled through the warehouse door. Her arms wrapped around me so fast and so tight it knocked the breath out of me all over again. I sobbed—messy, ugly, broken sounds that tore out of my throat and wouldn't stop. The fear I'd been choking down for hours poured out in waves: the terror of waking up bo

Rae’s POVThe kitchen smelled like it always did on Sunday mornings—freshly brewed coffee, cinnamon from Mom’s French toast, the faint sizzle of bacon in the pan. Sunlight poured through the big windows over the sink, turning the white tiles gold and making everything look warm, normal, safe. Like any other weekend. Like nothing had changed.But everything had.I stood in the doorway for a second before stepping in, gripping the edge of the frame so hard my knuckles went white. Killian was right behind me—his hand brushed the small of my back, a quick, hidden touch that said ‘We’ve got this’ without words. We’d agreed on the way down from the pool house: act normal. Smile. Eat. Leave early. No eye contact with Victor longer than necessary. No cracks in the mask.Mom was at the stove, humming softly to herself as she flipped toast. She looked happy—hair up in a messy bun, apron tied around her waist, the way she always looked when she was feeding her family. The sight twisted somet

Rae’s POVThe movie started with a burst of color and sound—some action-comedy we’d both seen before, the kind with explosions and one-liners that usually made us laugh until our sides hurt. Tonight it felt distant, like background noise in someone else’s life. Killian had pulled the couch out into a makeshift bed, piled it with every blanket we owned, and dimmed the string lights until the room glowed soft gold. The popcorn bowl sat forgotten on the floor; neither of us had touched it since he set it down.I curled into him immediately—head on his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh, his arm wrapped around my shoulders like a shield. His fingers moved idly up and down my bare arm, tracing slow, absent patterns that raised goosebumps even through the thin sleeve of his oversized T-shirt I was wearing. The fabric still smelled like him, I pressed my cheek harder against his sternum, listening to the steady thump-thump of his heart. It was louder than the movie. Steadier than my ow

Rae’s POVThe kisses had already turned from comfort into something hungrier, but still careful—like we were both afraid of breaking the fragile thing we’d built in this room. My lips were swollen, tingling from the way Killian kept catching my bottom one between his teeth, tugging gently before soothing it with slow licks. Our tongues had been sliding together for what felt like forever—wet, lazy drags that made my head spin. I’d suck on his, pulling him deeper; he’d answer by curling his around mine in a slow, possessive stroke that stole my breath every time. I couldn't get enough.I was straddling his lap on the couch-bed, thighs bracketing his hips, his hands splayed wide across my lower back under the T-shirt I’d stolen from him earlier. The movie was still paused on the TV—frozen fire suspended in mid-air—but neither of us had looked at the screen in minutes. All I could feel was him: the hard heat of him pressed against me through our clothes, the rise and fall of his che

Rae’s POVThree days had passed since the warehouse. Three days of holding our breath, of fake smiles at breakfast, of Killian checking the locks twice every night, of me jumping at every unexpected noise. Three days of silence from Victor—no texts, no drop-ins, no smug “family time” reminders. Just the quiet rot of everything we weren’t saying.We told ourselves it was working. We told ourselves he was scared enough to stay in line. We told ourselves we could keep this up.We were lying to ourselves.Tonight was supposed to be normal. Mom had insisted on a proper family dinner—“no takeout, no excuses”—so the table was set with her good plates, candles lit, roast chicken carved and steaming, mashed potatoes whipped with too much butter, green beans glistening with garlic. She’d even put on lipstick, the soft rose shade she saved for special nights. Victor sat at the head of the table in a fresh shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking every inch the devoted husband. Killi