All Chapters of Spicy Hot : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Célia"I don't want to serve anyone.""You're already serving. Your family. Your debts. Your fears." He turns around, his gray gaze fixed on me. "I'm offering you an alternative. You work for me. You become my assistant. You'll be paid, enough to start repaying that debt. You keep your freedom. In appearance."The term "in appearance" echoes through the silent room."What's the catch?""The catch is that nothing is free. Your loyalty will belong to me. You'll become my eyes and ears. And when Kassian comes to claim you, as he will, you'll resist him. In the name of our agreement."I stare at him, searching for deception in his expression. I see only calculated coldness."Why? Why oppose him?""The reasons that set one brother against another are rarely simple."The revelation hits me full force. Brothers. Everything suddenly becomes clear. The familiarity, the similarity in posture, the silent war between them."You're using my refusal as a weapon against him.""I'm seizing an opportu

CeliaThe car glides through the night, a rolling coffin with tinted windows. The city lights slide past, fluorescent streaks that illuminate nothing. I am wedged into the corner of the back seat, as far from him as possible. My wrist throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, branded by the iron grip of his hand.Kassian never takes his eyes off me. His gaze is a physical weight, a scanner recording every tremor, every tear drying on my skin. He no longer smiles. The predator has caught his prey; the game of the chase is over. Only the cold reality of the capture remains.“Where are you taking me?”My voice is unrecognizable hoarse, shredded by screaming.“Where you should have stayed from the beginning.”He speaks calmly. That is the most frightening part. The absence of anger, of theatrical fury. Just a frozen certainty, unshakable.“My apartment…”“Was nothing more than a hotel room decorated by my brother. A pretty cage, but a cage nonetheless. Do you prefer golden bars, Celia? Is that

CeliaDawn is a lie behind the tinted windows. A gray glow without warmth, promising nothing. I surface from sleep the way one drowns in reverse, struggling upward toward a surface made of awareness and pain. The weight of yesterday falls over me before I even open my eyes. The unfamiliar room. The locked door. Him.I keep my eyelids closed for a moment longer, clinging to the fragile bubble of oblivion. My body is a map of aches and tension. My cheek pressed against the pillow, I catch the foreign scent of the linens—a blend of lavender and something metallic, excessively clean. Like everything here.Then I remember the window. The night spent staring into the darkness, listening to the absolute silence of the estate a silence so thick it becomes deafening. I eventually fell asleep, defeated by exhaustion, still wearing this silk nightshirt that smells faintly of the perfumed sachet from a luxury boutique. A gift from Lysander. A relic from a world that now seems separated from me by

CéliaThe breakfast room is a long rectangle bathed in cold, muted light. The walls are bare stone, the ceiling vaulted. A massive oak table, which could seat twenty people, holds only two, at opposite ends. A staging. A demonstration of distance.Kassian is already there.He stands near a tall window, gaze lost in the English-style park stretching as far as the eye can see. His silhouette is outlined, imposing and motionless, against the gray light. He wears a dark suit that hugs his broad shoulders with a precision that screams bespoke and power. He doesn't need to turn around for his presence to fill the space, for the air to charge with that electric tension knotting my stomach.I step forward. The sound of my footsteps, muffled by the thick Persian rug, is nonetheless deafening to my ears. He turns then, slowly, as if he'd sensed my approach long before hearing it.His gray eyes sweep over me, from head to toe. A cold inventory. An assessment. The cream dress seems to interest hi

 CéliaThe day passed in the library, a mausoleum of rare books and icy portraits. His voice, precise and relentless, unspooled the history of the Volkovs like a chain designed to ensnare me. I only half-listened. I observed. The emphasis he placed on loyalty, conquest, retention of what belongs to one. Every word was a lesson, a warning.Evening arrives, heavy with the day's unspoken things. I dress with particular care, a simple dress in ivory silk. An armor, however thin. When I go downstairs, he is already there.KassianI waited for her in the sitting room, dressed in black trousers and a dark gray cashmere sweater, carelessly rolled at the forearms. The fine fabric hugs the relief of muscles, the breadth that years of discipline have sculpted. I don't want the tyrant's uniform tonight. I want the man. I want her to see him, to feel him. I turn my back, pretending to contemplate the embers in the fireplace, to give her time to loo