Zara woke with the bruises of last night still humming beneath her skin.
Not just the ones on her body — but the ones on her will.
Her fingers trailed along the collar still fastened around her throat.
Not tight. Not painful. Just… present.
Aiden hadn't returned to the bedroom.
He hadn't needed to.
He already knew she wouldn't leave.
Downstairs, the mansion was silent. Until she heard it — laughter.
Feminine. Familiar.
Zara's chest tightened.
She followed the sound to the sunroom, where Aiden stood — black slacks, no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms — pouring coffee into two cups.
Across from him, perched like a perfectly groomed thorn, sat Camille.
The ex.
Zara didn't speak. Didn't storm.
She simply stepped forward — barefoot, collar on, still sore from being used.
Camille's eyes flicked to her, amusement curling her lips.
> "Morning," she purred. "Didn't realize you had company last night."
Aiden glanced at Zara over his mug.
> "I told her you'd be joining us. She insisted on staying for breakfast."
Zara didn't answer. Her silence said enough.
Camille stood, brushing imaginary dust from her designer dress.
> "You're welcome to sit. Unless Aiden has rules about that too."
She left without waiting for a response.
Zara stood there, fists clenched, fury hot in her blood.
> "What was that?" she hissed once the door shut.
> "Jealousy," Aiden said, unfazed. "I wanted to see if you could still think straight with her here."
> "That wasn't a test. That was a game."
> "Same thing, if you lose."
He walked past her, brushing his fingers over the collar. Not cruel — gentle. Possessive.
> "You want me to take this off?"
"You'll have to earn that."
---
Later that day, Zara tried to clear her head.
She wandered into the lounge, but the air felt heavy — thick with Camille's perfume and her own confusion.
That's when her phone buzzed again.
Another message from the investor she flirted with last night.
James, was it?
She opened it.
> "Dinner? Just the two of us this time."
She stared at the message.
And smiled.
Not because she wanted James.
But because she wanted control.
---
That night, she dressed carefully.
No collar.
No vibrator.
No Aiden's rules.
Just skin-tight red satin and her lipstick in a shade called Revenge.
Aiden was in his study when she passed by.
He didn't stop her.
He didn't even look up.
But she knew he knew.
She also knew… he wouldn't let it go unanswered.
---
Zara arrived at the restaurant thirty minutes late.
On purpose.
The place was dim, private, expensive — the kind of quiet that made secrets feel safe.
James stood when he saw her, sharp in a tailored navy suit, his eyes drinking her in.
> "Wow," he said, offering a smile. "You look… stunning."
Zara slid into the booth, crossing her legs deliberately.
Every movement was precise — a show.
> "I needed a reason to be late," she said, voice low. "So I made one."
He chuckled, clearly intrigued.
> "So you like games too."
Zara stirred her drink, letting silence linger between them.
> "No," she said finally. "I just got tired of being someone else's pawn."
James leaned in, curious.
> "Are you in trouble, Zara?"
She smiled.
> "Not yet."
---
Back at the mansion…
Aiden sat in his study, alone, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him.
Zara's tracker — embedded discreetly in the collar — had been removed.
Of course she took it off.
Of course she knew he'd notice.
He wasn't angry.
Not yet.
He was… interested.
He opened the hidden app on his phone — the one connected to the mansion's surveillance system.
And sure enough, Camera 4 blinked.
The front gate.
She was back.
---
The click of her heels echoed in the foyer like a countdown.
Zara barely made it past the front door when Aiden appeared — silent, still, in the shadows of the hallway.
> "Did you enjoy your dinner?" he asked, voice low.
Zara didn't flinch.
> "Immensely."
> "Did he touch you?"
She tilted her head.
> "Why? Would that ruin your toy?"
Aiden's eyes darkened.
> "You're not a toy, Zara."
He stepped closer, slow and controlled.
> "You're a live wire. And you just shocked the wrong person."
She met his gaze, chin lifted.
> "Then punish me."
He stared at her — hard, unreadable — and then…
> "Take off the dress."
Her hands moved slowly. She unzipped the back, let the satin fall like blood to the marble floor.
No collar.
No panties.
No fear.
> "Now get on the stairs. Face down. Knees apart."
She obeyed.
He came up behind her, pressing one hand between her shoulder blades and the other between her thighs.
> "You want control so badly?"
"Then control how loud you scream."
His hand came down hard, once. Twice. The slap echoed.
Then… his mouth followed.
Rough kisses. Sharp bites. Fingers that knew her better than she knew herself.
She moaned his name — half in pleasure, half in defiance.
> "Not that name," he growled.
"Say it right."
> "D-Daddy…"
That's when he pushed her limits — deeper, faster, fingers curling in ways that shattered her silence.
> "Next time you want dinner," he said, panting against her ear, "you'll ask me first."
He didn't let her come.
Again.
He left her trembling on the steps, slick and ruined.
> "Clean up. And next time, don't test me."
---
Zara barely had time to breathe before he was on her.
Aiden didn't kiss her.
He claimed her.
There was no teasing, no patience, no words. Just the sound of her back hitting the wall and his hands in her hair — mouth crashing down on hers like he wanted to erase every trace of James she might've brought back with her.
> "Dinner with another man?" he growled against her throat, teeth grazing skin. "Did you want me to lose control, Zara?"
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
His grip on her hips tightened, lifting her with effortless strength. Her legs wrapped around him like instinct. She could feel his restraint snapping thread by thread.
> "You think I don't see it?" he whispered. "You wanted to be seen. To be wanted by someone who wasn't me."
He didn't wait for permission. He didn't give her time to adjust.
Each thrust was punishment. A sentence. A question she couldn't answer, and a confession he wouldn't admit out loud.
> "You think this is about control?"
He drove deeper, harder.
> "This is about you getting under my skin—when I swore no one would."
Her breath hitched, fingers clawing at his back, nails dragging down his spine.
> "You're in my head, Zara."
He kissed her again, brutal and bruising.
> "And I hate it."
That was the truth.
Buried between the dominance and the desire… was the fear.
Fear that this wasn't just control anymore.
That this wasn't just sex.
That she wasn't just a contract.
> "You want to make me jealous?" he whispered, voice ragged. "Fine. But don't cry when I remind you who you belong to."
His pace was relentless.
She tried to speak — to beg — but her moans melted into incoherent pleas.
And still, he didn't slow down.
> "You'll take every second of this, Zara. Every reminder."
He didn't let her fall apart — not yet.
He pulled her close, resting his forehead to hers, breathing hard.
> "You like being owned?"
She whimpered, lips trembling.
> "Then say it."
> "I—I like it," she gasped. "I like being yours."
He stilled — just for a heartbeat. Then kissed her again, softer this time. But his hands never loosened. His hold never faltered.
> "Good girl."
And that's when he let her come undone. Loud. Raw. Ruined.
He stayed there, holding her — chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
But as he set her down, brushing her hair from her face, she saw it.
Not anger.
Not lust.
Fear.
> "You're going to break me," he whispered.
---