We were at sea.
The yacht was massive–like a floating palace cutting through blue waters. It hummed softly beneath me, steady as a heartbeat. On its side, painted in thick silver letters, was a single name: VALERIA. A woman's name, maybe.
I was curled on the king-sized bed inside one of the yacht's suites. Lavish curtains, velvet walls, and the sweet, rhythmic sigh of the waves surrounded me. But none of it mattered. I was cold. Cold to my bones.
I wrapped the duvet tighter around myself. The blanket was thick, warm, everything this moment wasn't.
The door hung slightly ajar, I could see Damien out on the deck, tightening a rope with bare hands. His body moved like he was trying to outrun sleep. Or rage. Maybe both. We hadn't exchanged a word since that night. The night where I asked my husband's son to fuck me–stupid, irrational decision.
Then the air changed.
Don Pedro stepped into the room, silent as smoke.
He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The temperature dropped without warning, and all the freedom I thought I felt evaporated with him. He carried a silver tray with a single teacup, steam curling in the air. He placed it on the table beside the bed like it was a ritual.
"Mongolian tea," he said coolly. "It'll help."
"I don't want it," I murmured.
He raised a brow. "Suit yourself."
I rolled my eyes, reached for the cup, and took a slow sip anyway. More out of spite than need.
Bitter. Spicy. It settled in my chest like fire.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Not quite anything.
He took the chair in the corner of the room, just outside the reach of the bedside lamp. Shadows swallowed most of him. Back straight. Hands resting on the arm rest.
Quiet. Calculating. He loves the dark.
I could barely see his face. But I knew he was staring.
I could feel his gaze on me.
I hadn't closed my eyes once since last night. My body buzzed with exhaustion, but my mind wouldn't shut up. I didn't know if he'd rested either. Somehow, I doubted it, but I knew he wasn't sleeping.
I hated the silence. It was suffocating.
"Who's Valeria?" I asked, maybe to break the silence, maybe out of curiosity. "Your late wife?"
His head turned slightly, but the darkness hid his expression. His voice didn't.
"Don't say that name again."
I should've stopped. But I was tired of swallowing things.
"I've heard tales. Heard she was fearless, strong, fierce. Nothing like me."
He leaned forward, just slightly. The edge of his face caught the light.
"Maybe you didn't hear the part where I killed her."
A breath caught in my throat.
He went on, unblinking. "With my own hands."
The room tilted. My fingers tightened around the teacup. I didn't speak, couldn't.
"How much did you pay my father to have me?" I whispered. "A hundred million? A billion?"
He gave a low, bitter chuckle. "You must think you're worth that much?"
He stood slowly. The kind of rise that made your stomach drop. Every step he took made the space between us shrink and the air grow heavier.
"You want to know what I paid?"
I stared up at him. My pulse was thudding in my ears.
He bent slightly, eyes locking onto mine.
"Nothing."The word was cold. Hollow. Sharp.
"Your father gave you to me free of charge, like a pawn on a board. That's the man who raised you."
He didn't stop.
"He handed you over like a gift wrapped in loyalty. No questions. No hesitation."
I tried not to blink. Not to cry. I failed.
He said it like he's been waiting to tell me I was worth nothing. Like my pain was his pleasure.
"At least," I rasped, "he didn't touch anyone who's didn't want him to."
His jaw tightened.
Whatever satisfaction he'd gotten from hurting me slipped away.
And for a moment, the room went silent. Eerily quiet.
"I'll do anything to make you forget that night," he said quietly.
I stood. On the bed. My height nearly matched his this way. Almost. But still I felt like prey in the eye of a lion.
"There's something I want, then."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
"I can't undo the deal your father made." He said almost immediately like he knew I would ask for my freedom.
"You're wrong."
His head tilted slightly, like he was studying me like my words pulled a question from a place he didn't want to ask.
"I don't want out."
He stilled. The air between us thickened.
"I want you," I whispered, my voice trembling like a flame fighting wind. "Make love to me."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The silence after that line? Suffocating.
Like the whole room had gone still, waiting for him to shatter it.
His eyes didn't just look at me, they burned through me.
"You don't want to see the kind of darkness that comes with being close to me," he warned.
"I think I have an idea or two," I replied, not sure where my courage was coming from, only knowing I'd lose something if I stopped now.
A beat passed.
Then another.
My pulse echoed in my ears.
"Make love to me, Don Pedro," I said again, slower this time. Softer. A challenge and a plea tangled together.
His jaw tensed. His face darkened like storm clouds rolling in.
His eyes flicked to the bed.
To me.
Then back to a place in his soul I couldn't reach—yet.
"I don't make love," he said finally, his voice rough and deep. "I fuck."
My heart was thudding now, wild and steady.
"Then fuck me," I whispered. No flinch. No shame. Just heat and hunger.
A need to feel anything, something but owned.
If he was going to take something—
I wanted to take something back.
I didn't care what part of him came with it. Light or shadow.
Let the monster crawl into my bed.
Let this devil lead me to his dark room.
I was ready.