The dagger fell to the marble floor.
Cassandra Bolton flinched.
Theodore Bolton's large hand wrapped around her slender neck, tilting her chin upward with unnerving control. His thumb brushed the raw bruises he had left moments earlier. The marks stood out violently against her pale skin, like a bloody collar branded into her flesh.
His eyes were still sharp, still cold, but his rough hand moved with a strange, heavy restraint, dragging across her throat in a mockery of gentleness. To anyone else, it would have felt like cruelty. To Cassandra, it was the only mercy he ever offered.
Her lips trembled as she forced herself to whisper, "B-Big brother… it doesn't hurt. Really. I… I'm fine."
Even as her chest tightened with humiliation, even as her skin burned under his touch, Cassandra Bolton's wide eyes looked up at him with forced trust, desperate obedience—because in the house of Bolton, survival meant submission.
And Theodore Bolton, stiff and silent, let his hand linger just a moment too long before pulling away, leaving her neck stinging, throbbing, and marked as his.
The dark bruises looked like a collar mark against the rest of her fair skin. Theodore Bolton's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile as he studied the mark he had left.
"Mmmn. Did I scare you?" His growl was low, rich, and predatory.
Cassandra Bolton shivered, her tiny frame tightening instinctively.
"Not at all, big brother. I know you'll never harm me." Her soft, raspy voice was like a kitten purring for warmth, full of trust. Yet in the secret corners of her mind, she knew: if he wanted, her life would end before she could even blink.
She drank her water in trembling gulps and sank back into the bed, her back slick with cold sweat. She had faced mercenaries who thrived on terror, killers who took joy in fear, but none had chilled her as profoundly as the man who claimed to be her brother.
The bed dipped beside her. One long, hard arm circled her, drawing her closer, pressing her into his chest like a marionette in a master's grip. The rhythm of his heartbeat was steady, relentless, suffocating.
Carefully, she tugged the blanket over him, an innocent gesture of protection that earned a low, amused groan from him.
"Sleep, little one." His voice was velvet over steel, a command that demanded obedience. Cassandra closed her eyes, believing herself safe, lulled into illusion.
Theodore Bolton's eyes opened in the dark. He gazed at her curled form with the patience of a king surveying a tiny, foolish jester, utterly unaware of the strings he held.
Such a stupid little idiot. How eagerly she trusts, how sweetly she clings to the word "brother." He could crush her innocence with a thought, and the idea made him chuckle silently, dark and slow. The secret he held, the truth she could never imagine… it was delicious.
"Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!"
The piercing scream shattered the morning silence, dragging Cassandra Bolton and Theodore Bolton from their slumber.
Cassandra Bolton sat up, groggy and rubbing her eyes, while Theodore Bolton stretched languidly, every movement dripping with regal dominance. His golden hair glimmered in the sunlight, tousled yet perfect, and the bronze glow of his skin seemed almost sinful—beautiful enough to mesmerize, yet dangerous enough to send a shiver down the spine. He was a predator wrapped in the guise of an emperor, both intoxicating and terrifying.
The scars decorating his hard muscles only added a layer of dangerous yet sinful allure and sensuality to his appearance, making one's heart race as his sapphire eyes look at you with a dangerous glint.
Cassandra Bolton's gaze swept across the room. Trembling maids knelt on the floor, and the four female bodyguards she had noticed upon waking stood like statues, their posture rigid with trained discipline.
Yet her eyes were drawn to a new figure: a cold, blonde beauty who seemed to command the very air. She was draped in an extravagant red gown that shimmered with each subtle movement, her lace-gloved hands delicate yet impossible to ignore. A cigar pipe rested effortlessly between her slim fingers, but her glare—sharp, piercing, unyielding—cut through the room like polished steel.
Her face and eyes bore a resemblance to Theodore Bolton, especially the golden hair that shimmered beautifully in the light and the unparalleled exotic beauty they both possess. Realization dawned on Cassandra Bolton. The woman was her mother, the First Madame.
It was her first time meeting the mother of the owner of this body, after waking up. Her body trembled instinctively at the cold glare from the woman as her head throbbed with painful suffocating memories that vanished before she could grasp it. But one thing was clear- the original Cassandra Bolton really feared this woman, her mother.
And that fear was etched deep in her bones.