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CHAPTER THREE
My head’s a mess when we pull up outside Milton’s intended destination, unable to believe what he’s just said.
Iforcedhim? Now that’s a joke. Pushing someone’s limits doesn’t mean I made him. Since coming back into my life, hasn’t he forced me through things?
He must think I’m an idiot. He could’ve pushed me away or left if he didn’t want me near him. He forgets that he kissed me first when I went to him after what happened in the tunnels. He’s as much to blame as I am.
“You can’t just do something like that without a safe word. Without precautions.”
Aren’t safe words used for dominants and submissives? Is that what Milton’s part of the club is all about? Ishea dominant? I mean, it would make sense. He seems naturally dominant.
“I wouldn’t just own you… you’d own me.”
He wants ownership, not a relationship. Another clue to the mystery, adding to the hundreds of questions I have for him. It’s laughable to think actual feelings exist here. He’s done nothing but torture me, showing me that he often gets off on it. He only came for me because of a contract he insists is still between us—a contract that gives him an excuse to be here in his messed-up mind. All my life, I have been tossed aside, and if I hadn’t signed that stupid piece of paper, Milton would have left me on the pavement Lucius left me on.
That, I’m sure of.
Within minutes, we pull outside a set of towering black gates surrounded by lush greenery. In his pocket, Milton pulls out his phone, and after punching in some code, the gates jerk open. “Where are we?”
As we move along, we weave around fallen branches and debris as if the road had been deliberately unkempt to keep curious eyes away.
Within a mile, after passing two huge stone pillars and down a long driveway lined with overgrown bushes, a three-story house is hidden among the trees. It is a dramatic gothic structure of tawny bricks, a blue steel roof, and black windows. It resembles a miniature castle with turrets, gargoyles, and mystery. This must be Milton’s home—his real one away from the club.
It suits him perfectly.
Parking near the large wooden door, Milton gets off the bike and helps me down. “This is Grantham Manor,” he finally answers my question. “Where you’ll be staying until you’re no longer being hunted.”
“Here?” My eyes widen with shock, and one of his eyebrows rises.
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“I was half expecting a cage.”
He stomps past me, helmet in hand, expression as grim as the dark gray clouds in the sky. “That can be arranged.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I follow him toward the gorgeous house. The closer we get, the more I take in with wonder. I haven’t crossed the threshold, and already there’s a sense of calm washing over me, which is a stupid thing to do. Don’t I know by now that it’s dangerous to adopt a false sense of security and let my guard down? Will I ever learn?
Approaching the front entrance, we step under a magnificent stone arch with ivy weaving between the brick. My chest tightens when Milton unlocks the door. Lights flicker on, the interior just as breathtaking. His taste for darker decor must’ve originated from here. It’s open plan and warm inside, unlike Club X’s cold marble and slate. Who knew I’d be gushing over the interior design like my mother?
“Stay here,” he says after we enter a large lounge. As he leaves through a different door, I sink into the cushions of a luxurious beige couch adorned with soft pillows and a throw. Keeping my arm elevated to avoid getting blood on anything, it hits me then—the absolute exhaustion.
The last twenty-four hours have well and truly hit home, and no area of my body has been spared. Still, despite the tiredness and aches, I’m hyperaware of every movement Milton makes when he returns. My mind decides at that moment to bombard me with flashes of everything that happened in the red underground depths of the club, pulling forth all the feelings I left there. Even the carnal desires.
Dropping a first aid kit onto the mahogany coffee table, he’s shed his biker jacket and gloves. His white T-shirt beneath is bloodstained from where I stabbed him, and my back straightens as he sits next to me. With an alarming vengeance, it’s back. The tension. Wetting my dry lips with my tongue, I’m tortured, needing a new kind of savior. One from the man himself.
“Come here.” The first aid kit’s open, and everything required is laid out on the table. He waits with a dark stare for me to move closer, so he can inspect the damage to my arm.
Shuffling forward with a sigh, he helps me out of the hoodie, and I cringe that my arm’s drenched with blood as he pulls back the fabric. Mopping up the blood first, he cleans the wound with an antiseptic. As he does, I distract myself from the sting by following the thick veins up his hands and arms to where his muscles protrude. All that power and his touches are gentle as he works.
My eyes go further upward to his face, and my heart stutters. He really is a damn beautiful devil. His lips are flat in concentration, and I marvel at how he seems to know what he’s doing. “I’m going to give you a shot. If the metal was rusted, you could get an infection.”
“Oh, so you’re a doctor now?”
“Yes.” The side of his lip quirks upward, and my eyebrow rises. He catches my cynicism. “Why do you think I own Stonehill?”
“Because craziness gets you off?” I offer.
“You’re going to need a couple of structures. It’ll stop the bleeding.” He grabs a bottle of bourbon from the table, which I hadn’t noticed he’d brought in. Pulling off the cap, he takes a swig from it.
