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I’m going to enjoy breaking her down, day after day, week after week, month after month, until she gives in to her desires fully, until she’s nothing but my toy, my pet. And then? Well, by then, I’ll probably be tired of her.
I ignore the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about her today, that just talking about her made me hard, that seeing the scrapes on her face and throat last night made me angrier than I have been in a long, long fucking time. I wanted to kill whoever had dared to lay hands on her—not because she’s mine, but because deep down…I’ve started to care about her. What happens to her, how she feels.
But that’s not acceptable, and that’s at least half the reason I dragged her in here. Not just to remind her of her place, but to remind me of it too. To remind myself of what she is to me. Because things like caring and emotions and getting close to someone, in my world? That ends in disaster every time.
Jaxon is the perfect example of that.
“You can go,” I tell her flatly, not letting her see a single emotion cross my face.
She squares her shoulders and walks out, head held high like a queen, as if she doesn’t have my cum coating her thighs right this second.
I have to admire her grit, even if it is fucking infuriating sometimes.
* * *
I’mat Winter’s dorm to pick her up at seven on the dot, just as I’d promised. I’m nothing if not a gentleman, living up to my lord title in every way—dressed to the nines in a black tux and ready to squire her to the gala as requested…even if I don’t particularly want to.
I was still horny as hell earlier, even after fucking Athena. When I went home to shower and get ready, I tried jerking off in the shower, tried to think of Winter while I did it instead of Athena. I pictured myself humiliating her, debasing her, forcing her to her slender knees and fisting her sleek red hair, taking the pampered Romero princess and making her my bitch. But somehow, it didn’t have the same effect. The thought of coating Winter’s full pink lips in my cum didn’t make me throb the way picturing Athena’s defiant face dripping with it did—and still does. Winter just seems like a waste of time, boring even, because as much as she might hate the sort of things I’d do to her, she’d do them happily anyway, just for the chance to change her last name to Blackmoor. She’s a conniving little social climber, not satisfied with the Romero name, one of the wealthiest families in the town after the founders.
She’d do anything I demanded of her without a fight. Once, I enjoyed that. I used to love the girls who spread themselves wide obediently, who went down on their knees without having to be asked, who opened up for me without question. It made me feel good, wanted, powerful to know that I didn’t even have to command them to give me their holes for my pleasure—they’d beg me for it instead.
But Athena has changed all that. Her fire, her spark, her stubborn insistence on fighting back—all of that has made girls like Winter seem impossibly dull, too easy to excite me anymore.
So when Winter walks out of her dorm in a pale blue satin evening gown, her hair done up in a perfect, flaming updo, her skin and figure absolute perfection, I feel nothing. Not even the hint of arousal.
All I can think about is Athena.
And it drives me fucking insane.
The gala is one of the usual tedious charity events, being held at an art gallery downtown, with dinner and an auction to follow to benefit whatever foundation they’ve decided to throw money at—probably one that someone here chairs so that they can pocket a hefty portion of it. I’ve rarely seen these foundations do much good. They mostly just exist as a way to easily funnel more funds into the pockets of those who need it least, while making everyone else feel good about themselves as they pretend not to know what’s really happening.
As we walk in, a tall, pretty blonde in an emerald green gown that looks similar to the pale blue one Winter is wearing hurries towards us, grabbing Winter’s hands. “Oh my god, you look gorgeous,” she exclaims, her pink lips pouting prettily as her gaze runs enviously over Winter. She’s about twenty pounds too heavy, which would explain her jealousy, and Winter preens under her admiration, which makes me dislike Winter even more.
I have the sudden, deep urge to get the fuck out of this place, a desire to be back home, back in my own room, my own bed, where Athena will be waiting for me.
It unsettles me because this is my world, my place. Meetings and boardrooms and charity events and dinners and lunches at country clubs are all my future. The place I’ve aspired to since I was young, the things I’ll be required to do and attend as the heir to and lord of Blackmoor.
There’s no reason for me suddenly to feel uncomfortable and unsettled by all of the glitter and lies that comprise the people that I’ve grown up around, to want to laugh at the blonde’s envy or slap the simpering smile off of Winter’s face. I shouldn’t hate any of these people—I am them. I’m one of them, the best of them—their lord.
For the first time, I question if it wouldn’t be better to dispose of Athena in some way, to send her back to her mother’s house, show the proof of my winning her virginity, and then banish her to some dark servant’s position, where I’ll see her as little as possible.
She’s getting into my blood, like a disease, like a poison—like a drug. Making me see things differently, question things that I don’t want to question. I should be happy to have a woman like Winter as my promised wife, even if I don’t particularly desire her or like her. She’s exactly the sort of wife I need. Everything is falling into place—and yet, I feel more unsettled than ever.
“Dean?” Winter tugs at my elbow. “Come on, let’s walk around the gallery before it’s time for dinner.”
I take a flute of champagne off of a passing tray, sipping at it idly as we make our way around the gallery, looking at the various paintings and sculptures that will be up for auction for “charity.” None of it looks particularly inspired to me—a great deal of it, in my opinion, looks about as highbrow as a toddler’s macaroni art. Yet, Winter is oohing and aahing over it as if it’s Picasso and Rembrandt and Van Gogh.
The dislike that I feel for her settles more firmly in my gut, burning like acid as I toss back the rest of the champagne. I wonder what her father—and more importantly, my father—would say if I told them that I’m not interested in having her as my wife, that I’d prefer someone else.
But really, what’s the difference? Any of these society women are going to be the same—hungry for wealth and status, trained to be delicate flowers who know how to throw a dinner party and manage the servants and plan a gala and pick a nanny for the children, who have been taught since birth that a quiet voice and a lack of opinion and keeping your husband happy are the most important things—right after landing a wealthy husband in the first place.
At least Winter has actually voiced her objection to Athena—which means I’ll enjoy shoving it in Winter’s face that I’m fucking her all the more. I can at least get some pleasure out of that. Whereas one of these other “ladies” would probably just nod and smile and tell me, “Whatever you want, my love,” even if I told them I wanted them to watch while I ate my pet’s ass out.
There’s nothing real here. And that’s what Athena has done to me—opened my eyes to it, made me want something real. Made me want her loud, sassy mouth and vibrant opinions and outrageous makeup and biker trash clothes, her stubborn defiance, and tough girl looks and attitude. All the things that I would have said I found disgusting, an absolute turn-off, not befitting even a Blackmoor pet, let alone a Blackmoor lady, Athena has turned into things that give me an erection that just won’t quit.
“We should buy one of these,” Winter purrs. “For the Blackmoor Estate house, once it’s yours. It could be the first thing we buy together.”
“Sure,” I say absentmindedly, glancing around the room. I don’t particularly care, my father is the one who pays my credit card bills. But Winter is already brightening, looking around the room at the various pieces of shitty art to pick the one she likes best.
