"You should be running," I tell her honestly. "Any sane woman would be. I'm telling you I've orchestrated every meeting, that I've been watching you, planning for you." My voice drops lower. "That I'm obsessed with you. That I would destroy worlds for you."
"Why me?" She sounds genuinely bewildered. "I'm nobody."
Something snaps inside me. I grip her face between both hands, tilting it up to mine, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Don't." The word is a growl. "Don't you ever fucking say that again. You're everything. You're perfect. You're exactly what I've been looking for without knowing it."
Tears gather in her eyes, and I hate myself for putting them there, even as another part of me—the darkest, most possessive part—exults in her emotional response.
"I don't understand," she whispers, and a tear spills over, tracking down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb.
"I want to protect you. Provide for you. Take away every worry, every fear." My hands slide down to her throat, feeling her pulse jump beneath my fingers. "I want to own you, Wren. Body and soul."
She trembles but doesn't pull away. “But I don’t know anything about,” she weakly protests.
“What do you want to know, baby girl. Shoot.”
“Are you in the mafia?”
I bark out a laugh. “Not exactly, though I guess I’m as ruthless as some of those guys. Next question.”
“H-how old are you?”
“Sixteen years older than you.”
She chews her bottom lip, but I see the way she presses her thighs together.Interesting.
"Does it bother you that I'm old enough to be the daddy you never had? That I want to praise you and protect you and punish you when necessary?" My thumb traces her lower lip. "Because it fucking works for me. Makes me harder than granite to think about you calling me Daddy while I'm buried inside you."
A small, desperate sound escapes her throat. Not protest.Want.
Fucking hell, little bird.
"I'm going to pay off your loans," I continue, pressing my advantage. "Buy you a new wardrobe. Give you a job that actually uses your talents. I'm going to make sure you neverworry about money or safety again." I press my hips forward, letting her feel my hardness against her stomach. "And in return, you're going to give yourself to me. Completely. Without reservation."
Her hands have found their way to my chest, but she's not pushing me away. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on.
"You're mine to breed," I tell her, watching her pupils blow wide at the words. "Mine to praise. Mine to keep forever." I lean in until my lips brush her ear. "This isn't negotiable, little bird. I'm not asking. I'm telling you how it's going to be."
I pull back just enough to see her face, to gauge her reaction. I expect fear, hesitation, maybe even disgust. What I see instead steals the breath from my lungs.
Desire. Raw and unfiltered. Her eyes are dark with it, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. She looks at me like I've offered her salvation instead of obsession.
"Say something," I demand, suddenly uncertain for the first time in decades.
Wren licks her lips, and I track the movement with predatory focus.
"This is crazy," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice. "We barely know each other."
"I know everything about you," I counter. "I know you cry at animal rescue commercials. I know you give your tips to the homeless man outside the coffee shop every Tuesday. I know you sleep on your right side, curled up like you're still trying to protect yourself from the world." I brush her hair back from her face. "And I know you want this as much as I do. You want to be taken care of. Claimed. Owned."
Her breath hitches, and for a moment, we're suspended in perfect, terrible balance. Then she rises on her tiptoes, brings her mouth to my ear, and whispers the words that seal her fate.
"Show me."
seven
. . .