The ride to The Cosmopolitan was silent. Not the comfortable silence of a finished joke, but the heavy, pressurized silence of deep water. Calla pressed herself against the door, trying to put as much leather between her and the man sitting next to her.

The car slipped into the underground VIP entrance. The flashbulbs of the paparazzi were nonexistent here. Christ valued privacy above oxygen.

They took the private elevator straight to the Penthouse. As the numbers climbed, Calla's stomach dropped. The reality of the certificate in his pocket was starting to claw at her throat.

The doors slid open. Calla stepped out, her legs wobbling. She reached for the wall to steady herself.

Suddenly, the floor was gone.

Christ had scooped her up. One arm under her knees, the other around her back. It wasn't romantic. It was efficient. Like he was carrying a package.

"Put me down!" Calla gasped, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck to keep from falling. Her fingers brushed the coarse hair at the nape of his neck. He smelled of scotch and danger.

He didn't answer. He walked through the sprawling living room, past the floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the glittering strip below, and kicked open the door to the master bedroom.

He dropped her on the bed.

The mattress absorbed the impact, but Calla bounced, her hair fanning out around her. The room was freezing. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that felt like a morgue.

Christ stood at the foot of the bed. He began to undo his tie. His movements were slow, methodical. Zip. Slide. He pulled the silk from his collar and dropped it on the floor.

Calla scrambled backward, her heels digging into the duvet.

"Wait," she stammered. A nervous laugh bubbled up. "Everyone says... I mean, Francis told me... you're asexual. That you don't..."

Christ paused. His hands were on his cufflinks. Click. One gold link hit the nightstand. Click. The second one followed.

"That I don't what?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion.

"That you don't... like people. Like that." Calla pulled her knees to her chest. "Uncle, if you can't... perform, we can just sleep. I'm tired."

Christ's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

He moved. It was a blur of motion. One second he was standing, the next he was over her, his knees bracketing her hips, his hands pinning her wrists to the pillows above her head.

"Who told you I can't perform?"

"Francis," she squeaked. "He said you were... broken."

Something dark and ugly flashed across Christ's face. A vein in his temple throbbed.

"Francis," he spat the name like it was a curse. "You listen to him? You trust him?"

"He's my guardian! He protects me!"

"He owns you," Christ corrected, his voice dropping to a growl. "But now... I own you."

He lowered his head. Calla expected him to yell. Instead, he kissed her.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim. His lips were hard, unyielding, crushing hers with a bruising force. He tasted of anger. Calla tried to turn her head, to whimper, but his grip on her wrists tightened until her bones ground together.

His hand left her wrist and ripped at the bodice of her dress. The sound of expensive fabric tearing was a gunshot in the quiet room.

Calla screamed, the sound muffled by his mouth.

He pulled back, staring down at her exposed skin. His chest was heaving. The mask of the cold machine was gone, replaced by something feral.

"Christ, stop!" tears leaked from her eyes, hot tracks on her cold skin. "Please!"

He froze. He looked at her tears. For a second, she thought he would stop. He reached out, his thumb brushing away a droplet on her cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle compared to the violence in his eyes.

"Say it," he rasped.

"What?" Calla sobbed.

"Say 'Husband'."

Calla clamped her mouth shut. She shook her head, her hair whipping against the pillow.

Christ's jaw tightened. "Fine."

He didn't ask again. He moved with a terrifying purpose. There was no preparation, no kindness. When he entered her, Calla arched her back, a silent scream trapped in her throat. It hurt. It felt like he was carving his name into her very being.

He moved above her, a relentless rhythm that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession. He watched her face the entire time, his eyes wide, unblinking, drinking in every wince, every tear.

"You are mine," he whispered against her sweat-dampened forehead. "Legally. Physically. Forever."

Calla squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image of the man she had feared since childhood now dismantling her piece by piece. The darkness took her slowly, dragging her down into an exhausted, black sleep.

The sun was a physical assault. It sliced through the gap in the curtains, burning Calla's retinas before she even opened her eyes.

She tried to roll over, but her body screamed. Her hips ached, her thighs felt bruised, and there was a dull, throbbing soreness between her legs that brought the memories rushing back.

The chapel. The ring. The ripped dress. The look in his eyes.

Calla sat up, gasping. She looked around the massive bed. It was empty. The sheets on the other side were rumpled but cool.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Christ.

He was wearing nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over abs that looked like they were chiseled from marble.

Calla's breath hitched. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her face burning.

Christ walked to the bed. He didn't look ashamed. He didn't look apologetic. He looked like a king surveying his conquered land.

"Awake?" he asked. His tone was back to business-casual, as if he were asking if she'd finished a report.

"Turn around," Calla croaked. Her voice was hoarse. "I need to get dressed."

Christ raised an eyebrow. He gestured to the floor. "Your dress is... compromised."

Calla looked down. The silk heap on the carpet was unrecognizable. Panic flared in her chest. "That was... Francis bought that for me."

Christ's expression hardened instantly. He walked to the closet, ignoring her request for privacy, and pulled out a white dress shirt. He tossed it at her.

"Put it on. Breakfast is in the living room."

Calla caught the shirt. It smelled like him. Cedar and starch. She wrapped the sheet tighter around herself and tried to stand. Her legs gave way.

She stumbled. Christ was there in a second, his hand gripping her arm to steady her. His skin was hot against hers.

The contact made Calla flinch. She shoved him away, hard. "Don't touch me!"

The rejection sparked something in his eyes. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her messy hair, and pulled her face to his.

He kissed her again. Hard. Possessive.

Calla didn't think. It was pure instinct. A cornered animal reaction. She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.

She tasted metal.

Christ pulled back with a hiss. He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.

Calla froze. The silence in the room was deafening. She had just drawn blood from Christ Carlson. The man who made grown men cry in boardrooms.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, trembling. "You... you started it."

Christ looked at the blood on his thumb. He didn't look angry. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. He slowly licked the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Feisty," he murmured. It sounded like a compliment. It sounded dangerous.

"Eat," he ordered, turning away as if nothing had happened. He gestured toward the living room, where a small foil packet sat next to a glass of water on the coffee table. His gaze lingered there for a moment, an unspoken command.

Calla scrambled into the shirt. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her frame. She buttoned it with shaking fingers and walked into the living room.

A spread of fruit and pastries sat on the glass table. Next to the water, the foil-wrapped package seemed to glare at her. Plan B.

Calla felt a wave of nausea. She sat down, staring at the pill.

Suddenly, a buzzing sound vibrated against the glass.

Calla's phone.

The screen lit up. Francis.

Calla's heart stopped. She stared at the name blinking on the screen.

Christ, who had been reading something on a tablet, looked up. He saw the name.

The air in the room vanished.

The phone buzzed again. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. It sounded like a countdown.

Calla lunged for it, desperate to silence the noise, to hide the evidence.

Christ's hand got there first. His long fingers slammed down on the phone, pinning it to the table.

"Answer it," he said. His voice was silky, terrifyingly calm. "Speakerphone."

Calla went pale. "Please. Christ. Don't let him know."

"Why?" Christ tilted his head. "Are you ashamed of your husband?"

"It's not that! He'll... he'll be so angry. Please."

Christ ignored her. He slid his finger across the screen and tapped the speaker icon.

"Calla?" Francis's voice filled the room. It was tight, laced with panic. "Where are you? Gemma said you left with some guy last night. Are you okay?"

Calla stared at the phone, her lungs paralyzed. Christ watched her, his finger tapping a rhythm on the glass table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I..." Calla swallowed dryly. "I'm okay, Francis. I'm at the hotel. I just... drank too much. I fell asleep."

"Which hotel? Are you alone? Who was the guy?" Francis fired the questions like bullets.

Calla looked at Christ. He was smirking. It was a cruel, cold expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His hand slid under the table.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner thigh.

Calla jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

"Calla?" Francis's voice sharpened. "What was that noise?"

Christ's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the sensitive skin just above her knee. He was watching her struggle, enjoying the torture.

"Nothing!" Calla said, her voice an octave too high. "It's... room service. They just brought breakfast."

Christ's eyes darkened at the lie. He picked up a silver fork and dropped it onto a ceramic plate. Clatter.

"Room service?" Francis sounded suspicious. "Is there a man in there?"

Calla grabbed Christ's wrist under the table, digging her nails in, begging him to stop. He didn't budge. He was solid rock.

"It's the TV!" she lied frantically. "I'm watching the news! It's loud!"

Francis let out a breath, a static sigh over the line. "Okay. Okay. Just... don't scare me like that, Cal. Come home. The jet is waiting. Annamarie is asking for you."

Calla flinched at the name. "Okay. I'm coming."

"Safe travels, sweet pea."

The line went dead.

Calla slumped in her chair, sweat beading on her forehead. She felt like she had just run a marathon.

Christ snatched the phone from the table. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw it against the far wall. It shattered on impact.

Calla screamed, jumping out of her chair.

"Room service?" Christ stood up, stalking around the table. He crowded her against the edge, his body radiating heat and fury.

"You'd rather lie to him than admit you belong to me?"

"It's complicated!" Calla cried, backing away until her hips hit the console table. "You know how he is! He's possessive! If he knew..."

"If he knew what?" Christ grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "That he lost? That his little girl is a woman now? My woman?"

"That he would be heartbroken!" Calla blurted out.

The words hung in the air.

Christ's face went blank. The anger vanished, replaced by that terrifying, dead calm.

"Heartbroken," he repeated flatly.

He released her chin as if touching her disgusted him.

"Pack your things," he said, turning his back on her. "We're going back to New York."