Page 45 of Forbidden Empire
“Esme, you don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a fucking choice.”
He looked like he was about to snap. And then he did.
His hands slammed down on the desk so hard the whole thing shook, loose pens and paper flying. The wood split under his fist, splinters spraying everywhere.
"Rhea’s men put three bullets in my guys last night. Three. You think they’re fucking around? And you’re standing here like this is a goddamn debate?"
I just lifted my chin, met his eyes. "No."
The silence was deafening, stretched so tight it could break.
He came around the desk, each step a threat—loud, angry, restrained. When he reached me, he didn’t hesitate. He got right up in my face, so close I could feel his breath, hot and rough, brushing my lips.
"If you won’t help me destroy Rhea," he breathed, "I’ll lock you down so deep, even God won’t find you."
He slid a single page across the desk. “Sign, or I will escort you to your brother so he can handle family law.”
The terms were straightforward: two security escorts with me at all times, work in his war room until Rhea was bled dry, no outside communications, all external accounts frozen, and finally, an ankle monitor.
“Is this my punishment?” I asked.
“These are the consequences of your actions,” he said. “You drew blood. You pay markers. Three of them. Sign.”
I picked up the pen, hating the way it felt heavier than it should have. Thankfully, my hand remained steady as I scrolled my name across the line.
In the next moment, Ares crouched before me, placed a decorative silver band around my ankle, and fastened it. An LED then blinked green.
He didn’t look at me, only past me, to the men at the door, before saying, “If it goes dark, trigger Team Five and Eight. Assume hostile interference.”
“Copy,” they said in unison.
I caught the look Aidon gave me. Message received.
“It’s a leash,” he said. “And you chose it.”
My pulse hammered, but I refused to so much as flinch.
I wouldn’t blink or swallow. I wasn’t about to let him see a single goddamn crack in my armor. I held his stare, refusing to look away.
Fuck him.
He thought he owned me now.
As if letting him between my thighs somehow meant I belonged to him? That fucking delusion would be his undoing.
His hand shot up before I could move, fingers skimming over my throat, a touch so gentle it burned.
He took a deliberate step forward, eyes locked with mine, and my instincts did the only thing they could.
I backed away. He followed. I retreated again. Over and over, until my shoulder blades hit the cold, unyielding plaster.
Nowhere left to go.
Then his hand tightened around my throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he could.
A perfect move. Textbook.
