Page 52 of The Rules
Not just rich—the kind of wealth that turns people into pawns. Entitled in the worst way: the type that doesn’t ask—it takes. And worse, the aggression—the kind that thrives on fear, that savors the sound of a boundary snapping.
Her throat tightens, breath catching as if snagged on a barbed wire. Because now, she gets it. This was about sending her to a fucking wolf.Aria knew exactly what she was doing.And now? Now she has to survive it.
One glance tells her everything: the way he sprawls, the lazy tension, the practiced hunger in his eyes. Not just drunk. Dangerous. The kind of man who hears "no" and thinks it's an invitation to push harder.
A chill runs down her spine as she realizes the gravity of the situation she's found herself in. She's been thrust into the lion's den, with no one to hear her scream if things go wrong.
Dread slithers up her spine as his gaze drags over her.
His voice is slurred, but the underlying menace is clear.
"Come here, sweetheart," he says, patting his lap. "Sit on my lap. I promise, I tip well."
Her stomach tightens, but she refuses to let her fear show.
She lifts her chin, lips curling into a practiced, sweet smile.
"I'm flattered, really," she says, her tone syrupy and smooth. "But I don't do requests like that."
The man chuckles, shaking his head as if she's a joke he's already heard a thousand times. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
Katherine keeps her face blank, her stance light. But her pulse is hammering beneath the surface.
"I'm here to dance," she replies, voice still soft, still honeyed— but firm. Clear. "Nothing more."
That should be the end of it. It always is.
Most men take the hint. Get embarrassed when they push too hard.
He stands. Slowly.
Like a shadow peeling itself from the couch.
The lazy sprawl is gone—now he’s moving, deliberate and silent, closing the distance before she can step back.
Then – he grips her tightly, gripping her wrist with an iron grip.
Katherine yanks back on instinct, panic flaring hot and sharp in her chest—but he doesn’t let go. His grip tight, unforgiving, like a man claiming something he thinks he owns. Eyes glitter with sick amusement, like her resistance is just foreplay.
"Don't be like that, baby," he slurs, every syllable thick with entitlement. "I paid good money for you."
Her pulse roars in her ears. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This isn’t something she can charm her way out of.
This is already happening.
Kath lifts her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze—because looking away would feel too much like surrender. Her body’s screaming for distance, for safety, but he’s already taken that from her.
She’s not choosing whether to fight. She’s choosinghow hard.
Her heart hammers against her ribs as she twists, desperate to break his hold, but his grip only tightens. A jolt of nausea twiststhrough her as his other hand finds her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, bruising and possessive.
His breath is hot and sour with expensive whiskey—cloying, vile. Like rot in a gilded glass. A slick, nauseating heat radiates where his breath touches her, every instinct screaming to get away.
"I know you like it," he murmurs, his voice a wet slide against her ear. The smugness in his tone makes her want to vomit. "The little black one told me so."
The words hit Kath like a physical blow. Her world tilts on its axis as understanding crashes through her.
Aria.
