Page 69 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"No," Aaron chokes out behind us. "Kyra, don't—"
But his protest only spurs me on. I tangle my hands in Victor's silver hair, kissing him harder, claiming him as thoroughly as he's claimed me. His hands slide down to grip my ass, lifting me slightly, and I wrap one leg around his hip with shameless abandon.
"That's my girl," Victor growls against my mouth. "Take what you want."
I can hear Aaron making wounded sounds behind us, and can practically feel his heartbreak like a physical presence in the room, but I don't care. This is what power feels like—the ability to destroy someone with nothing but desire.
Victor's mouth moves to my throat, and I throw my head back with a moan that's deliberately theatrical. "Yes," I gasp loud enough for Aaron to hear every word. "God, Victor, you make me feel—"
"Stop," Aaron pleads, his voice breaking. "Please, Kyra, stop."
Victor lifts his head, his eyes dark and cruel. "She doesn't want to stop," he says, his hands still possessively gripping my body. "Do you, sweetheart?"
"Never," I breathe, pulling his mouth back to mine for another searing kiss.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, Victor keeps me pressed against him like a declaration of ownership.
"Time's up, sweetheart," he says softly, his lips brushing my ear. "What's your decision?"
I look at Aaron, tied to the chair, terror and heartbreak warring in his expression. Then at Patrick, waiting patiently by the door with the kind of stillness that speaks of practiced violence. Finally at Victor, who's watching me with the focused attention of a professor observing a particularly interesting experiment.
The ring on my finger catches the Christmas tree lights, sending rainbows across the wall.
"I need to know something first," I say finally.
"Anything," Victor replies.
"If I choose to let him live, will you respect that decision? Or will you have him killed anyway once I'm not looking?"
Victor considers this with the seriousness it deserves. "If you make that choice and give me a compelling reason why it's in ourbest interests, I'll honor it. But you'll need to convince me that leaving him alive doesn't compromise our future."
Fair enough. Cold, calculating, and completely lacking in normal human empathy, but fair by the standards of his world.
Our world now.
"And if I choose... the other option?"
"Then Patrick handles it cleanly and we never speak of it again. Aaron drove up here in a snowstorm, lost control of his car, and tragically died in the wreck. Happens all the time on mountain roads in winter."
The ease with which he delivers this lie should shock me. Instead, I find myself impressed by the thoroughness of his planning. He's thought through every contingency, every possible outcome.
"Kyra," Aaron pleads one last time. "Please. You're not a killer. Don't let him make you into one."
But as I look at him—tied up, helpless, completely at my mercy—I realize something.
I don't feel guilty about having this power over him. I feel...free.
Free from the weight of being good, of being nice, of considering everyone else's feelings before my own. Free from the exhausting performance of moral superiority that I've been putting on my entire life.
Three years of putting Aaron's needs first, of swallowing my ambitions to make room for his ego, of smiling politely when he dismissed my dreams as "cute little hobbies." Three years of making myself smaller so he could feel bigger.
And what did it get me? A broken heart and a pile of debt when he tossed me aside the moment his father applied pressure.
"I've made my decision," I announce, and my voice is steady, certain.
Victor straightens slightly, Patrick shifts position by the door, and Aaron holds his breath.
"But first," I continue, moving to stand directly in front of Aaron's chair, "I want you to understand something."
