When Lilith woke, the first sensation was pain. A deep, bone-aching pain that made her feel as though a carriage had rolled over her body again and again.
Every muscle burned, and every limb throbbed. Her throat was raw, hoarse, and dry from hours of crying and screaming.
Her lips cracked when she tried to part them, and her skin felt scalded where rough hands and sharper teeth had left their marks.
For a moment, she dared to hope it was a nightmare. That she had merely tossed and turned through some grotesque dream. But then she felt it—warmth pressed against her, a heavy arm draped firmly over her waist, pulling her into the solid wall of a man's chest.
Her heart lurched violently. Memories, jagged and merciless, came flooding back: the cold voice claiming her, the weight pinning her down, the relentless rhythm that tore her apart until she couldn't even weep anymore.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze landing on the broad chest beside her, the chiselled face half-shadowed in sleep. Horror clawed through her veins.
With frantic strength, she pushed at the hand on her waist, slipping free. The motion sent sharp pain jolting up her legs, and when she tried to stand, her knees buckled beneath her.
Lilith Steele forced herself upright, her breathing ragged. Then she looked down. Her thighs—tender, trembling—were streaked with dried blood and his semen, the unmistakable evidence of the night's brutality. The bastard didn't even use a condom!
Her stomach twisted. She felt bile rise, tears sting her eyes, and a scream of rage claw at her throat.
She cursed beneath her breath. Cursed the beast on the bed for taking her so cruelly. Cursed her father for placing her in this path, for handing her over like an object to be bartered.
Her gaze landed on the shredded remains of her dress, torn irreparably by Rhett's merciless hands. There was nothing left for her to wear. Shame, anger, and panic coiled together as she snatched up his shirt—still faintly damp from his shower the night before—and a pair of his trousers. They hung loose on her, a pitiful shield against the world. She didn't dare step into the bathroom, didn't dare run water that might wake him.
Instead, she limped from the room, every step a stab of pain, and dragged herself into the waiting elevator.
Outside, the morning light mocked her. She hailed a taxi, her body trembling as she sank into the seat. She leaned against the window, eyes hollow, clutching the oversized shirt around her like armour. When she finally reached home, she stumbled straight to the mirror.
The reflection broke her.
Hickeys bloomed across her neck and collarbone in cruel purples and reds, trails of bruises littered her arms and thighs, and angry bite marks scarred her shoulder. Her body was a canvas of possession, every inch branded with his ruthlessness. Lilith covered her mouth, the sob bursting from her chest before she could hold it back.
It wasn't just Rhett she hated. It was her father. The man who had traded her dignity, her freedom, her very body, for a business deal.
She stripped and staggered into the shower, twisting the faucet until scalding water poured down. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, desperate to erase the scent of him, the memory of him, the feel of him. But no matter how hard she scraped, the ghost of his touch clung like a curse.
When she finally stepped out, her skin was red and stinging, her hair damp and wild. She wrapped herself in a robe, too hollow to care further. With trembling hands, she sent word to her office—she was taking leave.
She needed silence, needed oblivion, and needed to sleep, if only to escape the torment that haunted her every blink.
But peace was denied.
Her phone rang sharply. She saw the name, and her stomach turned to ice. Father.
Hatred brimming in her eyes, she answered.
"Lilith!" Mr. Steele's voice thundered through the line. "You ungrateful brat! Do you know what you've done? Do you realize the opportunity you destroyed with the Marlowes?!"
Her knuckles whitened around the phone. "Destroyed?" Her voice trembled with fury. "You threw me to that old lecher like I was nothing. You sold me, Father. You—"
"Silence!" he roared. "Don't speak to me like that. I should never have allowed you to ruin this family. Your mother's life depends on me, don't forget that. If you don't fix this, if you don't go back tomorrow to meet Mr. Marlowe at The Gilded Orchid, or I'll stop paying for her treatment. Do you hear me?"
Her vision blurred with tears of rage. "You're a monster," she whispered. "A monster who dares call himself a father."
"Ungrateful wretch," he spat. "Do as I say—or you will regret it."
The call ended. Lilith hurled the phone across the room, her chest heaving. The world felt blacker than ever, her hatred boiling until it consumed her. Hatred for her father. Hatred for the Marlowes.
Hatred for herself—for being too weak to stop any of it.
She curled into her bed, body trembling, and sobbed until exhaustion dragged her into a hollow sleep.
---
On the other side of the city, in a high-rise hotel suite, Rhett Barone woke with a rare thing on his lips: a smile.
He was not a man associated with joy. His empire had been built on ruthlessness, on fear, on iron-fisted control. But as he lay back against the headboard, the ruined sheets before him, satisfaction thrummed in his veins. He remembered her cries, her tears, her taste. He remembered the blood staining the bed, proof that she was his and no other man's.
Lilith Steele.
He had known when she slipped from his grasp in the early morning. He had heard the click of the door, felt the absence at his side. But he had not stopped her. No, he would let her run. Let her taste the illusion of freedom. It only sweetened the inevitability of her return.
Now, as he looked at the bed, at the faint smears of blood, a hunger stirred in him again. The memory alone made his body tighten with need. Damn it. He growled low in his throat, dragging a hand through his hair. Even in her absence, she consumed him.
He rose and showered, cold water doing nothing to cool the fire burning beneath his skin. When he emerged, he rang for room service, ordering the suite cleaned thoroughly. Yet when they tried to gather the torn remains of her dress, he stopped them. He kept the fabric, folding it carefully, almost reverently, before setting it aside.
From the drawer of his nightstand, he pulled out his wallet. A worn photograph slid free—her face, captured from some candid moment long ago. He stroked the image with the pad of his thumb, eyes narrowing with a warmth that was far more dangerous than cruelty: obsession.
"Lilith," he murmured, voice deep, almost tender. "I wanted to let you go. But you came to me on your own. Now…" His lips curved in a dark smile. "Now there is no escape."
He picked up his phone and dialled. "Steve," he said when his assistant answered. His tone was cold, sharp, slicing through the line. "Find out what happened to Lilith Steele yesterday. Every detail."
It wasn't long before Steve reported back. Someone—her father—had arranged for her to meet with Mr. Marlowe at The Gilded Orchid. She had been drugged. Drugged and offered like a prize on a platter.
Rhett's jaw clenched. His chest rose with dangerous fury. "They dared," he muttered, voice deadly quiet. "They dared to drug my woman."
"Sir?" Steve asked cautiously.
"Buy them out," Rhett snapped. "The Marlowe Conglomerate. Wreck them, consume them, bury them until their name is nothing but ash. I don't care how much it costs—steel, shipping, trade, whatever they think they own, I want it gutted."
"Yes, Mr. Barone."
Rhett's lips curved once more, though the smile never reached his eyes. His gaze lingered on Lilith's photo, the torn fabric of her dress beside it.
"She will understand soon enough," he murmured. "The world may betray her. Her father may sell her. But me? I will never let her go."
---