The elevator ride back to the penthouse was the quietest three minutes of my life. Kyle didn't look at me. He stood with his back to me, watching the floor numbers climb, his shoulders tension-tight beneath his ruined tuxedo.
When the doors opened, he didn't call for the guards. He grabbed my upper arm—not enough to bruise, but enough to let me know I wasn't moving unless he permitted it—and hauled me toward his private study. Not the bedroom. The room where he made his most cold-blooded decisions.
He slammed the door and locked it. The click echoed like a gunshot.
"Strip," he said.
I froze. My mouth, usually my best weapon, failed me for a split second. "Excuse me?"
"The hoodie. The leggings. Everything you took from my closet to facilitate your little 'disappearing act'." Kyle walked over to his desk and sat on the edge of it, crossing his arms. He looked at me with a clinical, arrogant detachment that made my skin crawl. "You want to play the thief? Then you don't get to keep the loot. Take it off."
"You're a sick, arrogant bastard," I hissed, clutching the hem of the hoodie. "You think because you caught me, you get to humiliate me?"
"I think that for a week, I've been patient," Kyle said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, low vibration. "I took a bullet. I watched my father bleed. And in return, you tried to run. You didn't just break my rules, Valentina. You insulted my intelligence. Now, off. Now."
I stood my ground, my eyes burning with a mix of fury and something I refused to call fear. "No. If you want it, come take it."
Kyle didn't hesitate. He was off the desk in a heartbeat. He didn't rush me; he moved with the slow, confidence of a man who knew exactly how this would end. He backed me up against the floor-to-ceiling window. The cold glass was at my back; his burning heat was at my front.
He reached out, his hands gripping the front of the hoodie. He didn't pull it off. He just held it, his knuckles brushing against my chest, his gaze locked onto mine.
"You like to talk, Val," he whispered, his breath ghosting over my lips. "You have such a loud, beautiful mouth. But you never listen. You think this is a game? You think I'm just some billionaire you can grift?"
He suddenly yanked the hoodie upward, forcing me to raise my arms. He stripped it off me in one violent motion and tossed it into the corner. I was left in nothing but my thin black camisole, the cool air of the room hitting my skin, making me shiver.
"You're shaking again," he observed, his hand sliding around the back of my neck. His thumb pressed into the hollow of my throat, right against the diamond collar. He tilted my head back, forcing me to look at his arrogant, beautiful face. "Tell me, thief. Are you cold, or are you finally realizing who owns the air you're breathing?"
"You don't own anything," I breathed, my heart hammering so hard it was visible in my throat. I reached up, my fingers digging into his forearms, trying to push him—or pull him closer, I wasn't sure anymore. "You're just a man with a lot of expensive locks. But I've never met a lock I couldn't pick."
Kyle let out a dark, guttural laugh. He moved his hand from my neck to my waist, his fingers splaying across the bare skin of my lower back. He pulled me fast against him, the friction of his tuxedo trousers against my legs sending a jolt through me that made my knees weak.
"Then pick this one," he rasped.
He leaned down, but he didn't kiss me. He bit my lower lip—hard enough to sting, but soft enough to make my head swim. It was an arrogant, physical contact
"Your punishment isn't the basement, Val," he whispered against my mouth, his grip on my waist turning bruising. "Your punishment is that from this second on, you don't take a step in this house without my hand on you. You want to be a liability? Fine. I'll keep you so close you'll forget where I end and you begin."
He picked me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He didn't head for the bed. He sat back down on his desk, keeping me pinned to his chest, his hands roaming over my back with a possessive, frantic energy.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I did. His eyes weren't cold anymore. They were dark with a hunger that was terrifyingly intense.
"You're going to stay right here," he said, his voice was sharp and shaky "On this desk. While I finish the calls that your little stunt interrupted. You're going to sit here, in my lap, and you're going to be silent. If you make a sound, if you try to move... I'll show you exactly how much 'spirit' I can handle."
He reached for the speakerphone, his hand never leaving my hip. He was going to conduct business with me as his captive audience, proving his absolute dominance.
I wanted to scream at him then he began to speak to a director in that cold, arrogant voice, his hand tightened on my skin, an I had to be quiet