Chapter 2 His Favorite Pet

• The echo of her heels on marble was the only sound in the house as she made her way to the master bedroom. The mansion was as cold as it was beautiful—designed to impress, never to comfort. Just like him.
• She paused at the door, heart hammering, hands shaking as she reached for the gold handle. Lucien hadn’t called for her, not yet. But she had learned early that being late—being anything but ready—earned her punishment.
• And he liked punishing her.
• When she pushed the door open, he didn’t look up from the crystal tumbler in his hand. Whiskey. Always whiskey. The fire beside him glowed amber, shadows dancing across the sharp line of his jaw, the thick fall of dark hair, the cold calculation in his profile. He didn’t look at her when he said, “Undress.”
• Her throat bobbed.
• She obeyed.
• Every movement was practiced, careful. She unzipped the silk gown that hugged her frame—he chose every dress she wore, every shade, every stitch. She was a mannequin. His mannequin. The fabric slid off her like water, pooling at her feet as she stood bare in the flickering firelight.
• Still, he didn’t look. He liked to make her wait.
• She stood there, arms at her sides, spine straight even as tears pricked the corners of her eyes. He didn’t want tears. He wanted obedience.
• Minutes passed before he finally turned his head.
• His eyes dragged over her body, slow and deliberate, as if he was cataloging a possession he might grow bored of. “Kneel.”
• She did.
• The rug scratched at her knees, but she stayed still. She didn’t flinch. He liked her still.
• He stood, towering over her, glass still in hand. “Did I tell you to come?”
• “No, sir.”
• “Then why are you here?”
• “I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything.”
• He smiled at that. Cruel. Mocking. “I never need. I take.”
• She didn’t answer. She wasn’t supposed to.
• He set the glass down, came to stand before her. Fingers hooked under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Open.”
• She did. Lips parted, mouth trembling.
• The belt unbuckled behind her eyes, the slow hiss of leather sliding through loops. His pants hit the floor.
• She didn’t need instructions.
• She’d been trained.
• He used her mouth like a toy, one hand tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to hurt, just enough to make her gasp and gag. He liked her tears now. The way they ran down her cheeks while she tried to breathe around him. The way her body shivered as he whispered filth into her ear.
• When he finished, he dragged her up to her feet and shoved her against the wall. “I should’ve left you in that chapel,” he muttered against her neck. “But you looked so desperate to be loved, I thought I’d keep you a little longer. Let’s see how long you last.”
• She didn’t speak. If she said the wrong thing, he wouldn’t touch her. And she craved his touch even when it hurt.
• Because he was all she had.
• He took her against the wall, rough and unrelenting, her legs wrapped around his waist as he claimed her again and again. He didn’t ask if it hurt. He didn’t care if it did.
• When he was done, he left her on the floor. Used. Bruised. Silent.
• He poured another drink. Didn’t look back. “Sleep on the floor tonight. Pets don’t belong in my bed.”
• She curled up against the cold rug, tears hot against her cheeks. She didn’t cry loud. He didn’t like that. And maybe, maybe if she was quiet and good and still—he’d let her back in his bed tomorrow.
• She wanted to be in his bed.
• She still loved him.
• Even now.
• Even when she could hear laughter down the hall—another woman in another room.
• But she was the wife. The one who stayed. The one who kept trying.
• The one who let herself be shattered.
• Because maybe if she endured enough pain… one day, he’d love her too.