Chapter 227: Pound of Flesh

David’s POV

I kissed her hard, grabbed her hips, flipped her onto the desk. Papers scattered. I didn't care about the mess.

I poured everything into her…rage, frustration, confusion, that sick twist in my gut every time I pictured Holly’s blank face getting into Tyler’s car.

I fucked her rough. Hand around her throat, just tight enough. She gasped, moaned loudly, and begged for more. Cried out when I went harder. Kept saying yes, please, don’t stop…it should have made my blood hotter. But instead, her voice…too high, too breathy, too practiced annoyed the hell out of me.

It killed it. I became suddenly irritated at the sight of her.

Everything went soft inside me…not like it was hard because of her. I slid out with a wet sound, stepped back, breathing hard.

She turned, confused, still trying to pull me back, crawled toward me on the desk, lips parted as she reached out.

I couldn’t even look at her. “Get out,” I said, low.

She blinked, but then smiled like it was part of the game. “Come on, baby, we’re not done—”

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I yelled it this time. Loud enough that she jumped.

She grabbed her bag fast, didn’t argue, slipped her dress back down and left without another word. Heels clicking fast down the hall. Elevator dinged. Gone.

I stood there, pants open, dick as soft as ever, chest heaving.

And the truth hit me like a slap.

I had to think about Holly to even get hard? How disgusting can I be?

Her face. Her body. The way she bites her lip when she’s mad. The way she looked leaning over my desk today.

That’s what got me going.

Not this girl. Not her perfect body or dirty talk.

Holly.

What the hell is happening to me?

I slammed my fist on the desk so hard the monitor wobbled, the sharp crack echoing through the empty floor like a gunshot. My knuckles stung, hot and throbbing, but the pain felt good…real, something I could control.

The office was pitch black now except for the harsh blue glow of the city bleeding through the blinds, cutting stripes across the floor, across the scattered papers, across the faint smear of lipstick on the edge of my desk where she’d been bent over minutes ago. The air still carried her perfume…cheap vanilla and something floral, cloying, suffocating. It made my stomach turn.

I could still feel the ghost of her skin under my palms, the way she’d arched and gasped, tears streaking her mascara while she begged for more in that high, desperate voice.

I’d given it to her…hard, brutal, every thrust fueled by the image burned behind my eyelids… Holly’s blank face as she climbed into Tyler’s car, the way she’d flicked my hand away like I was nothing.

I’d choked her harder than I should have, fingers digging into soft flesh, feeling her pulse hammer against my thumb while I drove into her like punishment. For me. For Holly. For whatever the fuck was rotting inside my chest.

But the second that girl opened her mouth and moaned, it shattered everything. Wrong voice. Wrong pitch. Wrong everything.

Because the only way I’d stayed hard was by picturing Holly.

Holly on her knees in front of me, those big defiant eyes looking up, lips parted, cheeks flushed from anger, not performance. Holly bent over this same desk, skirt shoved up, my hand fisted in her hair while she tried…and failed…to stay quiet. Holly gasping my name like it hurt to say it, like she hated me and needed me at the same time.

That’s what got me there. That’s what pushed me over.

And the second I realized it, I felt sick. Actually sick. Like bile rising in my throat.

I hate this.

I hate that I let her get under my skin.

I hate that for one split second today, when she said she loved me, something in me wanted to believe it. Wanted to pull her close instead of pushing her away. Wanted to taste the tears I put in her eyes.

I hate that I’m ashamed of it…like feeling anything for Holly is the dirtiest thing I’ve ever done.

She was a kid when I saved her. A terrified little girl clinging to my shirt while sirens screamed and blood soaked the floor.

And now?

Now I’m the creep who gets hard thinking about ruining her even when I shouldn’t be having such thoughts. About making sure no one else ever touches her although I don’t have that right.

I dragged both hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, trying to yank the thoughts out of my skull.

This isn’t love.

I don’t do love.

Love gets people killed. Love is weakness dressed up as hope.

I just need to fuck her out of my system. Just one time. Hard. Until she’s shaking and crying and can’t look at me without remembering how deep I was inside her.

Then it’ll stop.

Then I’ll stop picturing her with Tyler’s hands on her, Tyler’s mouth on her neck, Tyler making her laugh in that rooftop restaurant while I sit here alone like a fucking idiot.

My phone buzzed on the desk.

A text from an unknown number. I hesitated, staring before snatching it up from the desk, thumb swiping the screen without thinking.

The message loaded slowly, like even the phone knew this was bad news.

"You think you can ruin lives and walk away clean? Watch your back, David. I'm coming for you. For your family. For everything you love. I'll take my pound of flesh...and I'll enjoy every cut."

My stomach dropped straight to the floor. I read it again. And again. The words didn't change. They just sank in deeper, like knives twisting.

Who the fuck is this?

I stood there frozen, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could hear it in my ears. The office felt colder suddenly, the city lights outside blurring into streaks.

Someone is threatening me? Fine, I've had assholes talk big before. But my family? Everything I love? That hit different. That made my blood run ice cold.

Pound of flesh. What the hell does that even mean? Like...literally cut a chunk out of me? Some psycho planning to carve me up? Or is it just some dramatic bullshit, like they want revenge so bad they'll destroy me piece by piece?

I racked my brain, scrolling through every face, every deal, every enemy I've made. As far as I know, I haven't killed anyone. Not directly. Sure, business is brutal…I've crushed competitors, left guys broke and bitter. But murder? No. I've never crossed that line.

Or...wait. Is it another kind of pound? Like, some jealous husband thinking I banged his wife? My mind raced through the women. That one married chick from the gala last year? No, I walked away the second I saw the ring. It's my rule…one I don't break, ever. I don't sleep with wives. Don't touch girlfriends. That's a mess I stay the hell out of. Drama, kids, guns…none of that shit. I've turned down plenty because of it. So who could think that?

I paced the office, phone gripped tight, thumb hovering over reply. What would I even say? "Who is this?" Yeah, real tough.

More names flashed… Ava and Orion? Absolutely not. Ex-employees I fired, that investor I screwed over in the merger months back, maybe even someone from way back.

Anger boiled up, hot and sharp, drowning out the questions. Whoever this coward is, hiding behind a burner number, throwing Shakespeare quotes like some edgy villain…they just made the biggest mistake.

I'll find them. I'll dig until I know who it is, what they think I did. And when I do? I'll make them pay. Ruthless. No mercy. They'll beg for that pound of flesh back.

I grabbed my jacket off the chair, shrugged it on, keys jangling in my pocket.

I need a good drink. And a good fuck. Something to burn this off before I explode.