Chapter 213
Sophia's POV
The moment Lucas's hand closed around my wrist in that hospital corridor, I knew what was coming. I always knew. Four years of this—four years of being his captive, his outlet, his pet—had taught me to read the tension in his shoulders, the darkness that flickered behind those cold eyes.
"We're leaving," he said, his voice low enough that Elena couldn't hear. But I heard the edge in it. The warning.
I glanced back at her one last time—my best friend, who'd been through hell and was barely holding herself together. I wanted to stay. Wanted to be there for her the way she'd always been there for me.
But Lucas's grip tightened, his fingers digging into my wrist hard enough to bruise, and I knew I didn't have a choice.
I never had a choice.
"Of course," I said, forcing my voice to stay light. Casual. Like I wasn't being dragged away from the one person who still saw me as human instead of property. "Elena needs rest anyway."
Lucas didn't acknowledge my words. Just pulled me down the hallway, through the automatic doors, into the parking garage where his black Mercedes waited like a sleek predator.
The driver—some nameless man Lucas rotated through, always silent, always complicit—opened the rear door without a word.
Lucas shoved me inside, following so close behind that I stumbled, catching myself on the leather seat.
The door slammed shut. The privacy screen slid up with a mechanical hum, sealing us in.
And then his mouth was on mine.
His lips crushed against mine, teeth scraping, tongue forcing its way past my sealed lips. I tried to turn my head away, but his hand was already in my hair, fisting the brown strands and yanking my head back at a painful angle.
"Lucas—" I gasped against his mouth, my hands coming up to push at his chest.
He caught both my wrists in one hand, slamming them above my head against the window. The glass was cold against my knuckles. His body pressed against mine, all hard muscle and barely controlled violence.
"You've been at that hospital for days," he growled, his free hand sliding down my side, gripping my hip hard enough to hurt. "Hovering around Julian like he's your fucking lover instead of mine. Do you have any idea how that looks?"
I wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream. "I was there for Elena, you psycho. She needed—"
"I don't give a fuck what she needed." His hand moved higher, roughly palming my breast through my blouse. "You have responsibilities, Sophia. To me. And you've been neglecting them."
Responsibilities. That's what he called it. As if being his unwilling fuck toy was some kind of duty I'd signed up for.
"I'm not your lover," I spat, trying to twist away from his touch even as my body—traitorous, broken thing that it was—started to respond. "I'm not even your girlfriend. I'm just a pet you keep locked up for your entertainment."
His eyes flashed, something dangerous and almost amused flickering in their depths. He released my wrists, and for a second I thought he might actually hit me.
Instead, he traced one finger down my cheek, almost gentle. Almost.
"Not a pet," he corrected softly. "A wildcat. One I can't seem to tame no matter how hard I try."
Before I could respond, his hand was at my throat—not choking, but holding, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. "But that's what makes it fun, isn't it? The fight. The way you still think you can escape."
He shifted back slightly, his other hand moving to his belt. The clink of the buckle was obscenely loud in the enclosed space.
"Get on your knees," he ordered.
My stomach twisted. "Lucas—"
"Now, Sophia."
I hated him. God, I hated him so much it was like acid in my veins. But I also knew what would happen if I refused. Knew exactly how much worse he could make things for me. For my parents, locked away in that "facility" he controlled.
So I slid off the seat, my knees hitting the carpeted floor of the car. My hands trembled as I reached for his zipper.
"When are you going to let me go?" I whispered, not looking at his face. I couldn't. Couldn't bear to see the satisfaction there.
His laugh was dark, cruel. "When I'm bored of you."
I pulled down his zipper, freed him from his boxers. He was already half-hard, thick and flushed a deep rose color against the dark fabric of his pants. Eight inches, maybe more.
I'd memorized every detail over the past four years—the slight curve, the prominent vein running along the underside, the way the head darkened to almost purple when he was fully aroused.
I wrapped my hand around the base, felt him twitch against my palm.
"And when will that be?" I asked, my voice hollow. "When will you get bored?"
His hand tangled in my hair again, guiding my head down. "So eager to leave me? I don't know, wildcat. Could be tomorrow. Could be never. Depends on how well you perform."
I closed my eyes and took him into my mouth, hating every second of it, hating myself more for the way my body had learned to respond to his touch. For the way some sick, broken part of me had started to crave the attention, even when it came wrapped in cruelty.
He groaned above me, his hips rocking forward, pushing deeper. "That's it. Good girl."
I wanted to bite down. Wanted to hurt him the way he'd been hurting me for four years. But I didn't. Just kept working him with my mouth and hand, following the rhythm he set with the grip in my hair.
"Fuck," he hissed. "You're so good at this. Too good. Makes me wonder who else you've been practicing on."
I pulled back, glaring up at him. "There's no one else. You made sure of that."