Chapter 25 Breaking Point
Constantine's POV
I wake up to the feeling of something vibrating inside me.
My eyes snap open and I gasp, my body arching off the mattress as the sensation builds, relentless and overwhelming. The vibrator. The fucking vibrator he put inside me last night.
I reach down instinctively, trying to pull it out, but my fingers can't reach it. It's lodged too deep, and every movement I make only intensifies the sensation.
'Stop,' I whimper to no one. 'Please stop.'
But it doesn't stop. It just keeps going, the vibrations pulsing in waves that make my legs shake and my breath come in short gasps.
I look around frantically and realize I'm alone in the bed. Wyatt isn't here. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cool to the touch.
Where is he? And more importantly, where is the fucking remote?
I try to sit up but the movement makes everything worse. The vibrator shifts inside me, hitting a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes. I collapse back onto the mattress, my hands fisting in the sheets.
Urhh! This is torture.
This is his way of reminding me that even when he's not here, he controls me. He owns every part of my body, even the parts that should be mine alone.
I don't know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? Time loses meaning when every nerve ending is on fire, when pleasure builds and builds but never quite crests into release.
Just when I think I might actually die from this, the vibrator stops.
The sudden absence of sensation is almost as shocking as its presence. I lie there panting, my body covered in sweat, trembling from the effort of enduring it. The bedroom door opens.
Wyatt walks in carrying a tray. Coffee. Toast. Fruit. Like this is a normal fucking morning and he didn't just torture me awake.
He's dressed already in grey slacks, white shirt, looking every inch the powerful businessman. Like last night didn't happen. Like he didn't destroy me in a warehouse and then bring me here to his bed.
'Good morning,' he says pleasantly, setting the tray on the nightstand.
I stare at him, unable to form words.
'I trust you slept well,' he continues, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The gesture is gentle. Almost tender. It makes my skin crawl.
'You—' My voice comes out hoarse. 'You turned it on.'
'I did.' He picks up a piece of toast from the tray and takes a bite. 'I wanted to make sure you understood the consequences of trying to leave. The sensor is very sensitive. Even getting out of bed would trigger it if I'm not in the room.'
'You're a sadistic bastard,' I whisper.
'We've established that.' He says pleasantly and offers me the coffee. 'Drink. You need to stay hydrated.'
I don't take it. I just stare at him, at this man who acts like he cares about my wellbeing while simultaneously destroying me piece by piece.
'Constantine.' His voice hardens. 'Don't make me force it down your throat.'
I take the coffee with shaking hands. It's exactly how I like it with two sugars, a splash of cream. The fact that he knows this, that he's paid attention to such a small detail, makes everything worse somehow.
'Good girl,' he says when I take a sip. 'Now eat something.'
'I'm not hungry.'
'I don't care. Eat.'
I pick up a piece of fruit just to make him stop looking at me like that. A strawberry. I bite into it and the sweetness explodes on my tongue, incongruous with the bitterness churning in my stomach.
'We need to discuss the new arrangements,' Wyatt says, settling back against the headboard like we're having a casual conversation. 'You're living here now. All your things from Ivy's apartment will be moved today. I've already arranged it.'
'You can't just—'
'I can do whatever I want, Constantine. We've been over this.' He picks up his own coffee. 'You'll continue working as my personal assistant. Same duties, same hours. But you'll come home here every night. No exceptions.'
'This isn't home,' I say to myself quietly. 'This is a prison.' But of course, he had to hear it bwcause he had sharp ears.
'Call it whatever you want.' He shrugs. 'The terms remain the same. You work for me during the day. You belong to me at night. And now there's no opportunity for you to forget that.'
'What about my parents?' The question bursts out before I can stop it. 'Can I still visit them?'
'On weekends. When I allow it.' His eyes bore into mine. 'And you'll go alone. I have no interest in playing the caring boyfriend for your family.'
The words sting more than they should, but it doesn't matter.
'So I'm just supposed to be your dirty little secret?' I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice. 'Your whore that you keep locked up here?'
His hand moves so fast I don't see it coming. He grips my jaw, hard, forcing me to look at him.
'You are my secret,' he says, his voice deadly quiet. 'You're my property. And property doesn't get to question its owner.'
'I'm not—'
'Yes, you are.' His grip tightens. 'You signed a contract. You sold yourself to me. That means I own you, Constantine. Every inch of you.’
I want to spit in his face and to tell him to go to hell. But I think about my mother in her beautiful room. My father in the best cardiac unit in the state. And I hate myself for staying silent.
'Smart girl,' Wyatt says, releasing my jaw. 'Now finish eating. My driver will take you to work in thirty minutes. Separately. I don't need anyone at the office getting ideas.'
The casual cruelty of it cuts deep. He doesn't want to be seen with me. I'm good enough to fuck, to own, to control, but not good enough to ride in a car with him. Something snaps inside me.
'Of course,' I say, my voice sharp. 'Wouldn't want anyone to know the great Wyatt Gorshkovsky fucks his secretary. That might damage your reputation. Can't have Patricia finding out her future husband has a side piece, can we?'
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Wyatt's eyes go cold. Not angry. Not furious. Just... empty. Like looking into the void.
'What did you just say?' His voice is soft and dangerous.
I know I should stop. God. I know I'm pushing him too far. But months of humiliation, of degradation, of being treated like I'm nothing bubble up inside me and I can't stop the words from coming.
'You heard me,' I say. 'You want me to be your perfect little whore, to spread my legs whenever you want, to live in this golden cage and pretend I'm grateful for it. But God forbid anyone actually knows about me. God forbid Patricia sees you with someone like me—'
He moves. One second he's sitting on the bed. The next, his hand is around my throat and I'm being pushed back against the headboard.