It’s not a bookshelf that moves; it’s the fireplace. It spins like you’d see in a movie.

I jerk around to catch it turning, dropping my hands to my sides as the man who has been starring in my nightmares for a week steps into the room. The fireplace rotates again to return to its original position.

He’s even bigger than I remember from my office, but the tantalizing citrus and woodsy scent is the same, except this time it’s mingled with that of the leather and books.

His dark hair, cut perfectly in a style I’d call don’t fuck with me, matches his nearly black eyes. Those eyes seem to burn like coals as they make a lazy perusal of my naked body.

Before, when I first dropped my coat, I felt bold. Full of rage. Anger. Disgusted with my husband for putting me in this position. It gave me false courage, and adrenaline raced through my veins.

Now, reality is setting in.

I’m facing down a man who could end my life easier than I could squash a mosquito.

His full lips twist into an expression I suppose I could call a smile, but it’s not. It’s too smug and self-assured. Like he’s amused at my expense. Which he probably is.

I wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t. His inspection of me ends with his gaze spearing mine. I want to look away, but I can’t.

His presence surrounds him like a physical being. It’s meant to inspire fear, and it’s doing the job. I don’t know how to properly describe the feeling, except I imagine I’d feel the same way if a massive alligator were about to snap its jaws shut on my head and drag me under into the swamp. The death roll would come next. I can’t let him get to me, or I’m screwed.

When Magnolia described the power, the presence, and his charisma to me, I didn’t understand what she was talking about. I’m starting to now.

Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear. It becomes my mantra as I wait for him to speak.

After what seems like an eternity, he utters two words in a deep, gravelly voice. “Turn around.”

When I deliberately flashed my backside to the camera in the corner and then flipped it the double bird, I figured there was maybe a fifty-fifty shot he was watching. Again, that insane stunt was fueled by adrenaline, which has deserted me.

I want to dredge up the remains of my rebellion, but I can’t.

I spin on the stilettos, the only items of clothing he sent that I deigned to wear, and give him my back. I hold my shoulders stiffly and with pride.

Don’t show fear, I repeat to myself.

The wooden floor creaks as he takes a step toward me, coming close enough that his body heat radiates against my skin.

“You don’t follow instructions well.”

The words ghost along my skin as his fingers spear into my hair and close around it. He tugs just hard enough to turn my head to the side, forcing me to meet his dark gaze.

It’s like looking into the eyes of the devil.

How such a cruel man can be so brutally beautiful, I have no idea. My heart slams as his eyes narrow on me.

What seemed like such a bold and defiant act now seems like a childish prank, and my inner self-talk takes a 180-degree turn. Screw not showing fear; now’s the time to beg. He’s going to kill me.

But my mouth doesn’t receive the orders sent by my brain and it opens, spilling out words I didn’t plan to say. “You didn’t give me any instructions. The note said a driver would collect me at nine. That was it.”

His dark eyes flash. “You don’t strike me as stupid enough to miss the implication of thirty grand worth of clothes on top of the note.”

Thirty grand. Holy shit.

Again, words fly from my mouth without my permission. “That better not get added to the debt.”

One corner of his full lips quirks up in what would appear to be a smirk from anyone else, but from him, I don’t know what to call it except chilling.

He releases my hair and takes a single step back. “Bend over. Fingertips to your toes.”

“What?” I blurt out the question, my shock evident in my tone.

Mount’s expression hardens. “I don’t repeat myself for anyone.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to break his stare. What did I think was going to happen? He’d whisk me from this gorgeous library to a bed where he’d make love to me and make sure I came? Something my asshole of a husband didn’t bother to worry about 98 percent of the time.

“Do not make me wait.” The words come slowly but still carry the crack of a bullwhip.

I swallow any reply and bend over, touching my fingertips to my blood-red toenails.

Blood red. It reminds me of the woman he made dance on glass.

Instead of fingers or some other appendage being jammed inside me, a callused fingertip drags along every letter I had inked onto my back.

“Property of no man. Is this permanent?”

“No,” I whisper. “It’s henna.”

“Good, because we both know your ass belongs to me, and I’d hate to have to remove each letter from your back.”

The implication that he’d carve them off with a knife is there, but he doesn’t voice that piece.

Thank you, Delilah and Giant Man from Voodoo Ink. I probably owe you my life right now.

On that ridiculous thought, I start to rise, but Mount’s wide palm flattens on the small of my back with enough tension to push me back into position.

“I didn’t tell you to move. The faster you learn that you do what I say, the easier this will be for you.” Wry humor enters his tone. “Hell, you might even enjoy it.”

Rage, like the kind that pushed me in my every action before he entered the room, fills me again. “Rape? Who enjoys that?”

His touch is gone from my skin as quickly as it came, leaving behind nothing but the heat from his skin.

“Stand up. Face me.”

He barks out the orders and I follow them, finding the courage to meet his gaze. If I thought I felt rage, the same emotion is mirrored in his eyes.

“I’m going to fuck you like you’ve been begging a man to fuck you your entire life. And I guarantee while I’m buried inside you, there won’t be a single second when you feel like it’s against your will.”

“Not a chance in hell. I’ll never be willing.”

The challenge I throw out hangs in the air between us as he reaches for me again. I flinch as a fingertip skims along my jawline, following the line of my throat, stopping between my breasts. My nipples peak despite my resolve.

“Your body betrays you.”

“It’s cold in here.”

“Lie to yourself all you want, Keira. But tell me the truth about one thing. When was the last time you were fucked by a real man? Someone who knows what you need. Someone who’ll take control from you and give you what you’ve been dying for. How many times did you have to fuck yourself with your fingers after your limp-dick husband rolled over, just so you would get to come too?”

I hate that he knows that. “Leave him out of this.”

Mount’s eyebrows go up. “He’s why we’re here, isn’t he? He couldn’t satisfy his debt, and he sure as hell couldn’t satisfy his wife.”

One finger flicks my hard nipple, and I suck in a harsh breath. He cups one breast and drags his thumb across the center, sending flames streaking through me. I want to hate it. I want to hate it more than I’ve wanted to hate anything in my entire life, but he’s right. Magnolia was right too.

My body is betraying me.

Heat burns around us, from his hand where he touches me, from his gaze where he pins mine, and from the inferno building inside me. His thumb and forefinger close around my nipple and squeeze, tighter and tighter, until the line between pleasure and pain blurs and my thighs clench together.

He releases me in an instant and steps away like he hasn’t almost just made me come from that simple touch. His head tilts to the left as he surveys me.

“You know what else power is, Keira? An aphrodisiac. You can fear me and still want me at the same time. It will heighten every experience.”

My jaw clenches. I hate that there’s a possibility he could be right. “I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this, and I will never submit willingly. I swear it on everything that’s holy.”

His lips twist into an expression I can’t read. Fascination? Intrigue? Challenge?

“Then you sign over one hundred percent of Seven Sinners to me right now.” He steps away and reaches into the breast pocket of his dark suit and produces a single sheet of folded paper.

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling every inch of my nakedness. “No. That company is mine. My family’s legacy. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted for as long as I can remember. And if you believe I’m dumb enough to think it’s only worth half a million, you’ve misjudged me completely.”

His eyes narrow. “With your debt load? Mortgaged to the hilt? You’re lucky I’d be willing to take it on and keep it running rather than shut it down and sell those stills for scrap.”

The thought of Seven Sinners being dismantled sends another wave of fury washing over me. “Don’t you fucking think about touching my company. I’ll never let you have it.” My reply can’t be called anything but a sneer . . . except maybe for stupid.

I expect him to rage at me in burning anger, but he smiles smugly instead.

“I’ll think about touching whatever I want.” He pulls a pen from his other breast pocket. “But if you sign this, you can walk away without me touching every curve of your body until I know it better than my own. Without me sucking on those pouty pink nipples. Without me burying my hand in your wild mane of hair and using it to pin you down while I fuck that perfect peach of an ass until you scream my name.”

I struggle to draw in a ragged breath as he lays both the sheet of paper and the pen on the table like a dare. The lamplight illuminates the title of yet another legal document whose only purpose is to ruin my life.

---

---

Even as the fire he started rages through my body, I hate him.

Hate.

It’s not a word I truly understood until just now. But by putting me in this impossible position, he’s made me understand it too well. The feeling is visceral, twisting my stomach in rage strong enough to douse the flames.

“You know I won’t sign that. Seven Sinners is mine. A Kilgore has run it for four generations, and I won’t be the one to let it leave the family.”

His smug expression morphs into burning heat. “The only way Seven Sinners stays yours is by you becoming willingly mine. Complete, voluntary submission. This is a one-time offer. Take it or leave it, Keira. You won’t receive a more generous one from me, and you sure as hell won’t receive any offers from anyone else.”

I can’t even look at his smug face, so I spin around and begin to pace. Fuck being naked. He already knows he owns me.

“That’s not even a real choice, you bastard. Anyone who knows me could give you my answer in a second. I believe in my family. Our legacy. Our whiskey. Our tradition. My employees.” My voice shakes as I seal my own fate and spin around to face him. “I won’t sign it. You win.”

I want to see the triumph on his face so I can use it to fuel my hate later when I allow him to defile my body.

His dark eyes rake over me with the heat of victory. He reaches for the sheet of paper and tears it in half, letting both pieces fall to the floor.

“I knew I wouldn’t need this.”

That bastard. He played me. Gave me a glimmer of hope and crushed it.

Mount crouches to grab the trench coat off the floor and tosses it at me. “Cover yourself up. You’re now the property of Lachlan Mount, and I expect you to act like it. Get those words off your skin before I see you again. I don’t want to read those lies while I fuck you from behind.”

Property. That’s how he views me. As a toy to be owned and used.

I catch the coat and jam my arms through the sleeves, buttoning it up and knotting the belt tight. This time, I keep my attention glued to the floor.

His polished black leather shoes come into view as his fingertips grip my chin, forcing me to meet his stare. “Your orgasms belong to me. If you ever touch yourself without my permission, I will spank that pussy of yours until you’re begging to come.”

What kind of barbaric—

I yank my chin from his grip, no longer caring about my personal safety. He’s already staked his claim. What else could possibly happen? Besides, if he thinks I’m going to make this easy . . .

I stride in the direction of the far bookshelf-covered wall, because I do my best ranting while pacing.

“You don’t get to be the only one making the rules here. I have stipulations. No one can know. My family. My employees. No one. I don’t ever want my name linked to yours.”

I don’t pause to consider the intelligence of what I’m saying, because I’m too pissed to hold back the rest. Furious, I spin and walk in the other direction, keeping my gaze on anything but Lachlan Mount, at least until I’ve finished making my demands.

“We decide on a mutual time and place to meet. No more of this driver and being collected and hooded. I refuse. You won’t leave marks. You won’t hurt me. And you sure as hell aren’t going to make me disappear when this is all over, because I swear my family and friends will never let you get away with it.”

I spin on my stiletto to see just how angry my speech made him . . . and find myself standing in an empty room.

He’s gone.

The bastard left? Just like that. Not one fucking word from him?

That motherfucker. I clench my teeth so hard, my jaw aches.

In my anger, I bolt toward the torn paper on the floor and snatch it up. Holding the two pieces together, I read the words beneath the large, bolded title.

---

---

That lying piece of shit.

He didn’t offer me a real way out.

Or he knows me well enough to realize it would never be a viable option. That possibility might be even scarier. I contemplate the deal I’ve made with the devil.

What choice do I have? How can I face my father and tell him I lost the company his father and his father’s father before him built with blood, sweat, and sacrifice?

My body in exchange for my pride. That’s the deal I’ve struck.

I hate Lachlan Mount.

Even his name sends bolts of heat through me, spawned from wrath unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

I hate how he makes me feel.

I hate that my body responds to him.

As the fireplace spins again and Scar returns with the black hood, the voice in my head whispers one more truth.

I hate that I want him to touch me again.