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“That Grace out on the beach was wild and confident. She talked back and had opinions. My Grace was funny and dirty.” He finishes up with the spreader bar and then stands, leaning over the couch alongside of me, and whispers in my ear. “You are not my Grace.”

What’s that even mean? But I don’t want to ask. Because I’m afraid to hear the answer.

“I owe you punishments, sweets. And I’m here to collect. So if you want me to stop—if you want this relationship… this marriage… this everything… to stop—just say the word, babe. And we’ll call it good and move on.”

He’s breaking up with me. I close my eyes to stop the tears.

“Stop? Or go?” he asks. “You choose, Grace. But I’m warning you. If you say go, you’ll get what you deserve.”

Do I want to say stop?

He walks off, not waiting for my answer, and for a few seconds I’m petrified that he took my silence as a no. But then I hear him in the kitchen pulling open a drawer. When he comes back I’m so relieved to have his hands on me again a tear slips out and rolls down my cheek.

He lifts up my shirt, pulls it taut, and begins cutting it in half. I wiggle away out of fear before I can stop myself, but he shoves me back into position and continues until the two sides fall apart. He cuts my bra too. And then he cuts the fabric away from my body completely and tosses it aside.

He moves on to my jeans, slipping the cold scissors inside my waistband and slitting it right down my ass until the denim opens up and exposes my skin, still stinging from the smacks, to the cool night air. The next snip destroys my panties.

He rubs a hand down one cheek and then his palm comes down so hard, the smack echoes off the high ceilings in the living room.

I don’t move this time.

“That’s it, sweets, that’s what I want,” he whispers. His hand rubs the spot he smacked, soothing it. The cutting continues. The scissors slip between my legs and the cold metal shocks me for a moment, making me draw in a gasping breath of air.

“Shhh,” he chastises me as he slits my pant legs open from thigh to ankle on each side. He tosses the ruined fabric aside once again and then takes a few steps back. “I’m gonna make your ass so red you won’t be able to sit tomorrow.”

I start breathing faster. My chest does not have a lot of room since I’m still bent over the couch back, and it takes a lot of effort to draw in air.

Vaughn grabs my hair and pulls me up. “Breathe, Grace. No hyperventilating on my time.”

Asshole. I fight him a little to let him know I’m annoyed but he just laughs.

He presses his mouth up to my ear and whispers, “I’m waiting.”

“For what?” I growl back at him.

“Go. Or stop.”

His hand dips between my legs and strokes the slit of my pussy. I moan, I can’t help it. We’ve had plenty of sex lately. More and more as the weeks go by. But there’s not been any rough play since… well, the night I signed the NDA.

“You like to submit, Grace. You know you do.”

I take a deep breath and try to turn my head, but he yanks on my hair again.

“You like this. And it has nothing to do with the past. You like this because I’m your fucking prince, remember? You like this because I’ll make you scream with pleasure.”

He leans down in my ear. His breath comes slowly. Totally in control. “Grace,” he says softly. “You like this because you want to be controlled and fucked hard, but you know you’re safe with me. So…” He pulls my hair so hard this time, I squeeze my eyes closed and have to arch my back to try to relieve the tension. When I open my eyes, I’m looking straight up at his face.

“I want what you owe me, sweets. I told you back on the beach I was adding them up. Your list is long. Your penance will be difficult. But…” He sweeps his fingers along my slit again and this time even I feel the wetness because it drips down my leg. One finger dips inside me and he chuckles. Because he knows I want this as much as he does. “But if you’re very good,” he continues, “you won’t care.” He whispers the last part, alternating between the cold, dominating man I want and the soft, tender man I need. “You won’t care because your screams will not be from the pain. They’ll be from the pleasure. So which is it, Mrs. Asher? Stop? Or go?”

Chapter Nine

#MomentsOfTruth

SHE needs to trust me. Fuck, she trusted me more out on that beach than she does now. And I’m sick of it. I’ve done nothing but support her. I’ve been there for everything. I held her hand and made her feel loved and welcome.

And maybe that was the wrong way to go. Because that’s what everyone else did the first time she came home. Maybe what my Grace needs is unwavering dominance.

So that’s what I’m giving her tonight.

She wants to waste her life away in bed feeling sad? Or mope around this house oblivious to the decay? I mean, holy fuck. Felicity was a pig. She made a mess just walking through a room. But eventually she picked up after herself.

Grace has disappeared. I’m not sure if it was the injury, the kidnapping, or the baby that pushed her over, but that hardly matters now. She’s there. She’s crossed the line of sad and moved right into depressed.

And I’m not gonna let this happen to us. I might not be able to make her get better, but I can make her choose. Either she wants us or she doesn’t.

“I’m gonna ask you one more time, Grace. Say stop and we stop. You can go back to Denver and do whatever it is that will make you happy. Because clearly, I do not make you happy.