●Carlton●
"What was what?" I asked, stepping closer, my gaze cold and unwavering.
Her eyes narrowed, and she took a few cautious steps back. "What did he mean that I'm all yours?"
I ran my hand through my hair, frustration bubbling through me at my own jealousy. "It means exactly that," I said, my voice low. "I don't like anyone else wanting you. I don't share. You're not theirs, Catherine—you're mine. And I'll make sure it stays that way."
She shook her head, half-laughing, half-glowering at me. "No, I'm not yours, and I seriously didn't peg you to be someone who would put a price on someone's head."
She spun around, taking a step toward the lot, but I was faster. My hand wrapped around her wrist and I pulled her back, making her bump against my chest. She flailed, trying to push me away, hit at me, but I didn't move an inch.
It would have been easy, even fun, to court her—to play the game and make her fall for me on my terms. That had been my plan until the other night, when I'd overheard someone talking about buying her from Harry. The thought had cut through my control.
I didn't know the full extent, but I did know enough. Most of the girls here had been trafficked or forced by circumstances to live the lives they led. And now, thinking someone could just take her, make her theirs, had stripped away my patience.
"Let me go, you son of a bit—"
"Be careful with what you say to me, sweetheart. I don't take insults lightly." My voice was calm, almost casual, but I could see her jaw clench. I gave her just enough space to make her think she had an opening, then scooped her up onto my shoulder.
Her screams echoed across the empty lot. "Let me go… somebody please help!"
She struggled, teeth snapping as she tried to bite me, but I was stronger and faster than her. One sharp slap to her ass made her gasp and fall quiet for a moment before she started wriggling, twisting her body to slip free.
The process of securing her into the car seat had been long and chaotic. She kicked, thrashed, and screamed, but I finally managed to get her restrained. Her hands and feet were tied, and though I could have taped her mouth, I wanted to hear every single insult escape her lips. Call me crazy, but there was a part of me that enjoyed her defiance, the way she tried to resist.
"Why are you doing this? Are you one of them?" Her voice had grown calmer, carrying a weight I could feel pressing against me. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
"One of who?" I asked, glancing at her, but she refused to meet my eyes, staring at the blur of the traffic outside instead.
We were moving through the highway, the evening lights streaking past. Maybe she thought someone would intervene, that a cop would step in, but in a world like this, money made sure that wouldn't happen. She had no one to rely on.
"One of who, Catherine?" I pressed again, my voice low, cold, and unyielding, leaving no space for evasion.
"Never mind." She dismissed it quietly, not even bothering to look at me.
She had stopped fighting minutes ago. The rage had drained out of her and what remained was something heavier. Acceptance. Her gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, her hair falling over the side of her face, hiding most of her expression. I kept glancing at her anyway.
About half an hour later, I drove into the underground parking of my apartment building. The gates closed behind us with a mechanical hum that echoed through the concrete space.
After parking, I stepped out and rounded the car to open her door.
The moment I leaned in to unbuckle her seatbelt, she started thrashing again. Kicking. Twisting. Trying to shove me away with her bound hands.
This was her last real attempt because after tonight, there would be no running from me.
I caught her by the waist and lifted her out despite the resistance. She struggled against my hold, but I kept my grip firm, pressing her against the side of the car for a second so she would stop moving.
" Can't you just stop," I said lowly.
She glared up at me, breathing hard.
I straightened and pulled her along toward the elevator, her steps uneven because of the restraints. The sound of her shoes scraping against the concrete followed us.
The elevator doors slid open and we stepped inside. The mirrored walls reflected us back — her tied, furious and disheveled, and me standing behind her, calm.
"I know I have never told you this before but you are so beautiful."
I said it while looking at her reflection in the elevator mirror. My eyes traced the curve of her cheek, the tension in her jaw, the way her hair fell messily over one side of her face.
She refused to look at me.
If she could, she would have bitten my head off. I could see it in the way her shoulders stiffened, in the way her fingers curled against the restraints. But she couldn't.
I was the one holding the cards. The one with the upper hand.
The elevator moved in silence, the low hum filling the space between us. She stood rigid in front of me, her breathing controlled, like she was trying not to give me the satisfaction of seeing her panic.
When the doors finally opened on the top floor, she barely fought.
She knew no one was coming.
I guided her out and down the quiet hallway toward my condo. Each step echoed softly against the polished floor. I unlocked the door and nudged her inside.
No one was here to save her. Except me.
I closed the door behind us.
She didn't know it yet, but I was going to be her redemption. I was going to rip her out of that filth, out of the hands of men who saw her as a commodity.
And she would be mine.