Gabriella
Breakfast was laid out on the long glass table in what they called the "morning room"—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the forest, sunlight bouncing off everything like it was trying to blind me. Fresh croissants, fruit cut into perfect little stars, coffee in a silver pot, eggs Benedict under a cloche. The kind of spread that screamed money and control.
Aiden was already there, sitting at the head like he'd been born in that chair. Black coffee. No food. Just watching the door.
When I walked in—wearing the soft grey sweater dress from the closet, the one that hugged too tight and ended too high on my thighs—he didn't say good morning. He just looked me over, slow, from bare feet to messy wet hair, then back to my face.
"Sit."
I chose the chair farthest from him. The one at the opposite end. Childish, maybe. But it felt like winning something small.
He didn't react. Just picked up his mug and took a sip.
I stared at the plate in front of me. Nothing looked edible. My stomach was a fist.
"You need to eat," he said without looking up from his phone.
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He set the phone down. Finally met my eyes. "And when you are, you'll eat what I tell you to eat. Starting now."
I pushed the plate away an inch. "I'm not a child."
"No." His voice dropped. "You're my mate. Which means your body belongs to the pack now. And the pack needs you strong. So pick up the fork."
I didn't.
Silence stretched. Thick. Dangerous.
Then he stood.
Moved around the table with that slow, predatory walk that made every hair on my arms stand up. Stopped behind my chair. I felt his shadow fall over me before his hands did.
He leaned down, palms flat on the table on either side of my plate, caging me without touching. His mouth close to my ear.
"I can make this easy," he murmured. "Or I can make it hurt. Your choice."
My hands shook under the table.
He straightened. Walked back to his seat. Sat. Waited.
I picked up the fork.
Ate three bites of eggs. Forced them down past the lump in my throat. The taste was ash.
"Good girl."
The praise landed like acid.
I dropped the fork. It clattered loud against porcelain.
"I'm done."
He studied me. Then—surprising me—he smiled. Not the cruel one. Something softer. Almost fond.
"You're going to fight me every step," he said quietly. "I like that."
I hated how my chest tightened at the words.
He pushed back from the table. "Come here."
I stayed seated.
"Gabriella."
The way he said my name—low, warning—made my legs move before my brain could argue.
I walked to him on unsteady feet. Stopped a foot away.
He reached out, caught the hem of my dress, tugged me closer until my knees bumped his.
"Look at me."
I did.
His hand slid up the back of my thigh—slow, deliberate. Under the dress. Fingers brushing lace.
I sucked in a breath.
"This—" he pressed once, just enough to make me jolt—"is mine. You don't get to decide when it happens. Or how. Or with how much force." His thumb traced the edge of my panties. "But you do get to decide how much you hate it. And right now… you're deciding to hate it a lot."
Tears stung again. I blinked them away.
He noticed.
His hand stilled. Then withdrew. But he didn't let me step back.
Instead he pulled me down—onto his lap.
I landed straddling him, dress rucked up, hands braced on his shoulders to keep from falling. His thighs hard under mine. His hands settling on my hips like they belonged there.
"I'm not going to fuck you again right now," he said, almost gently. "You're too sore. But I am going to teach you something."
He caught my chin. Tilted my face.
"Kiss me."
I froze.
"Not like last night. Not like you're being forced." His thumb brushed my bottom lip. "Kiss me like you want to. Like you're curious what it would feel like if you chose it."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I don't want to."
"Then don't." He shrugged one shoulder. "But every time you refuse, I take something else. A piece of clothing. A door that locks. A phone call to your mother. A walk outside without me. Keep saying no, little wolf, and soon you'll have nothing left to bargain with."
I stared at him. Searched those steel eyes for any sign he was bluffing.
There wasn't any.
So I leaned in.
Pressed my mouth to his.
Soft. Hesitant. Nothing like the bruising claim from last night.
He didn't move at first. Just let me.
Then—slow—he kissed me back.
Deeper. But not cruel. His tongue touched mine like an invitation, not an invasion. One hand slid up my back, pressing me closer. The other stayed on my hip, steady.
It lasted maybe ten seconds.
When I pulled back, I was breathing too hard.
He looked… satisfied.
"See?" he said quietly. "That wasn't so bad."
I wanted to slap him.
Instead I slid off his lap. Legs shaky.
He let me go.
"Finish your breakfast," he said, picking up his coffee again like nothing happened. "Then we're going for a run. You need to shift. Clear your head."
I stared at him.
"A run?"
"In the woods. Together." He glanced up. "Unless you'd rather stay here and keep testing how patient I can be."
I went back to my seat.
Ate the rest of the eggs.
Every bite tasted like surrender.
But somewhere under the humiliation, under the ache and the fear, a tiny, vicious thought flickered to life.
He wanted me to break.
Fine.
I'd break.
But I'd make damn sure he cut himself on the pieces.