Terms Of Submission

TermsofSubmission

Jack Keelen's estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

A sprawling, cold monument to wealth and power, perched on a cliff overlooking a turbulent, grey sea. The car ride had been silent, the tension in the air as thick as the leather upholstery. He had watched me the entire way, a predator studying his new acquisition. Every time I shifted in my seat, his eyes followed. Every time I swallowed, his gaze dropped to my throat.

My room was on the second floor, a suite larger than my entire apartment. It was decorated in shades of cream and gold, elegant and impersonal. A walk-in closet awaited me, filled with clothes I would never have dared to try on. Silks, cashmeres, and designer labels I only saw in magazines. There was a vanity with a single, perfect white rose in a crystal vase.

It was beautiful, luxurious, and utterly terrifying.

I had just finished unpacking my one small bag of personal belongings—a worn copy of Wuthering Heights, a photo of my mother, and a locket my father had given me before he died—when I felt his presence.

I turned to see Jack leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. He had changed into a simple black shirt and dark trousers, but he radiated an even more potent authority radiating. The fabric stretched across his chest, hinting at the powerful body beneath.

"You should not leave this room without my permission," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Dinner is at seven. You will be ready. There is a dress on the bed."

"I … I have my own clothes," I stammered, gesturing to my modest wardrobe.

He pushed off the frame and walked towards me, his strides long and deliberate. He stopped inches from me, so close I could feel the heat, the clean, masculine scent of his cologne. Cedar and something darker. Something dangerous.

He reached out and took a strand of my plain brown hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Those are no longer suitable," he said softly, his eyes tracing my face. "You belong to me now. You will look the part. You will act the part."

His gaze dropped to my lips, and I froze, my heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest. I thought he was going to kiss me. I both feared and, to my eternal shame, wanted it.

Instead, he released my hair and stepped back.

"The dress, Kate. Don't keep me waiting."

He left, and I sagged against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The dress was a deep emerald green, a slip of silk that clung to every curve I didn't know I had. It was backless, held up by the thinnest of straps. It was a dress that demanded to be looked at, a dress that made me feel exposed and vulnerable.

When I walked into the dining room, a vast, cavernous space with a table long enough to seat twenty, Jack was already seated at the head. He was swirling a glass of red wine, his expression unreadable.

When he saw me, his hand stilled.

His eyes raked over me, from my simple, un-styled hair, down the curve of my neck, to the swell of my breasts visible in the deep V of the dress, and finally, to my bare legs. The look was possessive, hungry, and deeply unsettling. It made a strange, warm ache bloom low in my belly.

"Come here," he commanded.

I walked towards him, my heels clicking on the marble floor. When I reached his side, he set his wine down and took my hand. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, over my racing pulse.

"You look beautiful," he said, but it wasn't a compliment. It was a statement of ownership. "And you will remember one thing tonight. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not look at another man. You are mine, and yours is not to question, but to obey."

He pulled me down onto the chair beside him, his hand lingering on my arm. But instead of releasing me, his fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up my bare arm, across my shoulder, and down the exposed line of my back. I shivered, my breath catching in my throat.

"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Like silk. I wonder if it tastes as sweet as it looks."

Before I could respond, he leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of my shoulder. The kiss was feather-light, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through me. My n*****s tightened, pressing against the thin fabric of the dress, and I felt a rush of wetness between my thighs.

"Jack …" I breathed, my voice a plea I didn't understand.

He pulled back, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Eat your dinner, Kate," he said, his voice controlled, but his eyes promised things I wasn't ready to name. "You'll need your strength."

A silent, elderly butler served us a meal I could barely taste. Jack ate with a controlled precision, his eyes rarely leaving me. He would occasionally ask me a question about my childhood, my favorite books, my mother's illness. Each question was a scalpel, expertly dissecting my life, learning my weaknesses.

I felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, my every secret laid bare for his inspection.

"Why did you agree to this?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes sharp.

"You know why," I whispered. "My mother."

"And if I told you there was another way? That I could help her without you signing your life away?"

My heart stuttered. "Is there?"

He was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight. Then he looked away. "No. There isn't."

But something in his voice, something almost like regret, made me wonder if he was lying. To me, or to himself.

Dessert was a rich chocolate mousse, but I could barely eat. My body was on fire, every nerve ending attuned to the man beside me. When I set my spoon down, Jack reached over and took my hand, pulling me to my feet.

"Come," he said. "I want to show you something."

He led me through the house, his hand firm on the small of my back. We stopped in front of a door I hadn't noticed before. He pushed it open, and I gasped.

It was a library. But not just any library. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with thousands of books. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across the room. In the center was a large, plush chaise lounge, draped in velvet.

"This is yours," he said, his voice low. "Whenever you want to escape, you can come here. Read. Dream."

I turned to him, my eyes wide with surprise. "Why?"

He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek.

"Because I want you to be happy here, Kate," he said, his voice soft, almost tender. "I want you to feel safe."

His thumb traced my cheekbone, his gaze dropping to my lips.

"But make no mistake," he continued, his voice hardening. "You are still mine. And tonight, I want you to remember that."

He leaned in, his lips capturing mine in a slow, possessive kiss. It was different from the one at the gala—gentler, but no less demanding. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, coaxing them open, and I melted into him, my hands coming up to grip his shirt.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down my back, pulling me flush against his hard body. I could feel every inch of him—the muscles of his chest, the strength of his arms, the hardness pressing against my belly.

A moan escaped my throat, and he swallowed it, his growl of approval vibrating through me. His hand found my hip, his fingers digging in possessively, and I arched into him, my body acting on instincts I didn't know I had.

He pulled back, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with desire.

"Go to bed, Kate," he said, his voice strained. "Before I forget myself."

I stumbled back, my legs weak, my body aching.

"The first test is tomorrow night," he said, his voice a low, seductive threat. "There will be others who want what is mine. They will try to tempt you, to use you. You will remember who you belong to."

He turned and walked away, leaving me trembling in the doorway of my beautiful prison.

I closed the door and leaned against it, my hand flying to my chest.

I was a pawn in a game of blood I didn't understand, and the game was only just-red beginning.