His to Breed

CHAPTER 2

I woke up sore.

That was the first thing I noticed. Sore in ways I hadn't been sore in a long time. The second thing I noticed was that I was alone.

The bed was huge. Stupidly huge. The kind of bed that cost more than my father's house. And I was in the middle of it, naked, with the sheets twisted around my legs and a bruise forming on my hip that I didn't remember getting.

I also didn't remember falling asleep.

I remembered the glass. The wall. The desk. The way he'd said my name like it was a threat. The way I'd said his back. The way neither of us had said anything soft, anything kind, anything that wasn't a challenge or a dare. We'd f*ck*d like we were at war. And I'd won. I think. Or lost. It was hard to tell with Damien Blackwood.

I sat up. Every muscle complained. I ignored them. I had a contract to hate, and a husband to avoid, and a plan to make. Twelve months. That was all. Twelve months and I was out of here, and he could find someone else to breed for his merger.

There was a robe on the chair by the door. White silk. Expensive. Like everything else in this goddamn penthouse. I put it on because I wasn't about to walk around naked in a house I didn't know, even if the man who owned it had already seen every inch of me last night.

I found him in the kitchen.

He was standing at the counter, coffee in hand, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He looked at me over the rim of his cup. No smile. No "good morning." Just that flat, cold look, like I was a report he hadn't finished reading yet.

"Good morning to you too," I said, sharp. "Sleep well? I wouldn't know. I woke up alone. Very romantic, Mr. Blackwood."

"There's coffee." He nodded at the pot. Like that was an apology. Like that was a conversation.

"I don't want coffee. I want to know the rules."

His eyebrow twitched. The only c***k in the ice. "Rules?"

"Yeah. Rules." I walked over, grabbed a mug, and poured myself coffee anyway because I wasn't stupid. "You said this was a transaction. Fine. Transactions have terms. I want to know mine. Do I live here? Do I have a job, or am I just a pretty thing you keep in a penthouse? Do I get to leave this building, or am I under house arrest for the next twelve months?"

He watched me. That look again. Like he was reassessing me. Like I wasn't quite the line item he'd thought I was.

"You live here." He said it flat. Final. "You have everything you need. Cards, a car, a wardrobe. You don't work."

"I don't work," I repeated it, tasting it. "So I'm a kept woman. Great. That's the dream, isn't it? Marry a billionaire, get locked in a tower, and spread my legs on schedule until I produce an heir."

His jaw tightened. Good. I'd hit something.

"You think I want this any more than you do?" He set his coffee down. Hard. "You think I wanted to wake up married to a stranger? I wanted a merger. You're the cost of doing business, Mrs. Blackwood. Just like I'm yours."

"Then stop pretending." I stepped closer. "Stop acting like this is some grand romance. It's not. It's a contract. And contracts have terms. So tell me mine. All of them. Every clause. Every addendum. Because I'm not signing anything else blind."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded document. He held it out to me.

"Read it."

I took it. Unfolded it. And I read.

It was the addendum. The one he'd hidden. The one that had turned my life upside down in one sentence last night. And now I read the rest of it.

Clause one: The marriage must produce an heir within twelve months, or the contract is void, and all obligations revert.

Clause two: The heir must be biological. His. Mine.

Clause three: Until conception, the parties will share a bed. No exceptions. No separate rooms. No excuses.

Clause four: The wife agrees to make herself available for the purpose of conception at the husband's discretion.

I looked up. My hands were shaking. I didn't care anymore if he saw it.

"At your discretion." My voice was quiet. Dangerous. "So I'm not a wife. I'm not even a broodmare. I'm a service. Available on demand. Like a goddamn subscription."

"It's a contract," he said, flat. "You signed it."

"I signed a contract that said no touching." I threw the paper at his chest. He caught it. "You hid this. You knew what you were doing. You knew I'd never sign this if I saw it."

"I knew you'd never sign it." He said it without shame. Without apology. "And I needed a wife. You needed money. We both got what we needed. The terms are the terms."

I stared at him. This cold, beautiful, ruthless son of a b*tch. And I hated him. I hated him so much I could feel it in my teeth. But I also couldn't stop thinking about last night. About the way he'd said my name. About the way my body had answered him before my brain could stop it.

"Fine." I said it like a curse. "Fine. I'll read the terms. I'll follow the contract. But you listen to me, Damien." I stepped into his space. Close. The way I had last night. "You don't own me. You bought twelve months of my time, not my soul. I'll share your bed. I'll try for your heir. But I'm not your property. I'm not your little wife who smiles and nods and pretends this is a fairy tale. This is a business deal. And I'm going to make sure you remember it."

Something flickered in his eyes. That something again. That hungry, interested thing that I didn't like and couldn't stop wanting to see.

"Oh?" He tilted his head. "And how are you going to do that, Mrs. Blackwood?"

I smiled. Slow. Sharp.

"I'm going to make you want me," I said it low. Close. "Not the idea of me. Not the heir I might give you. Me. And when you do, when you're in too deep to pretend otherwise, I'm going to remind you that this is a contract. And contracts end.

"His eyes went dark. His jaw tight. And for a second, I thought I'd won.

Then he moved.

Fast. The way he had last night. His hand in my hair, yanking my head back, his body against mine, pinning me to the counter. My breath caught. Not from fear. God, I wished it was from fear.

"You want to play games?" His voice was low. Rough. Different. "Fine. We'll play games. But you should know something about me, Sienna."

"What?" I breathed.

"I don't lose."

I smiled against his mouth.

"Neither do I."

And then I kissed him. Hard. Like a challenge. Like a dare. Like a declaration of war. And he kissed me back like he wanted to win.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard it. The countdown. Twelve months. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I didn't know yet that it was the most dangerous game I'd ever played.