Taming Her Beasts

Chapter 5

His words ignited a fury inside me so violently it felt like a spark thrown onto dry tinder—a sudden, uncontrollable blaze. My hands curled into fists before I could stop myself, my whole body trembling with rage, fear, and betrayal. And before my mind could catch up, before reason could slam on the brakes, my fist flew forward and cracked across his face.

His head snapped to the side from the impact.

But he didn’t stumble.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t even look surprised.

Instead, he slowly turned back to me with a calm, chilling smile that sent a sickening twist through my stomach. That smile said he’d expected this. That he’d counted on it.

Daddy’s warnings about my temper slammed into my mind.

Think before you react, little one.

And now here I was—throwing that wisdom away when I needed it most.

“Miss Hemingsworth,” he said, each syllable precise, “your temper will get you nowhere with me.”

The words were a cold slap.

I hardly had time to flinch before his hand closed around my arm like an iron cuff. His grip was brutal, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. I struggled instinctively, but it was useless—he was too tall, too strong, and he dragged me as easily as if I were a rebellious child being hauled out of a*****e.

He shoved me down the front steps toward a sleek black car waiting at the curb, the windows so tinted they were practically mirrors. My heart pounded against my ribs as he yanked the back door open and pushed me inside. The cold leather swallowed me up, the air inside thick and suffocating.

He slid in beside me, buckled himself in, then reached across and snapped my seatbelt into place. The casualness of it made my skin crawl—it was as if he were securing cargo, not a person.

I wanted to scratch him. Bite him. Fight him until my hands bled.

But deep down, I knew that showing more defiance would only make everything worse.

I shrank against the door, staring at him with a hatred that burned under the fear.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, voice calm—too calm. Menacing in its softness.

“Yeah,” I spat, “you’re the man who kidn*pped me.”

A low, dark chuckle escaped him, and the hairs on my arms stood on end.

“Feisty little one,” he murmured. “No. You’re wrong, Miss Hemingsworth. I haven’t kidn*pped you.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I have your husband under my control. And with one phone call… he could be gone. So watch your tone.”

My breath hitched.

Tears stung my eyes, but I swallowed them back. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

“What do you want from me and my husband?” I forced out, my voice cracking but steady enough to be defiant.

“We’ll discuss that when we reach my home,” he said, leaving the rest hanging like a blade over my head.

The drive dragged on endlessly, my thoughts racing in frantic circles. Every mile seemed to twist the knot in my chest tighter until exhaustion finally dragged me into a restless, shallow sleep.

When I woke, the car had stopped.

I blinked, groggy—and froze.

We were parked in front of a sprawling mansion. Gargoyles perched at the ends of a long staircase, stone wings stretched as if guarding a lair. Sunlight glinted off countless tall windows, each one reflecting back a distorted version of the world. The entire property looked immaculate, but in a way that felt… wrong. Like a perfect stage set designed to intimidate.

“Miss Hemingsworth,” the man said smoothly, “get out of the car and follow me.”

I rolled my eyes out of pure spite, but the gesture felt small compared to the towering certainty that I was entirely at his mercy.

“Who… who are you?” I asked as I stepped onto the polished stone.

He straightened, his posture rigid and proud.

“Hello, Miss Hemingsworth. I am Master Cornilius Smith. You may call me Master Smith.”

The title alone made my skin crawl.

“I expect you to be on your best behavior while in my home,” he continued. “Your husband will be joining us soon.”

The words struck like a blow.

Fear, pure and icy, lodged itself in my chest.

I followed him up the stairs because there was nothing else I could do.

Inside, the mansion was even grander—gleaming marble floors, split staircases sweeping upward like the wings of some monstrous creature. My reflection shimmered beneath my feet, looking terrified and small.

Before I could take in any more, his hand clamped around my arm again. He dragged me down a narrow side hallway and shoved me into a room. The heavy door slammed shut behind me, and the lock clicked in place—a sound that made my stomach drop.

Panic surged.

I spun and pounded my fists against the door, my voice breaking as I screamed for help, for release, for anything.

The door flew open so violently I stumbled.

Master Smith stood in the doorway, eyes hard as stone.

“Miss Hemingsworth,” he said, his tone icy, “I will not—and shall not—tolerate such actions in my home. You will either behave… or be punished severely. The choice is yours.”

The door slammed again, and the lock clicked shut once more.

This time, I didn’t scream.

I just slid down to the floor, trembling so hard I felt the vibrations in my teeth.

Daddy always told me to be brave.

But this—

This was a nightmare no amount of courage had prepared me for.