His Dark Sin: A forbidden touch

Chapter 9__F**k me instead

Arthur's POV

The gala was a victory, but it felt like a hollow one the moment I realized Elira had vanished from the ballroom. I stood by the exit, my eyes scanning the sea of fake smiles and champagne flutes, but the emerald dress was nowhere to be found. I checked my watch. Ten minutes. Twenty. My patience didn't just wear thin; it evaporated.

I stepped out into the cool night air, the heavy doors of the Astoria swinging shut behind me. I scanned the line of idling limousines and the remaining photographers, but she wasn't there.

"Where the hell is she?" I muttered, heading toward my own car.

I was about to bark an order at my security team to tear the building apart when my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the head of my house security.

"Speak," I snapped.

"Sir... Miss Elira is here," the man stammered, his voice sounding uncharacteristically shaken. "She arrived a few minutes ago—in a very drunk state. She’s refusing to come inside."

Relief hit me first, followed immediately by a hot, stinging rage. She had left the safety of my side, jumped into a stranger’s car in the middle of New York, and gone somewhere to drown herself in liquor.

"Get the car moving. Now," I told the driver as I climbed in.

The drive back to the estate was a blur of high-speed turns and my own dark thoughts. By the time we pulled up to the massive iron gates, I could see her. She was a crumpled heap of emerald silk on the pavement, huddled against the cold metal bars.

I shoved the door open before the car even fully stopped.

"We tried to help her up, Mr. Blackthorne," the guard whispered, stepping back as I approached. "But she won't let anyone touch her."

I looked down at her. The "Chairwoman" I had introduced to the world an hour ago was gone. In her place was a broken girl, her hair matted, her mascara smudged into dark bruises under her eyes. She was mumbling into her knees, a low, rhythmic sound that made my chest ache.

"Open the gate," I ordered.

I reached down and scooped her up. She flinched at first, her small hands coming up to push at my chest, but as soon as the scent of my cologne hit her, she went limp. She buried her face in the crook of my neck, her breath smelling of cheap, harsh tequila.

"Mr. Black—" she whimpered.

"I've got you," I said, my voice sounding rough even to my own ears.

I carried her straight through the house and up the stairs to my master bedroom. I kicked the door shut and laid her down on the silk sheets. She didn't stay down. As soon as her back hit the mattress, she scrambled into a sitting position, her eyes glazed and bloodshot.

"I saw them," she slurred, her voice thick with pain. She sounded as if she was about to cry, her mouth almost pouting as if holding back the tears. "I saw Damien. And Victoria. They were... they were still together. Even after I died. Even after he buried me like trash, he went back to her."

She let out a dry, jagged laugh that sounded more like a sob.

"They didn't even care I was gone. They just kept going. Like I never existed."

I sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush a stray hair from her face. "They're going to lose everything, Elira. I told you that."

"I want to feel something else," she whispered, her eyes suddenly locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity.

I stood up, trying to keep my distance. "You need a bath. You reek of alcohol and dirt. Let me get the water started."

"No." She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "f**k me instead."

The air in the room went still. I felt the blood rush south instantly, my trousers becoming uncomfortably tight as her words hung between us.

"You're drunk, Elira. It's not the time for that," I said, my jaw tight.

"Why? Because I'm a mess?" She crawled toward the edge of the bed, dragging me closer until her face was inches from mine. The smell of tequila was strong, but beneath it was the scent of her skin—something warm and feminine that always made my head spin. "f**k me, Arthur. I want to see the look on his face when he finds out I'm pregnant with your child. I want to take his last bit of pride."

The lust I felt was suddenly cut with a sharp, cold blade of jealousy. I gripped her shoulders, perhaps a bit too hard.

"Is that what I am to you? A weapon to use against him? You want me to put a child in you just to make a point to a man who isn't worth the dirt on your shoes?"

"I just want to win," she cried, her voice breaking.

"Enough," I growled, turning to walk toward the bathroom to hide the fact that I was dying to give her exactly what she asked for.

"I mean it, Arthur."

I felt her hands on my waist. I froze. She came in front of me, her gaze never leaving mine, her fingers fumbling with the buckle of my belt. I should have stopped her. I should have walked away. But I stood there, my breath hitching in my throat as she hissed the leather through the loops.

She slid her hand into the front of my pants, her fingers finding my d**k—hard and pulsing. I let out a low, guttural moan that I couldn't suppress. I wanted her. I wanted to grab her, pin her to the bed, and lose myself in her until neither of us remembered who Damien was.

But then I saw her face. She looked desperate. She looked lost. She didn't want me; she wanted an escape.

"Elira, stop," I said, my voice sounding like a plea. I reached down and firmly removed her hand.

She looked up at me, her lip trembling. I didn't say anything else. I picked her up again, carried her into the bathroom, and stripped the emerald dress off her. I ignored her protests as I sat her in the tub and ran the water. I washed her skin with a cloth, being as clinical as possible while my own body screamed at me to touch her differently.

Once she was clean, I wrapped her in an oversized shirt and tucked her into the bed. She was out within seconds, the alcohol finally winning the battle.

The next morning, the sun was hitting the floor in bright, unforgiving streaks. I rolled over, expecting to see her, but the other side of the bed was cold.

I threw on a pair of slacks and headed downstairs. I found her in the kitchen. She was wearing the same white shirt I’d put her in last night—it hung off her shoulders, reaching mid-thigh. She was leaning against the counter, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands, staring out at the gardens.

She looked small. Fragile. But there was a new hardness in her eyes when she turned to look at me.

"Good morning," I said, pouring my own cup. "you seemed to be out of it last ni–"

“I'm fine," she said quickly, shifting her gaze.

I admired the way the morning light hit her skin, the way she looked in my clothes. It was a domesticity I wasn't used to, and it terrified me how much I liked it. "You do realize that you have a job to do today. You should be at your company. We'll be leaving when you're ready."

She nodded, her jaw setting. "I'm ready."

"Good."

The drive to the corporate headquarters was fast and silent. I didn't want to give her time to overthink it. We pulled up to the front of the glass skyscraper—the jewel of her empire. Security opened the doors, and I led her through the lobby.

Every head turned. Every conversation stopped.

I walked her straight into the main bullpen, where the managers and directors were gathered for the morning briefing.

"Attention," I boomed, my voice echoing off the glass walls.

The room went silent.

"As of yesterday, Blackthorne Industries has finalized the acquisition of this firm. I bought the company, but I am not your boss," I said, stepping aside to reveal Elira. "She is. You will answer to Elira Blackthorne. Her word is law. If she wants you gone, you go. If she wants you promoted, you stay."

That's when I saw him. Damien, her ex fiance was standing near a desk, looking like he heard wrong or seen a ghost.

I watched Damien's face. It was a masterpiece of agony. He was just a manager now, a nobody in the company he thought he would inherit. And the woman he tried to kill was standing there, looking down at him from the heights of my power.

I enjoyed the show for a few more minutes, watching the realization sink into the staff, before I leaned into Elira.

"I have meetings at my other firms," I whispered. "I'll be back to pick you up at five. Handle them."

She gave me a sharp nod. She didn't look like the girl crying in the dirt anymore.

At five o'clock sharp, I was back. I didn't call her; I walked straight up to her top-floor office. I wanted to see how she had spent her first day as a Queen.

But as I reached the heavy double doors, I heard voices.

I paused, my hand on the handle. It was a man’s voice—deep, gravelly, and filled with a strange kind of desperation.

"You have to listen to me, Elira," the man said.

"I don't have to do anything," I heard Elira snap back. "You stopped being my father the moment you stood at that funeral and didn't question why my casket was closed. You're a stranger to me, Isaac."

My blood ran cold. Isaac Vale. The man who also wanted her dead.

"What if I told you that I know the truth?" Isaac's voice was a hiss now. "What if I told you that I know Arthur Blackthorne killed your mother?"

I felt the air leave my lungs.

What was he saying?

"He’s just using you," Isaac continued. "I want you to stay close to him. I want you to find his weak spots. And then, I want you to tear his empire down from the inside. Do it for her. Do it for your mother."

"You're lying,” Elira said, though her voice cracked.