Collateral Bride

CHAPTER FIVE - THE NIGHTMARE

The mansion slept in silence.

Kimberly had thought that a house this big could never truly fall quiet, but in the dead of night, every marble corridor and towering arch seemed to hold its breath. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway became thunder in her ears, each sound reminding her that she wasn’t in her bedroom back home, tucked beneath the pastel sheets her mother once chose. She was in his house now. Jake Pierre’s house.

And even in sleep, her body didn’t feel safe.

Kimberly tossed on the massive king-sized bed, the silk sheets slipping against her damp skin. She pressed her eyes shut, willing herself into dreamless rest, but the harder she tried, the faster her mind slipped into the one place she dreaded most—her father’s study.

The nightmare crept in like a thief.

She was a child again. Ten, maybe eleven.

The dark-paneled walls of Charles Moore’s study loomed around her, lined with books she was never allowed to touch. She stood trembling in her nightgown, barefoot on the cold floor, while her father sat behind his heavy oak desk.

“You embarrassed me, Kimberly,” his voice roared, as sharp and final as a whip c***k.

She flinched, small fists curling at her sides.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Silence!” His hand slammed the desk. The sound ricocheted inside her skull.

She wanted to run. She wanted to cry. But she stood frozen, watching him rise with deliberate slowness. His shadow swallowed hers.

Then came the belt. Leather hissing, cutting the air before it lashed against her arm. The sting bloomed white-hot, spreading to her chest, to her soul. She gasped, choking on her sobs, but he never stopped. Her father’s face blurred, but his words burned clear:

“You will learn. You are mine. And you will obey.”

Kimberly shot upright in bed with a scream lodged in her throat.

The silk sheets clung to her sweat-soaked skin, her nightdress plastered against her chest. Her hands shook as she pressed them to her face, her breath ragged and shallow. It took a full minute before she realized she wasn’t in that study. She wasn’t in her father’s house.

But she wasn’t free either.

The shadows of Jake Pierre’s mansion pressed in, watching her with silent judgment. She gasped when a soft creak echoed from the door.

Her pulse spiked.

The door opened, and in slipped Jake.

He wasn’t dressed for bed—no, Jake never seemed vulnerable enough for something as simple as sleep. Black slacks hung low on his hips, a fitted dark shirt hugging his torso. His hair was a little mussed, but his presence was sharp, dominating. He moved like a predator that had heard its prey cry out in the dark.

Kimberly clutched the sheet to her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice shook, a pathetic attempt at strength.

Jake didn’t answer immediately. He crossed the room, each step measured. The dim golden glow of the lamp caught the angles of his face—the cold, assessing eyes, the dangerous calm carved into his features. He stopped just short of the bed, tilting his head as he studied her.

“You screamed.” His tone was low, steady. “I don’t ignore screams under my roof.”

The words twisted inside her. There was something chilling in how he said my roof—as if even her terror belonged to him now.

“I-I had a nightmare,” Kimberly whispered, hating how fragile she sounded.

Jake’s eyes flicked over her—sweat-slick skin, trembling shoulders, wide frightened gaze. His jaw tightened. “Nightmares leave you this shaken?”

Kimberly bit her lip, averting her gaze. She couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t speak of leather belts, cold studies, and her father’s merciless eyes. Not to Jake. Not when she didn’t know if he’d use that weakness against her.

But Jake stepped closer. She felt the shift of the mattress as he sat on the edge, his presence overwhelming. She could smell him—clean, sharp, like smoke and cedarwood. It made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t explain.

“You’re pale,” he said quietly. “And burning hot.”

Before she could stop him, his hand brushed her forehead. Kimberly flinched, but he didn’t move away. His touch was shockingly warm, steady, grounding. A strange calm threaded through her panic, but she shoved it away.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” she whispered.

Jake’s eyes narrowed, his hand withdrawing, though not in defeat. “You can resist me all you want, Kimberly. But this house won’t. My rules, my walls, my shadows. They’ll strip you bare whether you admit it or not.”

Her breath caught. She hated the way his words coiled inside her, dark and intimate.

Jake stood, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer. “Try to sleep. Tomorrow, you meet the staff. And I expect you to behave like the wife of Jake Pierre—not a frightened child.”

He turned, heading for the door. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. Just before he disappeared into the hall, Kimberly whispered, unable to stop herself:

“Why… why do you care if I scream?”

Jake paused, his back to her. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without looking back, he replied,

“Because in this house, Kimberly, your screams mean something. And I decide what.”

The door closed.

Kimberly’s chest heaved, her mind spinning. Her nightmare had followed her into the waking world, and she couldn’t tell which man scared her more—her father, or her husband.