Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
After sneaking out, again, and coming home drunk…again, my billionaire stepfather sends me to a Mediterranean island under the watchful eye and hard hand of a man I come to know only as Daddy.
Between the crashing surf, the isolated room and ‘nurses’ that tend to my care, it’s clear the only way out of this is through it. There are rules…and punishments. Oh, and did I mention ‘Daddy’ is the hottest, calmest, sexiest man this side of the deep blue sea? But, even under his stern stare and stinging hand prints, I know I’m safe.
Maybe safer than I’ve been in my entire life.
A nefarious contract has given him ownership of me. But, just when I am starting to trust, everything unravels because it turns out, this Daddy is also…my uncle. Step-uncle but still. Unpack that. Nothing is as it seems and throwing myself into the surf starts to sound like the perfect way out.
Daddy thinks otherwise
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Sebastian
I've killed men with my bare hands. Burned down buildings with people still screaming inside.
But sitting in this chair for the past hour, watching my eighteen-year-old step-niece sleep while blood pounds steadily to my cock is the most depraved thing I've ever done.
She’s a brat, I’m sure, even with her childish nightgown and pink cheeks. Even the worst of them look innocent and sweet in their sleep.
I let my eyes drift downward to the floor, shaking my head as I focus on a single quarter-inch scuff mark on the tip of my black wingtip, battling the urge to call for my valet and replace this soiled pair with a new one without blemish.
That obsession with detail, with perfection, with control… It’s what I do here. I train young women in the art of submission and obedience.
It’s not as gratuitous as it might sound. I use my powers for good, even if they don’t see it that way.
At first.
Larissa is my next rehabilitation project. She’s my brother's stepdaughter, shipped to my private island in the Mediterranean because, according to him, she's too wild, too defiant, too much trouble for his carefully constructed empire where everyone serves a purpose.
Everyone is a means to an end.
My fucking little brother, Hoover. If it weren’t for the promise I made to my father on his deathbed, I’d have killed him years ago.
I made two promises that day: to watch out for my little brother, and to take revenge on the men who murdered my dad.
The revenge was easy, even if it led to my exile here. But Hoover was a bastard back then, and he’s a bastard now, and if there’s anyone in this world who deserves to die, it’s him.
I quoted him triple my usual fee. She may be family, but that term carries zero weight in my world.
No attachments. No exceptions.
The girl in this bed means nothing to me. She’s a job, nothing more.
The relentless thickening of my cock tells me I'm a liar. Why do I keep circling the thought that she is the most beautiful creature ever to cross my path? The idea of shredding that fabric covering her body with my teeth gnaws at me relentlessly.
She stirs with a whine, a delicate hand lifting to shield her eyes from the light, and I lean forward in my chair. The air seems to evacuate the room as sunlight streams across her shifting form under the white sheets.
This is it. The moment I find out what color they are.
Blue.
No. Not just blue. That word is too simple, too pedestrian for what I'm looking at. These aren't blue eyes. They're the color of deep open water miles from the coast, of shadows bleeding into dusk, of every fucking shred of beauty and decency I’ve spent ten years in exile trying to forget. Rich and deep enough to drown in, with flecks of black gold catching the sun streaming through the window behind me.
Dust motes dance in the shaft of Mediterranean sunlight cutting across her bed, turning her dark hair to bronze where it catches the light. Her lips are full and lush, deep pink in contrast to her creamy skin.
She looks ethereal in this sparse, white room. Untouchable.
The room I've put her in isn’t exactly a cell.
White walls. A bed with hand-spun Egyptian cotton sheets. A single brown leather wing-back chair where I sit. A bedside table with a crystal water pitcher and glass.
The floor is polished Carrera marble, staying cool even in the hottest of months here. Through the window behind me, the Mediterranean sparkles, all azure water and endless sky.
There's no handle on the inside of the door. No phone. No mirror she could break into a weapon.
Or use to harm herself.
Just luxury, and the man sitting between her and the only way out.
A gilded cage for a defiant bird.
As many have been before.
But she’s unlike any of them. I harden in a way I haven’t in years. Barbaric thoughts pound at my temples.
Mine. The contract tells me so.
And something in my gut keeps telling me something else.
I’m fucked.
She groans, her lithe legs lengthening under the sheets, and the sound she makes goes straight to my dick. She’s five foot two at the most. Maybe a hundred pounds. Likely less.
A burst of hot jealousy floods my veins, thinking of my staff snatching her from her bed last night.
They were touching her and looking at her with lust, I’m sure. I want to call them to my office, sever their hands, remove their eyes—
As I work through the bloody consequences of their actions, she does something I don't expect.
Her hands fly to her face, eyes pinned on the ceiling, fingertips pressing into those wide, doe-like eyes, then…
She laughs.
Not a chuckle. Not a tentative giggle. A bold, knowing guffaw.
"Of course," she exclaims, her hands flying upward then back down to press the tips of her index fingers above her eyebrows. "Of fucking course."