Consent or Control

Heather winced as she removed the broken heel from her foot, rubbing her sore ankle gently with the tips of her fingers.

The pain throbbed with each pulse of her heart, but not as loudly as the emotion surging in her chest. Anger. Disgust. And something else she didn't want to name.

She glanced up and found Caius crouched in front of her, reaching for her foot again, as though he had any right to touch her.

The sight of him so close—pretending to be helpful, pretending to care—made her stomach twist.

"If you hadn't run your mouth," she hissed, "this wouldn't have happened."

He didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes unreadable, the same way they had been moments earlier—right before he dropped the news that she'd be staying at the Thorne residence now.

Because, according to him, he owned everything.

And because, according to him, she was going to be his wife.