He didn't speak to me all day.
Not when I brushed past him.
Not when I laughed too loud with Mark.
Not even when I dropped the wrench near his boot just to get a reaction.
But his jaw was tight.
His fists clenched.
And that stare?
It burned straight through the back of my spine.
---
It happened after the shop closed.
Mark had stayed behind—helping me put tools away, talking too close, hands brushing mine more than necessary.
I let it happen.
No.
I made it happen.
Because I knew Jesse was watching.
I felt it in my ribs.
---
Then Jesse moved.
Crossed the room like a shadow that had finally broken free of its master.
He didn't speak to Mark.
Didn't touch me.
Not until Mark was gone.
Then—he grabbed my shirt.
Dragged me into the back.
Slammed the door behind us.
And said, "You think this is funny?"
My pulse jumped.
"You disappear for days, then come back acting like you don't give a shit—what was I supposed to do?"
He stepped closer. That slow, dangerous kind of movement.
"You were supposed to wait."
"For what? Another silent punishment?"
"No."
His hand curled around my throat—firm, not tight.
"You were supposed to remember who you belong to."
I gasped, eyes fluttering shut.
He shoved me back against the worktable.
"Take it out on me then," I snapped, breathless. "Hit me. Fucking do something. Tie me up. Do whatever you need—but stop pretending you don't care."
His silence lasted one second too long.
Then—
He flipped me over the table.
Yanked my pants down.
And growled:
"I do care. That's the fucking problem."
---
He didn't prep.
Didn't tease.
Just took.
Deep. Brutal. Possessive.
One hand pressed between my shoulder blades. The other gripped my hip so hard I knew I'd bruise.
I moaned like a sinner.
Like I'd waited for this explosion.
He fucked me like he was trying to erase Mark's touch.
Like he wanted to fill every place he'd left empty with pain, heat, and himself.
I took it.
Every thrust.
Every bite.
Every breathless whisper of "mine" as he rutted into me like claiming was the only language he had left.
---
When it was over, I collapsed forward, forehead against the cold table.
Shaking. Gutted.
Wrecked.
Jesse leaned over me.
His chest pressed against my back.
His lips at my ear.
"I'll kill him if he touches you again."
I didn't argue.
Because in that moment, I wasn't scared.
I was owned.