The air in the rural interior was cooling as the morning transitioned into afternoon, the scent of damp earth and pine needles heavy in the breeze. Inside Sarah's small cottage, Elena stood up from the wooden kitchen chair, her movements still cautious, though the sharp, agonizing stabs of pain had faded into a dull, heavy ache that resided deep in her hips.
"I need to go, Sarah," Elena said, her voice quiet but firm. She began to pull on her oversized denim jacket, the thick fabric scraping against the bruised skin of her shoulders. Each movement reminded her of the beast who had claimed her, the phantom weight of Dominic Thorne still feeling like a shadow over her skin.
"Elena, don't be stubborn," Sarah argued, standing up to block the path to the door. "You're still pale. And what are you going back to? The house is empty. Your brother and sister won't be back from the district school for hours, and your father is still stable but confined to the county hospital. Stay here. Let me make you some broth."
"I can't stay in this house and keep thinking about what I did," Elena whispered, her eyes dark with a mixture of shame and exhaustion. "I need to scrub the floors. I need to tend to the garden. I need to be in my own space so I can pretend the weekend was just a nightmare I had. Please, Sarah."
Sarah sighed, seeing the desperate resolve in her friend's eyes. "Fine. But I'm walking you halfway. I need to head to the market stalls near the main road to get some fresh fruit anyway. I'm not letting you limp down that gravel path alone."
The two women stepped out into the crisp air. Elena walked with a slight hitch in her step, her body "stiff" and guarded, her hand instinctively clutching the lapels of her jacket to hide the marks on her neck that had turned a deep, tell-tale violet.
At the same time, miles away from the glitz of Manhattan, a dusty, unremarkable black pickup truck rattled down the washboard roads of Creston. It was a vehicle that blended perfectly with the rugged landscape—far from the armored limousines and sports cars usually associated with the Thorne name.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere was suffocating. Dominic Thorne sat in the passenger seat, his massive frame cramped in the smaller space. He was dressed in a simple charcoal hoodie and dark jeans, a pair of tactical aviator shades obscuring the predatory intensity of his eyes. Beside him, Marcus steered the truck, similarly dressed in a plain jacket, looking more like a surveyor than a high-level executive assistant.
"Low profile, sir," Marcus reminded him, his eyes on the road. "In a place like this, a suit is a target. If you want to talk to her without the whole village calling the local news, we remain invisible. To them, we're just out-of-towners looking for a land deal."
Dominic didn't reply. His jaw was set so tight it looked like it was carved from stone. He was tracing a map on his phone, the blue dot nearing the Vance property. As they pulled up to the humble, weather-beaten farmhouse, Dominic felt a strange tightening in his chest. The porch was empty. The fields were quiet. The house looked like a sanctuary, yet it was the very place Elena had been willing to sell her soul to save.
They stepped out of the truck, the gravel crunching under Dominic's heavy boots. He walked up to the front door, his heart hammering—a sensation he hadn't felt in years. He knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, harder this time, his knuckles barked against the wood. Still, nothing.
"No one's home, sir," Marcus noted, stepping back to scan the perimeter. "The tractor is in the shed, but there's no sign of life."
A neighbor, an elderly man in stained overalls, paused his work on a nearby fence, squinting at them through the dust. "You boys lookin' for the Vances?" he called out, his voice raspy.
Dominic turned, his presence so commanding that even in a hoodie, the old man straightened his back. "We're looking for Elena Vance," Dominic said, his voice a low, controlled rumble.
"Well, you're a bit late for that," the neighbor spat a bit of tobacco juice onto the ground. "The kids are at school and Silas is in the hospital. Elena... well, she came back from the city a week ago lookin' like she'd seen a ghost. Walkin' all crooked-like.She hasn't been in that house for days.. She headed over to Sarah Miller's place—down the road, third gate on the left with the weeping willows. They're likely there, or headin' to the market stalls."
Dominic felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated possessiveness. Walking all crooked-like. The neighbor's words were a visceral reminder of the night he had spent breaking her, of the "beastly" way he had used her body.
"Thank you," Marcus said quickly, before Dominic could say something that would give them away.
They climbed back into the truck. Dominic's hands were clenched into fists on his knees. "The third gate," he hissed. "Move, Marcus."
As the truck spun its tires and headed down the road, Dominic stared through the windshield. He could feel her. She was close. She was somewhere in this quiet, rural peace, thinking she was safe from him. She didn't know that the "King" had traded his crown for a hoodie and was coming to claim his debt in person.
Elena and Sarah reached the edge of the market stalls, the smell of ripening apples and fresh hay filling the air. Elena felt a strange prickle on the back of her neck, a cold shiver that had nothing to do with the wind.
"I'll leave you here, Sarah," Elena said, her voice trembling slightly. "I can make it the rest of the way."
"Are you sure, El?" Sarah asked, reaching out to touch her arm.
But Elena didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on a black truck slowing down as it approached the bend in the road. The windows were tinted, but as it drew closer, the driver's side window rolled down just an inch.
Elena froze. The world seemed to stop spinning. Through the gap in the window, she saw a pair of dark shades and a jawline she would recognize even in the depths of hell.
Dominic Thorne.
The man who had shattered her virginity and filled her night with a terrifying, primal ecstasy was here, in her village.