Chapter 8: Retail Warfare
The zipper felt cold beneath his fingers, a metallic snake under his touch. He didn’t pull it; he just traced its path from the hollow of her throat down to where it disappeared between the modest swell of her breasts. The amusement in his eyes was a banked fire, knowing and entirely too pleased.
“Finally,” Kylo murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate through the jumpsuit’s fabric and into her skin. “Something you’ll actually wear.”
Rey stood rigid, her breath caught in her chest. The black tactical jumpsuit was heavy, utilitarian, a far cry from the flimsy silks and buttery leathers he’d been draping over her for the last hour. It was armor. And he’d known she would choose it. This whole performance, this parade of opulence he’d forced her through, had been designed to corner her into this exact rebellion. He’d been playing her, and she’d walked right into his hands.
She slapped his hand away, the sound sharp in the hushed, perfumed air of the boutique. “Don’t.”
He didn’t seem offended. He simply tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his gaze sweeping over her. “It needs boots. The ones you have on look like they’ve been through a war.”
“They have,” she shot back, looking down at her scuffed, oil-stained work boots. They were comfortable. They were hers.
“Then it’s time they retired.” He turned, expecting her to follow. Again.
She wanted to rip the jumpsuit off right there in the middle of the store. She wanted to leave it in a heap on the pristine white carpet and walk out in her own clothes. But her own clothes were in the duffel bag currently held by a silent, smiling sales associate. And Kylo was already moving, a dark, immovable force cutting a path through the gleaming racks.
He led her to a section dedicated to what she could only describe as “apocalypse chic.” Leather jackets that cost more than her monthly rent hung next to stacks of perfectly distressed denim and shelves of footwear that looked rugged enough for a mountain climb but were undoubtedly handcrafted in Italy.
A saleswoman glided over, her smile a practiced, placid thing. “Can I help you find something, sir?”
Kylo didn’t even look at her. His eyes were fixed on a pair of black leather engineer boots displayed on a pedestal. “Those. In her size.”
The woman’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “Of course. And for you, miss? What is your size?”
Rey crossed her arms. “I don’t need new boots.”
“Humor me,” Kylo said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He picked up the boot from the pedestal, turning it over in his hands. The leather was thick and supple, the hardware solid brass. It was a beautiful, functional piece of craftsmanship. She hated how much she wanted to touch it.
“Seven,” she muttered, defeated.
The woman vanished and returned moments later with a box. Rey sat on a low, velvet-covered bench and reluctantly pulled off her old boot. The contrast was embarrassing: her worn sock, a small hole near the toe, against the lush interior of the new boot. She shoved her foot in. It was a perfect fit, hugging her ankle and arch with a firm, supportive grip.
She stood, taking a few experimental steps. The boots were heavy, but solid. Grounding.
Kylo watched her, his head tilted. A slow, approving nod. “Better.”
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a black credit card without even waiting for the price. The saleswoman took it with reverent hands. “Shall I have the other items sent to the penthouse, Mr. Ren?”
“Yes. We’ll take what she’s wearing.”
Just like that, he’d purchased her entire outfit. The jumpsuit, the boots, everything. He’d peeled away another layer of her old life and wrapped her in something new, something he had chosen by manipulating her into choosing it herself. The mastery of the move left her feeling hollow.
As they walked back out into the main concourse of the department store, the ambient noise felt louder, the lights brighter. She felt exposed, paraded in her new skin. He walked slightly ahead, people instinctively parting for him. She trailed in his wake, a sullen shadow.
He stopped abruptly at a jewelry counter, a glittering island of glass and lights. He pointed to a simple, viciously sharp-looking necklace, a thin blade of polished steel on a fine chain. “That one.”
“Kylo, no.” The protest was automatic, weak.
The clerk, a young man with overly gelled hair, practically tripped over himself to retrieve it. Kylo took it from the velvet tray, the cool metal glinting in his palm. He turned to her.
“A reminder,” he said, his voice low, for her alone.
“Of what? That you own me?”
“That you have teeth.” His fingers were surprisingly deft as he undid the clasp. He moved behind her, his body a wall at her back. She felt the brush of his knuckles against the nape of her neck, the whisper of the chain, then the cool weight of the steel pendant settling against her collarbone. The clasp clicked shut, a final, tiny sound.
She looked at her reflection in the glass of the counter. The girl staring back was a stranger—dressed in sleek, dark clothing, a slash of metal at her throat. She looked… dangerous. Like his. The bond between them hummed, a live wire of acknowledgment. It was a devastatingly effective piece of theater.
He paid, again without a glance at the total.
They were nearing the grand, rotating doors of the store’s exit when a voice, boisterous and familiar, cut through the hushed atmosphere.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Rey?”
Her blood ran cold. She turned to see a man in his late forties, his coveralls bearing the logo of a rival auto shop, a known haven for Alphas who liked to throw their weight around. It was Unkar Plutt, a parts supplier she’d had more than one run-in with.
Plutt’s small, piggy eyes swept over her, then over Kylo, taking in the obvious expense of his clothes, the possessive way he stood just a little too close. A leer spread across his face.
“Fancy meeting you here, sweetheart. Upgrading your clientele, I see.” He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. “Always knew you were too pretty to be covered in grease forever. Found yourself a sugar daddy to keep you in pretty things?”
Rey’s fists clenched at her sides, her face burning with a mixture of shame and pure rage. Before she could spit a retort, Kylo moved.
It wasn’t a dramatic lunge. It was a simple, fluid step that placed him directly between her and Plutt. He didn’t say a word. He just looked at the man.
The air changed. The pleasant, air-conditioned chill of the store vanished, replaced by a pressure that was physical, suffocating. It was the same feeling from the penthouse, the feeling of being pinned, but magnified a hundredfold and directed outward. The ambient chatter around them died. Shoppers felt it, a primal unease that made them instinctively step back.
Plutt’s leer vanished. His face went pale, his jowls trembling. He took an involuntary step backward, bumping into a display of handbags. He looked like a man who had just walked to the edge of a very high cliff and found the ground giving way beneath his feet.
Kylo’s voice was quiet, a soft, deadly whisper that carried no further than the three of them. “Apologize to her.”
Plutt’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He was drowning in the force of Kylo’s presence, in the pure, undiluted dominance rolling off him.
“Now,” Kylo said, the word a crack of thunder in the silent space.
“I-I’m sorry,” Plutt stammered, his eyes wide with terror, fixed on Rey. “I’m sorry, Rey. It was a joke. A bad joke.”
Kylo didn’t move. He held the man in that invisible grip for a moment longer, letting the humiliation sink in, letting him feel the absolute fragility of his own existence. Then, as if flipping a switch, the pressure vanished.
Plutt gasped, stumbling back another step before turning and almost running towards the exit, his bulk weaving unsteadily through the stunned shoppers.
Kylo turned back to Rey. His expression was calm, composed. There was no triumph in it, only a cold, settled certainty. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t thrown a punch. He had simply exerted his will, and the world had bent to it.
He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin. The touch was shockingly gentle after the violence of the moment.
“Let’s go,” he said, as if nothing had happened.
She stood there, trembling, the new boots rooted to the spot. The steel of the necklace felt ice-cold against her heated skin. He had defended her. He had shamed a man who had deserved it. And all it had cost her was another piece of her soul. He was remaking the world around her, making himself the only solid thing in it, her only protector.
It was the most terrifying thing he had done to her yet.
She had no choice. She followed him out into the fading afternoon light, the ghost of his touch on her cheek, the weight of the necklace a brand on her skin, and the chilling understanding that she was, undeniably, his.