Chapter 9: Claiming in the Backseat
The city blurred past the tinted windows, a smear of neon and fading twilight. The SUV’s engine was a vibration so low it was more felt than heard, a mechanical purr that seeped into the bones. The air inside was cool, scented with sandalwood and the faint, expensive tang of his cologne. It was a stark, oppressive contrast to the raw humiliation and terror of the department store.
Rey sat as far from him as the spacious leather seat would allow, her body angled toward the window. She could still feel the ghost of Unkar Plutt’s fear, a chilling mist in the air. She could still feel the weight of the steel necklace against her skin, a cold brand. He had dismantled a man with a look. For her. The thought made her sick.
She felt his gaze before he moved. A shift in the atmosphere, a focusing of attention.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t. She kept her eyes fixed on the passing traffic, on the ordinary people living ordinary lives just meters away. A world she was being systematically removed from.
His sigh was a soft exhalation of impatience. The divider between the front and back seats was up, granting them a terrible, intimate privacy. The leather creaked as he moved closer.
His hand settled on her knee, large and warm even through the thick fabric of the jumpsuit. Her whole body went rigid.
“Don’t,” she whispered, the word cracking.
His fingers began a slow, deliberate journey upward, pushing the material ahead of them in a soft rumple. His touch was maddeningly light, a promise of pressure. He wasn’t looking at her face; his focus was on the path his hand was carving along her inner thigh.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice low and conversational, as if commenting on the weather.
She was. A fine, relentless tremor had taken hold of her limbs. It was fury. It was fear. It was the goddamn bond, a live wire strung taut between them, humming with a energy that felt both alien and deeply, terrifyingly familiar.
“I hate you,” she breathed, the words meant to be a weapon but coming out as a plea.
His fingers reached the junction of her thighs, where the jumpsuit’s seam met. He didn’t pause. His thumb pressed down, a firm, circular motion through the fabric. A jolt, white-hot and unwelcome, shot through her. A soft, traitorous sound escaped her lips.
He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm against her neck. “Your body disagrees.”
His fingers found the zipper of the jumpsuit, tucked at her hip. He tugged it down, a slow, grating sound that seemed obscenely loud in the quiet car. The cool air hit her exposed stomach. Then his hand was inside, sliding beneath the waistband of her plain cotton underwear, his skin shockingly hot against hers.
She gasped, her hands flying to his wrist, nails digging into the sleeve of his jacket. She tried to push him away, but her strength was gone, siphoned out by the overwhelming sensation. His fingers delved into the wet heat between her legs, and she cried out, a short
stifled thing she bit back against her teeth.
“See?” His voice was a dark hum, resonating through her very core. His fingers moved with a devastating, intimate knowledge, circling the sensitive flesh he found. “It knows its Alpha. It doesn’t lie.”
Tears of pure frustration welled in her eyes, blurring the passing streetlights into smears of gold. She hated the slick evidence of her own arousal, the way her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against his hand. Her fists, still clenched on his wrist, lacked all conviction.
“Stop… please.” The plea was a ragged whisper, stripped of its intended force.
He ignored it, his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “This is what you need. This is what you’ve been starving for.” His other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone, a grotesque parody of tenderness. “Let go.”
A broken sound escaped her as his rhythm changed, becoming more insistent, more precise. The pressure built, a coil tightening deep in her belly, terrifying and inevitable. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to retreat into the darkness behind her lids, but it was useless.
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the feel of his hand, the scent of his skin, the low, approving sounds he made. Her body was a traitor, arching into his touch, seeking more of the sensation that was dismantling her piece by piece.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple. “Just feel it.”
The climax ripped through her with a violence that stole her breath. It was a shattering, a wave of pleasure so intense it felt like pain, wrenching a raw, helpless cry from her throat. Her entire body seized, then went limp against the leather seat, boneless and spent.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged breathing and the hum of the engine. He slowly withdrew his hand, the movement deliberate. He didn’t look away from her face, studying the aftermath he had wrought.
She felt hollowed out, scraped clean. Utterly defeated.
He brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes holding hers as he tasted her. The intimacy of the gesture was more violating than anything that had come before. A fresh wave of shame washed over her, hot and suffocating.
“Perfect,” he said, the word final. He straightened his jacket, his composure untouched, as if he’d just concluded a business call.
The car turned, the movement smooth, and began to ascend a ramp. She didn’t need to look to know they were entering the underground garage of his building. The penthouse awaited. Her new cage.
She curled into herself, turning her face back to the window. The reflection she saw was a stranger—flushed, disheveled, with a sharp steel blade resting against her collarbone. He had remade her from the outside in, and the most terrifying part was the small, quiet part of her that, in the aftermath, didn’t feel afraid.
It felt, for one devastating second, like it had come home.