Chapter 2: Burning the Dress, Cursing His Name
The coffee tasted like burnt asphalt. Mara took another sip anyway, because it was hot and black and it gave her something to do with her hands.
She'd propped her feet on a pillow the way Dominik told her to—the memory of his voice, calm and commanding, sent a prickle of irritation down her spine. She didn't take orders. She never had. Not from Toby, not from anyone. And yet here she was, following his instructions like a well-trained dog.
The TV droned on. Some reality show about desperate women fighting over a man who wasn't worth the oxygen he consumed. Mara watched without seeing, the images sliding past her eyes like water off glass. Her ribs throbbed with every breath, a dull, persistent ache that radiated outward into her shoulders, her back, her goddamn soul.
She shifted on the bed, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. There wasn't one. Every angle pressed against something bruised, something broken, something that reminded her of Toby's shoe connecting with her body over and over and over.
Fucking coward.
She set the coffee cup on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling. The fire crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The room smelled like woodsmoke and lavender and something else—something expensive, like old money and fresh linens and the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself.
Dominik's world. She was living in Dominik's world now.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the way he'd looked this morning. Dark slacks. White shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Forearms that suggested he spent more time in a gym than a boardroom. Silver at his temples that made him look distinguished instead of old. The way he'd said "I'm not going to hurt you" like it was a promise he actually intended to keep.
She hated that she believed him. Hated the way her body had warmed at the sound of his voice, the low, measured cadence of it. Hated the fact that some traitorous part of her had noticed the shape of his hands, the width of his shoulders, the way his eyes had lingered on her face like he was memorizing it.
She wasn't supposed to feel anything. Not attraction. Not curiosity. Not the faint, treacherous heat that pooled low in her belly when she thought about the way he'd looked at her.
"Fuck," she muttered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Get it together, Voss."
But the heat didn't go away. It sat there, simmering, a low hum of awareness that she couldn't shake no matter how hard she tried.
Maybe it was the trauma. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't been touched by anyone who wasn't trying to hurt her in months, and her body was starved for something—anything—that felt like kindness.
Or maybe it was just that Dominik Kessler was exactly the kind of dangerous she'd always been drawn to. The kind that didn't need to raise its voice. The kind that could ruin you with a look.
She'd spent three years with a man who was all flash and no substance. Toby had been loud, performative, desperate to prove he was something he wasn't. Dominik didn't need to prove anything. He just was.
And that, more than anything, scared the shit out of her.
She swung her legs off the bed, ignoring the sharp protest from her ribs. The floorboards creaked under her weight as she stood, testing her balance. The bandages on her feet had come loose during her nap, and she could see the edges of her wounds—angry and red, still oozing in places.
She should change them. She should sit back down and rest and do exactly what Dominik told her to do.
Instead, she walked to the closet.
The dress was still there, hanging on the back of the door where she'd left it last night. The black lace was torn, the satin smeared with grease and blood and the unmistakable musk of Toby's cologne. The hem was shredded from where it had caught on the gravel. The whole thing looked like a crime scene.
She reached for it.
The fabric was stiff under her fingers, crusted with dried fluids she didn't want to identify. She lifted it off the hanger and held it up to the light. The octopus tattoo on her hip was visible through the tears in the fabric, its tentacles curling out from beneath the ruined hem like it was trying to escape.
She remembered buying this dress. Three weeks ago. She'd gone to the mall by herself because Toby was "working late" and she'd wanted to surprise him. She'd spent two hours trying things on, second-guessing herself, trying to find something that would make him look at her the way he used to.
He'd looked at her, all right. Looked at her and told her she looked beautiful and then fucked her from behind without kissing her once.
She should have known then. She should have seen the signs.
But she hadn't wanted to see them. She'd wanted to believe that the man she loved was still in there somewhere, buried under all the lies and the cheating and the slow, steady erosion of everything they'd built.
She'd been wrong.
She crossed to the fireplace, the dress trailing behind her like a funeral shroud. The flames were still going, low and steady, casting an orange glow across the Persian rug. She stood there for a moment, feeling the heat on her face, the dress heavy in her hands.
Then she tore off a piece of the lace.
It was small—just a scrap, really, no bigger than her palm. She held it over the fire, watching the flames lick at the edges. The fabric curled and blackened, the lace dissolving into ash that floated up the chimney.
"Fuck you, Toby," she whispered.
She tore off another piece. Dropped it into the flames. Watched it burn.
"Fuck you for lying to me."
Another piece. The satin this time, the part that had once hugged her hips.
"Fuck you for stealing from me."
The bodice. The straps. The delicate little bow that had sat just above her cleavage.
"Fuck you for making me believe you loved me."
She fed the dress to the fire piece by piece, her voice growing louder with each one, the words torn from somewhere deep and raw and bleeding. The flames grew higher, brighter, consuming everything she gave them. Her hands shook. Her eyes stung. But she didn't stop.
"Fuck you for every time you came home smelling like her perfume."
Rip. Toss. Watch it burn.
"Fuck you for every time you told me I was crazy when I knew something was wrong."
Rip. Toss. Burn.
"Fuck you for every bruise, every cut, every night I spent crying while you slept like a fucking baby."
She was crying now. Not sobbing—she wouldn't give him that. Just tears, hot and silent, tracking down her cheeks and dripping off her chin onto the floor. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and kept going.
"Fuck you for making me think I deserved it."
The last piece was the octopus. The hem with the tentacles that had curled around her thigh, the part of the dress that had made her feel sexy and confident and like herself. She held it up, watching the light flicker through the lace, casting patterns on her skin.
"You don't get to keep this," she said. "You don't get to keep any of it."
She dropped it into the fire.
The flames swallowed it whole. The lace dissolved, the satin melted, and the last remnants of the dress that Toby had loved curled into ash and disappeared up the chimney.
Mara stood there, watching the fire burn. The tears had stopped. Her hands had steadied. The ruined dress was gone, and in its place was nothing but light and heat and the smell of burning fabric.
She looked down at herself. The gray sweater. The black leggings. The bandages on her feet. No jewelry, no makeup, no armor. Just skin and bone and a phoenix tattoo spreading its wings across her shoulder blades.
She'd always loved that tattoo. She'd gotten it after her mother died—a symbol of rebirth, of rising from the ashes. She'd needed that reminder then. She needed it now.
She turned away from the fire and limped to the window. The glass was cold under her fingers, the trees outside dark and still. Somewhere in the distance, she could see the faint glow of lights—a house, maybe, or a road. Civilization. Proof that the world was still out there, waiting for her.
She rested her forehead against the glass and closed her eyes.
She didn't know what came next. She didn't know what Dominik would ask of her, what he'd expect, what kind of life she'd just signed herself into. But she knew one thing for certain:
She was done being a victim.
She was done being a bargaining chip.
She was done being anyone's anything.
The fire crackled behind her, and the phoenix on her back seemed to pulse with the light, wings spread wide, ready to rise.
She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the glass—the bruises on her face, the stubborn set of her jaw, the green eyes that had seen too much and survived it all.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Okay."
She didn't know if she was talking to herself or to the fire or to the ghost of the woman she used to be. But it didn't matter. The word hung in the air like a promise, quiet and fierce and unbreakable.
Movement caught her eye. A figure crossing the lawn below her window—a man, tall and broad, walking toward the house with purpose. She couldn't see his face, but she recognized the way he moved. Deliberate. Controlled. Every step measured.
Dominik.
He was coming back.
Mara stepped away from the window, her heart pounding harder than it should have been. She smoothed the sweater over her bruised ribs, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tried to look like she hadn't just spent the last twenty minutes crying and burning her clothes and talking to herself.
The door opened.
Dominik stood in the threshold, his dark eyes sweeping the room—taking in the fire, the empty coffee cup, the pile of ash in the hearth. Then they landed on her, and something shifted in his expression. Something that might have been surprise. Or respect. Or something else entirely.
"You burned the dress," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." She lifted her chin. "It was ruined. And I didn't want to keep it."
He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the silver at his temples. He looked at her the way he had last night—like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
"The contract says you work for me now," he said. "It doesn't say you have to burn your past."
"Maybe not. But I wanted to."
He nodded slowly. "I understand."
Do you? she wanted to ask. Do you understand what it's like to realize the person you loved was never real? To look at three years of your life and see nothing but lies?
But she didn't say any of that. She just stood there, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away.
He crossed the room, stopping a few feet from her. Close enough that she could smell him—something clean and masculine, like cedar and soap. No cologne. No perfume. Just him.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like I got hit by a truck. But I'll live."
"Good." He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her jaw. The touch was light, almost gentle, but it sent a jolt through her entire body. "The bruise on your cheek is getting better."
She should pull away. She should step back and put distance between them. But she didn't. She couldn't.
"Dominik," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away. His eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable. Then his thumb traced the line of her jaw, down to her chin, tilting her face up.
"I'm making sure my investment is intact," he said.
"I'm not an investment."
"No." His thumb brushed her lower lip, feather-light. "You're not."
She should have been afraid. She should have remembered that this man was the reason she'd spent hours in the trunk of a car. That he'd accepted her as payment for a debt. That he'd put a contract in front of her and called it salvation.
But she wasn't afraid.
She was tired of being afraid.
She closed the distance between them.
Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He was solid and warm, his heartbeat steady under her palm. He didn't move—just stood there, letting her come to him, letting her make the choice.
"You're playing with fire," he murmured. "You know that?"
"Maybe I like fire."
His mouth curved. "You don't even know your weight to me, do you, Mara?" His voice was low, rough-edged like gravel dragged over velvet. "You signed a contract. You think that makes you mine?"
She wasn't sure if it was a question or a dare.
He moved before she could answer, and then her back was against the wall, the cold plaster biting through the sweater, but his body was flush against hers and he was warm, so warm, and she could feel the breadth of his shoulders, the hardness of his chest, the thick, unmistakable bulk of his cock pressed against her belly through his slacks.
His fingers dug into her hips, then slid lower, pushing up the hem of the sweater until his hands found bare skin. She sucked in a breath. His palms were hot and rough and they moved like he owned every inch they touched.
"You want this?" It wasn't really a question. He was already unfastening his belt, the clink of metal loud in the firelit room. "Tell me."
His zipper came down. He took her hand and pressed it against him, letting her feel the hot, thick length of his cock through the cotton of his boxers. Hard. Heavy. Already straining.
"Yes," she whispered, and her own voice sounded foreign. "God, yes."
He stripped off his shirt first. She watched the muscles shift under his skin—shoulders, arms, the flat planes of his stomach. There was a scar just below his collarbone, pale and puckered.
But he didn't let her look long. He pushed her sweater up and over her head in one motion, then pulled her leggings down, kneeling as he dragged the fabric over her bandaged feet. His breath was hot against her hip, against the octopus tattoo curling from her skin.
Then he stood, and now it was just skin.
He looked at her. Really looked, his eyes moving slowly from her face down to her neck, down to her breasts, heavy and full, down to her waist, the curve of her hips, the ink curling out from her skin. He saw the bruises, all of them, mapped across her torso in ugly shades of purple and green, but he didn't flinch. If anything, his expression darkened, hungry and reverent at once.
"You're a mess," he said quietly, but it didn't sound like an insult.
"I'm still standing."
He kissed her then. Not gentle. Not tender. He took her mouth like he was claiming territory, his tongue sliding against hers, his hand fisting in her hair and tilting her head back. She tasted him—coffee and something sharp, like mint—and she moaned into his mouth when his other hand closed over her breast, squeezing, thumb dragging over the nipple until it hardened into a tight, aching point.
He broke the kiss to push her toward the bed. She stumbled, her feet protesting, but he caught her before she fell, hauling her up and dropping her onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against her back. He stood over her, looking down at her sprawled across his bed.
"Legs open," he said.
She obeyed before she could think about it. Her legs fell apart, slow, the bruises on her ribs screaming when she moved. His eyes tracked the motion, moving down her body until they landed between her thighs. She was already wet—she could feel it, slick and hot, the evidence of just how much she wanted this.
He slid his boxers down. She watched him kick them away, and then he was completely naked, and she couldn't stop her eyes from dropping.
His cock was thick, rigid, curving up toward his stomach. Veined and long and utterly unapologetic. She swallowed hard.
He stepped between her thighs, one knee pressing into the mattress. His hands slid up her legs, over her bandaged feet, her ankles, her calves. Up her thighs, spreading her wider. His thumb found her clit—a rough, wet stroke that dragged a moan out of her throat—and then he pressed two fingers inside her.
She was so wet. So ready. He pushed in slowly, letting her feel every inch, curling his fingers until he found the spot that made her back arch off the bed.
"You're going to come for me," he said, a command, not a question. "And then I'm going to fuck you."
He fucked her with his fingers—deep, relentless strokes, his thumb never leaving her clit, his eyes never leaving hers. She felt her orgasm building, hot and tight, threatening to sweep her away. She tried to hold it back, tried to make it last, but he knew exactly what he was doing. His fingers curled harder, faster, and she was coming apart, shaking, her thighs clamping around his wrist.
"Dominik—"
"Don't scream yet."
He pulled his fingers out and licked them clean, his eyes locked on hers. Then he gripped her hips and turned her over. Not roughly, but without hesitation. His hands guided her onto her knees, her ass in the air, the phoenix on her back spread wide, wings bare to the firelight.
"You've got a beautiful back," he murmured. "But I want something else right now."
His hand slid between her shoulder blades and pressed down, pushing her cheek into the mattress. His other hand found her hip, gripping hard enough to bruise. The head of his cock pressed against her—thick, hot, blunt. For a half-second, he just held himself there, letting her feel the pressure, the promise, the sheer overwhelming size of him.
"Say yes again," he said.
"Yes."
He pushed. All of it. He didn't go slow, didn't ease her open. He just drove his cock into her, deep, until his hips were pressed flat against her ass, and she screamed into the sheets. Not in pain. In something else entirely.
He fucked her like he was settling a score. His hips pistoned, hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. The sound of his skin hitting hers filled the room, a wet, rhythmic slap that was obscene and perfect. She could feel her cheek grinding into the mattress, her breasts swaying with every thrust, the heat building again, hotter and fiercer than before.
"You like that?" he grunted, and she could hear the strain in his voice, the control fraying at the edges. "You like my cock in your tight little cunt?"
She couldn't answer. Could barely breathe. He reached around and slid his fingers between her legs, finding her clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. She was coming again—harder this time, her whole body seizing, her thighs shaking, a moan tearing out of her throat that echoed off the walls.
He didn't stop. He kept going, fucking her through it, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve ending until she was sobbing, overwhelmed, wrung out.
"Fuck," he growled, and she felt his hips stutter, felt the heat of his release pumping into her, felt every thick, hot pulse as he emptied himself inside her.
He held her there for a long moment, his chest heaving, his hands still gripping her hips. Then he pulled out slowly, letting her feel every inch as it slid free. She collapsed onto the bed, boneless, her breath ragged.
He lay down beside her, one arm draping over his eyes. The fire crackled. Neither of them spoke.
Mara stared at the ceiling, her body humming, her mind blank. She could feel his come leaking out of her, trickling down her thigh. She should have felt ashamed. She should have felt used.
Instead, she felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Peace.
She turned her head to look at him. His chest was rising and falling, steady and slow. His eyes were closed. In the firelight, he looked almost peaceful too.
"You're bleeding again," he said, his eyes still closed.
She looked down at her feet. Somewhere in all of that, she'd reopened a cut. Blood stained the sheets—dark red against white linen, another mark on his expensive furniture.
"Sorry," she said.
He opened his eyes. "Don't be."
He reached over and pulled her toward him—gently this time, mindful of her ribs. He tucked her against his side, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders.
"Swear at me," he said quietly. "Call me whatever filthy names you want. You earned it."
She pressed her cheek into his chest. Something hard and sore behind her ribs finally started to loosen. Something she hadn't dared touch in years.
"No," she said. "I don't have any fight left for you tonight."
She closed her eyes.
He didn't say anything else. He just lay there, warm and solid and real, and let her breathe.
Outside the window, the wind howled. Inside the room, the fire burned low. And for the first time since she'd been shoved into the trunk of a car, Mara Voss felt something that might have been hope.