The music in the Sigma Chi basement was loud enough to rattle your teeth, some bass-heavy trap song that made the floor vibrate beneath your heels. You'd had three drinks—maybe four—and the world had softened at the edges, everything feeling hazy and warm and possible.

That's why you'd done it. That's why, when Jason from your econ class leaned in near the keg, his hand settling on your waist with a question in his eyes, you'd let him. Let him kiss you. Let his tongue slide against yours while his fingers dug into your hip, let yourself pretend for one stupid, drunken moment that you were just a normal girl at a normal party, not someone who belonged to Nicholas Ferrari whether you wanted to or not.

You didn't hear the music cut out. Didn't hear the crowd go quiet, then scatter like startled birds. You only knew something was wrong when Jason made a sound against your mouth—a whimper, high and frightened—and suddenly he wasn't kissing you anymore. He was gone. Just gone, pulled away so fast you stumbled forward, catching yourself on the keg, your brain struggling to catch up with your body.

Then you saw him.

Nick stood in the center of the basement like a thundercloud given human form, six-two and built like violence, his dark hair catching the light from the bare bulbs overhead. He was wearing the black tank top you loved—loved, God help you, because you weren't supposed to love anything about him—the one that showed off the tattoos snaking up his arms, the muscles that came from years of boxing and whatever else men like him did in the dark.

He wasn't looking at Jason. Jason was on the floor, scrambling backward, already forgotten. Nick was looking at you.

And he was smiling.

It was the worst smile you'd ever seen. Gentle, almost tender, like you were a naughty child who'd broken something precious. Like he was disappointed in the most devastating way possible.

"Nick," you started, your voice coming out slurred, too loud in the sudden quiet. "I didn't—this isn't—"

"Shhh, baby," he said, and his accent wrapped around the words like silk around a blade. Brooklyn-Italian, harsh and beautiful, the voice that whispered in your dreams whether you wanted it or not. "Don't talk. You'll only make it worse."

He moved then, crossing the space between you in three long strides, and your drunk brain finally screamed run but your legs wouldn't listen. Wouldn't move. You were frozen, watching him come for you the way a rabbit watches a wolf, knowing exactly what was going to happen and unable to do anything about it.

His hands—big, warm, calloused from the gym and from hurting people who deserved it—closed around your waist. You felt the heat of him through your thin skirt, felt his thumbs dig in just hard enough to bruise.

"How dare you," he whispered, and his eyes were dark, dark, pupils blown wide with something that looked like rage but you knew better. You knew what it really was. Obsession. Possession. The sick, twisted love that had been building since you were both kids, since he'd decided you were his before you even knew what that meant. "How dare you let him touch you. Let him taste you. You think that's yours to give, baby? You think your mouth belongs to you?"

"Nick, please—"

He didn't let you finish. In one smooth, brutal motion, he bent and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, like you weren't a grown woman in a too-short skirt and too-high heels, like you were a doll he could carry wherever he wanted. Which, you realized with a sinking stomach, you were.

"Nick! Nick, put me down!" You beat at his back, but he just laughed—that low, cruel sound that did something terrible to your stomach—and his hand came down hard on your ass, the crack of it echoing in the quiet basement.

"Be good," he said, and his hand stayed there, possessive, squeezing. "Or I'll make this worse. You know I will."

You did know. God, you knew.

He turned, carrying you toward the stairs, and you caught sight of his friends—Marco and Vinnie and the others, the ones who'd been watching this whole time with expressions that said they'd known. Rehearsed, some part of your brain supplied, hysterical and distant. They'd rehearsed this. Planned it. Waited for you to give him a reason.

"Car's ready, Nick," Marco said, not looking at you, looking at his phone like this was normal. Like Nick carrying a struggling girl out of a party was just another Tuesday. "Back exit, like you said."

"Good man," Nick murmured, his hand sliding up from your ass to the back of your thigh, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. "See how easy this is when you cooperate, baby? When you remember who you belong to?"

"I don't—" you started, but he cut you off with another slap to your ass, harder this time, and you bit back a sound that wasn't entirely pain.

"Don't lie to me," he said softly, dangerously. "You've always been mine. Since your mother gave birth to you. Since you were a cute little baby and I was just a boy who knew, even then, that you were meant for me. And now you're a hot little thing in a skirt that's too short, and you think you get to kiss other men?" He laughed again, and you felt it vibrate through his chest. "No, baby. No. That's not how this works."

They'd parked the Escalade right at the back door, engine running, and Nick didn't hesitate. Just opened the back door and climbed in, pulling you with him, settling you in his lap with your back to his chest while Marco got into the driver's seat and Vinnie took shotgun. Like this was normal. Like kidnapping was just another errand.

"Drive," Nick said, and his arms wrapped around your waist, caging you in, his chin resting on your shoulder. You could smell his cologne—something expensive and dark, bergamot and smoke—and beneath it, the clean scent of his skin. You hated that you knew that smell. Hated that some part of you had memorized it.

"Nick," you tried again, softer now, your head spinning from the drinks and the upside-down blood rush and the heat of him against your back. "Please. I was drunk. I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," he whispered, his mouth against your ear, his breath hot. One hand stayed wrapped around your waist, holding you pinned to his chest. The other slid down, slow and deliberate, over your stomach, over the front of your skirt. "I know, baby. I know you didn't mean to hurt me. But you did. You kissed him. Let him put his hands on you. On my girl." His fingers found the hem of your skirt, slipped beneath it, and you went rigid. "So now I have to punish you. You understand that, don't you? I have to make sure you remember. Make sure you never forget again."

His hand moved higher, and you felt your breath hitch, felt your body betray you the way it always did with him. His fingers found you through your underwear—thin, lace, already damp with sweat and fear and the terrible, traitorous arousal that he always, always pulled from you.

"Nick," you gasped, squirming, but he held you tight, his arm like iron around your waist. "The guys—they'll—"

"They're busy," he murmured, his fingers pressing, circling, making your vision blur. "Aren't you, boys?"

"Eyes on the road, boss," Marco said from the front, not turning around, but you saw Vinnie glance in the rearview mirror and quickly look away, his face flushing.

"See?" Nick's voice was gentle, crooning, as his fingers slipped beneath the lace and found you bare. Wet. His. "No one's watching. No one gets to see this but me. This is mine. This pretty little pussy that's already dripping for me even though you're pretending you hate this." He pressed a finger inside you, slow, relentless, and you bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. "You don't hate it, though. Do you, baby? You love it. Love that I take what I want. Love that I don't stop just because you say no."

He added a second finger, curling them, and your back arched involuntarily, your head falling back against his shoulder. He made a satisfied sound, nipping at your neck with his teeth.

"That's it," he whispered. "Let go. Be good for me. Be my good girl."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing in tight, merciless circles, and you felt the orgasm building fast, too fast, your drunk body unable to resist the practiced skill of his hands. You were panting now, your hands gripping his thighs, your hips moving in small, helpless circles against his fingers.

"Please," you whimpered, not sure what you were begging for—for him to stop, for him to never stop, for him to make you forget your own name.

"Not yet," he said, and his fingers slowed, denying you, keeping you right on the edge. "Not until we're home. Not until I have you tied to my bed where you belong. Where I can take my time with you." His mouth moved to your ear, his voice dropping to a growl that made you shiver. "I'm going to make you cum until you cry, baby. Until you're so sensitive that pleasure feels like pain. Until you beg me for mercy, beg me to stop, and then I'm going to keep going because you don't get to say no to me. You don't get to decide when this ends."

He pressed his fingers deep, curling them again, and you gasped, your body tightening around him.

"I've been planning this," he admitted, his voice almost dreamy, his hand moving again, faster now, driving you toward the edge. "Since the day you turned eighteen and I had to wait. Since I saw you in that yellow dress at your mother's birthday and knew I couldn't wait anymore. You're mine, baby. You've always been mine. And tonight, I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

The car turned, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and you realized dimly that you'd arrived—his mansion, the one on the hill that he'd bought with blood and money and the kind of power that didn't ask permission. The gates opened automatically, and you felt the car slow, then stop.

Nick withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, bringing them to his mouth to taste you while you watched, helpless, aroused, terrified. His eyes locked on yours, dark and endless.

"Welcome home," he said softly. "Now let's go inside. I have plans for you."

He opened the door, lifted you out, and threw you over his shoulder again—carrying you toward the house, toward the bedroom, toward whatever punishment he'd spent years dreaming up.

And some part of you, the part that had always belonged to him, couldn't wait.

.