Chapter 1
POV: Stephanie
I was pinned face down on the cold leather sofa, the crushing weight of Marcel Romero’s hand keeping me there.
He was the undefeated heavyweight legend. The cold-blooded mastermind behind “Valhalla Fighting.”
And, as of one week ago, my legally appointed guardian.
Outside the soundproofed glass of his VIP office, the bass of the club vibrated through the floorboards, a dull, rhythmic hum. Inside, the air was suffocatingly quiet, smelling of expensive bourbon, cedarwood, and his signature metallic cologne.
My short blue silk dress was hiked up around my waist. My lace panties had been swept aside with a single, careless flick of his wrist.
Smack!
His palm—wide, calloused, and shaped by years of professional violence—struck my bare skin.
The heat was instantaneous. It radiated outward in a blinding, stinging wave. I gasped, my fingers clawing futilely at the expensive leather cushion. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, half-terrified, half-electrified.
“Rule number one, Stephanie,” Marcel’s voice vibrated against my spine. It was a low, raspy drawl that made my chest tighten. “You do not slip past my security team. Ever.”
Smack!
The burn dug deeper this time. Angered, I bucked my hips, trying to throw his massive frame off me. It was like trying to move a concrete wall. He didn’t even shift. His left hand merely pressed harder into the small of my back, anchoring me in place.
Frustrated and desperate, I twisted my head and bit his thigh through the heavy fabric of his trousers. Hard.
I wanted to tear skin. I wanted to shatter that infuriating, untouchable composure of his.
Marcel let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Still got teeth, sweetheart? Good.”
Smack!
I bit my lip to keep from crying out, tasting the faint, metallic tang of my own blood. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a sob.
My mind screamed at me to hate this. He was controlling, arrogant, and treated me like a chore he had to manage. But as his hand rested on my burning skin, a heavy, disorienting warmth pooled lower, tightening my core.
My body was reacting to him. It was a betrayal so swift and visceral it made my head spin.
Smack!
The fifth strike broke me. A ragged, shuddering breath escaped my throat, sounding dangerously close to a whimpering plea.
Instinctively, my hips betrayed me. I arched back, seeking relief, seeking the very pressure that was punishing me.
Marcel went dead silent.
The sudden stillness in the room was deafening. He felt it—the shift from resistance to desperate, aching surrender.
The heavy, stinging slaps stopped. His massive palm flattened against my flushed skin, his touch turning slow, heavy, and excruciatingly possessive. He traced a slow circle, his calluses dragging against my sensitive flesh.
I was melting. I could feel the dampness slicking the silk of my underwear. He was going to know. He probably already did. Shame fought with a sudden, driving need that I didn’t understand.
His fingers slid lower, tracing the edge of the damp lace. He didn’t hesitate. He slipped past the barrier, his thumb finding the swollen, aching center of my distress.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, rough register. “Screaming at me one second, and soaking for me the next. You’re a mess, little girl.”
His thumb stroked, firm and unyielding. It was a exquisite torture.
“Say it, Stephanie. Ask nicely.”
My pride was a shredded ruin. The relentless, rhythmic friction of his thumb was driving me over a cliff.
“M-Marcel... please,” I choked out, my eyes squeezed shut. “Please.”
“Please what, sweetheart?”
“Please... let me.”
With a low grunt, he increased the pressure. My back arched off the sofa, my fingers gripping the leather until my knuckles turned white. A sharp, electric shockwave ripped through my core, shattering my vision into a blur of heat and light. I convulsed against his hand, spilling over his fingers as a breathless, broken sound escaped my lips.
Before my racing pulse could even settle, he hauled me up by the waist.
My knees felt like water, but he held me on all fours, my head spinning from the sudden rush of blood.
I heard the sharp, metallic slide of a zipper.
I forced my eyes open, looking over my shoulder. Marcel stood towering behind me, his dark gaze fixed on me, his trousers unfastened. The sheer, imposing scale of him made the breath catch in my throat. This wasn’t a game anymore. The raw, primal hunger in his eyes was terrifying.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering haze of my release.
“No,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I tried to pull away. “Marcel... wait. Please.”
Frustration and genuine fear pricked my eyes.
“I can’t... you’re too big. It’s going to hurt. I’ve... I’ve never done this before. With anyone.”
Marcel froze.
The change in his posture was instantaneous. His eyes narrowed, the dark pupils dilating as my words registered. The muscles in his jaw clenched so hard the bone looked ready to snap.
He knew I was young, but the reality of what he was about to claim—the line he was about to cross—seemed to hit him like a physical blow.
“Fuck, Stephanie,” he muttered, a harsh, ragged breath escaping his chest. It was a curse directed entirely at his own lack of control.
He didn’t touch me again. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me upright in one swift, almost clinical motion, and yanked my dress down to cover me.
Without another word, he turned his back on me and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
He braced his hands against the frame, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths. His knuckles were white against the wood. He looked like a beast trying to lock itself back inside its cage.
I stood there, trembling, my thighs shaking as I tried to smooth down my ruined dress.
I had survived the immediate danger, but looking at the tense, dangerous line of his back, I knew the real war had only just begun.
