Make You Beg

~ Cassidy ~

I watched the heavy front door click shut, the finality of the sound echoing through the expansive foyer. The brass lock tumbled into place. I stood there for a long moment, my coffee mug cooling against my palms, half-expecting the handle to turn and for Sterling to march right back in. When the silence stretched into a comfortable minute, a breath I didn’t realize I was holding rushed out of my lungs.

Rosalind let out a breathless laugh, her shoulders dropping as she leaned her elbows on the cool marble of the kitchen island. A knowing, triumphant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"Told you," she sang, pushing away from the counter to pour herself a fresh cup of coffee. "He can be an overbearing nightmare most of the time, but he has his moments. He actually left."

I scoffed, taking a slow sip of my lukewarm drink. I refused to give that man any credit. Sterling Thorne did not do favors. He did not retreat. Every move he made was a calculated play on a chessboard only he could see. But I kept that thought to myself. I had reluctantly agreed to stay at this massive, sprawling vacation house solely for Rosalind’s sake. She had worn me down with her puppy-dog eyes and her solemn promise that her controlling brother would be gone for the entire weekend.

"You're staying, right?" she asked, her eyes searching my face as I walked over to the sink to rinse my mug.

"I'm staying," I confirmed, watching the relief wash over her features. "But only because the asshole is actually out of the picture."

The rest of the morning blurred into a chaotic, joyous rush. With Sterling’s suffocating presence lifted from the estate, the air felt lighter. We threw on our walking shoes, grabbed our sunglasses, and hit the vibrant streets of Madrid. For hours, we let the city's frantic, beautiful energy swallow us whole. We wandered through the Plaza Mayor, the ancient cobblestones warm beneath our feet, surrounded by the hum of foreign conversations and the sharp, rhythmic strumming of street musicians playing acoustic guitars.

We bought churros from a small vendor near the royal palace, the powdered sugar dusting Rosalind’s chin as she pointed out the towering, intricate architecture of the clock tower. The sun beat down on our shoulders, a heavy, golden heat that felt more like an embrace than a burden. We spent the entire daylight hours blissfully exploring, taking endless photos in El Retiro Park, laughing until our ribs ached. For a fleeting few hours, the tension that usually gripped my spine dissolved. I let myself forget the sterile, imposing walls of the Thorne estate. I let myself forget the dark, predatory glare of her older brother.

But as the afternoon bled into early evening, the playful atmosphere began to shift.

The sky bruised into shades of deep violet and burnt orange. The streetlights flickered to life, casting long, wavering shadows across the pavement. My feet throbbed from walking, a dull, familiar ache settling into my calves.

"We should probably head back," I suggested, wiping a bead of sweat from my temple. "It's past five."

I turned to look at Rosalind, expecting her to agree, to complain about her own tired feet. Instead, she was staring down at the glowing screen of her phone. A secretive, mischievous smile stretched across her face. It wasn't her usual carefree grin. This was something else. A warning bell chimed in the back of my mind, sharp and clear.

"What is it?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. The exhaustion in my limbs vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid alertness.

She looked up, her eyes wide and sparkling with a frantic, bubbling excitement that had absolutely nothing to do with Spanish architecture.

"He's here," she said, her voice dropping into an excited whisper. "Kovax is around. He just messaged me. He wants to meet."

My stomach plummeted. The remaining warmth of the Madrid sun vanished from my skin. "You're kidding, right?"

She wasn't kidding. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Rosalind’s sudden, burning desire to visit Spain. Her insistence on this specific weekend. Her constant phone checking over the last two months. She hadn't forced this trip to see the royal palace or eat authentic tapas. She had planned this entire international vacation to physically meet a complete stranger she had only been chatting with on a screen.

"Rosalind, no. That is incredibly dangerous," I stated, my voice hardening. I closed the distance between us, grabbing her arm.

Her smile faltered, her brow furrowing in irritation. "He isn't dangerous, Cass. We've talked for hours every single night. He's actually really sweet and friendly."

"Ted Bundy was friendly," I snapped, the panic spiking in my chest. Survival instinct, honed by years of watching people's true colors, took over. I let go of her arm and immediately yanked my handbag open. My fingers bypassed my wallet and sunglasses, digging deep into the bottom compartment until I gripped the cold, hard plastic of my self-defense tools.

I pulled out my pepper spray and a compact, high-voltage taser, holding them out in my palm. The bustling crowd of tourists flowed around us, a few throwing curious, sideways glances at the weapons in my hand, but I didn't care.

"If you are dead set on doing this stupid thing, I am coming with you," I told her, my tone leaving zero room for debate. "I'll sit at another table. I'll pretend I don't know you. But I am not letting you go meet a faceless internet guy alone so you can end up in a ditch."

Rosalind let out a harsh, frustrated breath. She looked at the pepper spray, then back up at my face. "Cass, stop it. This isn't some back alley in New York. This is Madrid. There are people everywhere. I am not letting you play the awkward third wheel on my date. It's our first time meeting, and I want to make a good impression. Having my paranoid best friend hovering with a taser ruins the vibe."

"A good impression doesn't matter if you're dead!"

"I am not going to die!" she shot back, stepping away from me. "I don't want to argue with you about this."

Before I could register her movement, she reached out and snatched the canister of pepper spray right out of my open hand. She tossed it casually into her own designer purse, brushing off my frantic fears.

"I'm taking this, just to make you feel better," she said, offering a tight, patronizing smile. "But you are going back to the house. I'll see you later tonight."

"Rosalind, wait—"

She didn't wait. She spun on her heel and merged into the dense, bustling crowd. I lunged forward, trying to grab the fabric of her jacket, but a group of loud tourists cut across my path, blocking my way. By the time I pushed through them, she was gone. Swallowed by the sea of strangers.

I stood frozen on the foreign street, the neon lights of a nearby tavern reflecting in the puddles on the cobblestone. My hand gripped the taser so hard my knuckles turned white. A harsh, bitter realization washed over me. I couldn't tackle her to the ground. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to make her own risky, stupid choices, there was no physical way I could stop her.

I turned around and headed for the subway station, a nagging sense of dread churning my stomach into tight, painful knots. The train ride back to the estate felt like an eternity. Every stop, every screech of the metal wheels against the tracks, amplified the hollow anxiety ringing in my ears. I kept checking my phone, praying for a text from her, but the screen remained dark.

The sun had set by the time I walked up the long, winding driveway of the Thorne estate. The massive compound loomed against the night sky, dark and imposing. The heavy iron gates and tall hedges suddenly felt less like a luxury retreat and more like a fortress. A very empty, very quiet fortress.

I climbed the marble steps, my shoes echoing in the silence. I keyed in the security code, the heavy front door clicking unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped into the foyer.

The very second my foot hit the hardwood floor, my breath hitched. A freezing jolt of adrenaline paralyzed my lungs.

The house wasn't empty.

Sterling was standing in the kitchen.

He hadn't left. He hadn't gone anywhere. He was casually leaning against the heavy marble of the kitchen island, his tall, broad frame illuminated by the dim, under-cabinet lighting. He held a crystal glass of dark liquor in his large hand, the amber liquid swirling slowly over a single cube of ice. He wore a crisp, dark button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the thick veins and corded muscles of his forearms.

His pitch-black, calculating eyes dragged over my solitary figure. He took in my messy hair, my tense shoulders, and my empty hands. The moment he realized I was alone, his gaze snapped away from me, darting frantically behind my shoulder. He stared at the empty doorway, waiting for his sister to walk through.

She didn't.

The silence in the room stretched, heavy and oppressive, thick enough to choke on. The ice in his glass clinked against the crystal.

"Where’s she?"

His deep voice cut through the quiet room like a physical blow. The words were sharp, laced with chilling ice. There was no greeting. No explanation for why he was still here. Just a raw, demanding interrogation.

I stood my ground in the foyer, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I forcefully pushed down the sudden flutter of nervous energy erupting in my chest. He had lied. He had manipulated the situation just to keep us off guard. The realization sparked a hot flare of anger, burning away my initial shock. I decided to meet his hostility head-on with a wall of dry, mocking defiance.

I kicked off my shoes, letting them drop to the floor, and crossed my arms over my chest. "She went to meet the man she’s been chatting with for two months."

The reaction was instantaneous.

Sterling went perfectly still. The slow swirl of the liquor in his glass stopped. His dark eyes locked onto mine, the irises going black, swallowing the light in the room. A terrifying, primal anger rippled to the surface of his skin. The shift in his demeanor was so violent, so palpable, it felt like the air pressure in the room had suddenly dropped.

He set the glass down on the marble counter. A hard, decisive clack.

"She went to meet a stranger," he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, lethal growl that vibrated through the floorboards. "And you couldn’t stop her? Or go with her?"

The accusation hit my raw nerves. I straightened my spine, refusing to back down from his towering intimidation. I would not let him make me feel small. I would not let him twist this onto me.

"Rosalind is a grown woman," I challenged, taking a deliberate step forward. I offered him a cold, patronizing smile, putting every ounce of my frustration into the expression. "She decided to meet with someone she’s known for two months. She made her choice, and she walked away. Who am I to stop her?"

His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering dangerously in his cheek. I knew I was pushing him. I knew I was playing with fire, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins made me reckless.

"If you’re so worried about her," I added, tilting my chin up, "why don’t you call her yourself?"

I didn't even see him move.

In a blinding flash of motion, he crossed the expanse of the kitchen. Before I could blink, before I could take a single step back, he was suddenly on me. He aggressively shoved my body backward, his heavy weight colliding with mine. My feet slid across the floor until my spine hit the massive, floor-to-ceiling glass window of the living room with a jarring thud. The cold surface of the glass bit through the thin fabric of my shirt.

His large, rough hand shot up, his fingers wrapping securely around my throat.

He didn't squeeze. The grip wasn't hard enough to bruise the delicate skin or restrict my airflow, but the firm, dominant pressure sent a terrifying message of absolute control. He held me pinned against the window, his thumb resting right over my racing pulse.

"I should’ve gotten rid of you when I had the chance," he seethed, his face dropping inches from mine. He stepped perfectly into my space, his hard, muscular chest pressing flush against mine. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming, suffocating. "Maybe then, you wouldn’t have influenced her so badly."

My heart slammed wildly in my throat, beating a frantic staccato right against his palm. The sheer physical dominance of his frame trapped me, caging me in. I tilted my chin up, forcing my breathing to steady. I had to hide the chaotic, electric storm raging in my veins. The proximity, the danger, the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed with dark liquor—it was scrambling my brain.

"Let go of me, Mr. Thorne," I ordered, forcing my voice to remain even.

Instead of obeying, a dark, dangerous smirk touched the corners of his lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement. It was the look of a predator realizing its prey was finally cornered. The grip around my throat tightened just for a fleeting, taunting second.

Then, he released my neck and violently spun my entire body around.

A sharp gasp left my lips as he slammed me face-first into the freezing cold glass of the window. My cheek pressed against the smooth pane, the night sky and the dark estate grounds sprawling out before me. Before I could push off the glass, the heavy, muscular wall of his chest pressed intimately against my back, trapping me completely.

There was nowhere to move. Nowhere to run. The solid weight of his body caged me against the window. I felt his rough, hot fingers slide deliberately down the curve of my waist. They traced a slow, scorching path over my clothing before hooking possessively onto my hip, gripping the bone to hold me in place.

He was too close. His raw masculine scent surrounded me, a dizzying mix of spice, heat, and danger. And to my absolute horror, as the panic flared in my chest, another feeling rose to meet it. A dark, throbbing ache pooled low in my stomach. I desperately wanted more.

He leaned his head down, his face burying into my hair. I felt his lips ghosting over the sensitive shell of my ear, the slight graze sending a violent shudder down my spine.

"What would you do," he whispered, his deep, gravelly voice dragging along my nerve endings. His hot breath and radiating body heat seeped directly into my trembling skin. "If I took you right here, right now, against this window? Make you beg me to let you come?"

The explicit, filthy words shocked through my system like a live wire. A chaotic, overwhelming cocktail of genuine fear, furious anger, and raw, undeniable desire coursed violently through my veins, setting my blood on fire. The image his words painted flashed behind my eyelids—his hands tearing at my clothes, his hard body driving into mine while the city slept below us.

My body betrayed my mind entirely. The instinct to fight, to push his massive frame away and run for the door, vanished. Instead, a heavy, liquid heat rushed straight between my thighs.

My back arched instinctively. I pushed backward, pressing my ass flush into his hard groin. I felt the thick, heavy ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, burning right through the layers of our clothes.

He groaned low in his chest, a dark, primal sound that vibrated against my back, his fingers digging harder into my hip.

I turned my head just enough to the side, my cheek still resting on the cool pane, until I could lock eyes with his dark reflection in the glass. My chest heaved, my breath fogging the window between us.

"I'd like to see you try, Mr. Thorne."