**Chapter Two: Claimed**

The bacon sizzles. The coffee pours. The kitchen smells like home.

Or it used to.

I sit at the island, fork hovering over my plate. My stomach twists. Not from hunger. From him.

Cole stands by the stove. Back turned. Shoulders broad. Black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even acknowledge I’m there.

Ice cold.

It’s been three days since he brought me home. Three days of heavy glances, closed doors, and a silence so thick it chokes the air. And now he’s acting like I’m furniture. Like I don’t exist.

My mother chats about garden plans. My stepfather laughs at something on his phone. My stepsister scrolls through her phone, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in the room.

Me? I’m drowning.

Every time Cole moves, my pulse jumps. Every time he breathes, I feel it in my ribs. It’s stupid. It’s reckless. It’s inevitable.

He plates his food. Black coffee. No sugar. He always was a man who liked things stark. Unsoftened.

He walks past me. Close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. Close enough that I catch his scent. Sandalwood. Cedar. Something dark and expensive. Something that makes my knees weak.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak. Just slides into the chair across from me.

Eyes forward. Jaw tight. Hands resting on the table like he’s holding himself back.

I swallow. My throat is dry.

“Morning,” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

The silence stretches. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.

My stepsister glances up. “Emma’s acting weird. You think she’s sick?”

“She’s fine,” my stepfather says, not looking up from his screen.

Cole’s fork clinks against his plate. Sharp. Deliberate.

He finally looks at me.

Dark. Unreadable. Dangerous.

Those eyes. They don’t just see me. They own me. Even when he’s silent. Even when he’s cruel. They pin me to the chair. They strip me bare.

I look away first. Always do.

Because if I keep staring, I’ll break. And I can’t afford to break. Not yet.

Not when I still don’t know what I am to him. Not when I still don’t know why he brought me here. Not when every instinct screams that he’s a wildfire and I’m dry kindling.

I eat in silence. The food tastes like ash. My chest aches. My skin prickles. Every nerve ending is tuned to him.

When the plates are cleared, I set my napkin down. Stand.

“I’m going out,” I say. Voice steadier than I feel. “Need air. Clear my head.”

Cole’s head snaps up.

Fast. Fierce. Predatory.

His eyes lock onto mine. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. Voice low. Rough. Final.

My heart hammers. “I just need to—”

“You said you’d stay.”

“I didn’t promise to live in your shadow.”

His jaw clenches. A muscle feathers along his cheek. He rises. Slow. Deliberate. The chair scrapes back. He rounds the island in three long strides.

I back up. He follows. Close. Too close. I can feel his heat. Smell his coffee. See the storm in his eyes.

He stops an inch from me.

Hands on the counter on either side of my hips. Trapping me.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I do.

His gaze drags down my face. Over my lips. My throat. The place where my pulse races. He’s memorizing me. Even when he’s trying to ignore me. Even when he’s trying to kill me with coldness.

“You don’t leave,” he says. Voice a blade. “Not until I say so.”

“I’m not a prisoner.”

A dark laugh. Rough. Bitter. “No. You’re something worse.”

“What’s that?”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans in. Close enough that his breath ghosts over my ear.

“Sit down,” he murmurs. “Drink your coffee. Wait for dinner. Do exactly as I say. Or I’ll lock you in my room and keep you there until you learn to behave.”

My breath catches. Heat floods my chest. My cunt flares. Useless. Treacherous.

He feels it. Of course he does. He always feels it.

His thumb brushes my hip. Just once. A spark. A warning.

“Understood?”

I nod. Barely.

He steps back. Returns to his seat. Eats his eggs. Drinks his coffee. Ignores me like I’m nothing.

Like I’m everything.

I sit. Hands shaking. Heart racing. Skin burning.

The day stretches. Long. Agonizing.

I change. Powder my face. Avoid the mirror. Avoid the thoughts. Avoid the way my body remembers his touch. The way my mind replays his voice. The way my chest aches for something I can’t name.

Dinner is at seven. Formal. Heavy silverware. Crystal glasses. A long oak table polished to a shine. My mother tries small talk. My stepfather discusses business. My stepsister asks about college apps.

Cole sits at the head. Like he owns the room. Like he owns me.

I take my seat. Back straight. Hands folded. Eyes forward.

Halfway through the appetizer, the guest arrives.

Julian.

Family friend. Old friend of my stepfather’s. Mid-thirties. Sharp suit. Easy smile. Handsome in a polished, harmless way.

He sits to my right.

“Emma,” he says. Voice smooth. “You’re even more stunning in person. Your mother’s been gushing about you for years.”

I smile politely. “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”

He leans in. Just slightly. Close enough that his cologne mixes with the rosemary and garlic. Close enough that I can see the flecks of green in his eyes.

“You went to Stanford?” he asks. “I’d love to grab coffee sometime. See if the famous Emma Hart lives up to the hype.”

I open my mouth to decline.

A shadow falls over the table.

Cold. Heavy. Final.

I look up.

Cole stands. Chair pushed back. Hands gripping the edges like he’s holding onto something fragile. Or something dangerous.

His eyes are black. Bottomless. Filled with something feral. Something raw.

“Julian,” Cole says. Voice quiet. Deadly. “Back off.”

The man blinks. Confused. “I was just—”

“She said she’d think about it,” Cole cuts in. “You’re overstepping. Don’t make me tell you again.”

The table goes still. My mother drops her fork. My stepfather frowns. My stepsister stares.

Julian pales. Nods once. Turns back to his plate.

I sit frozen. Heart slamming against my ribs. Blood roaring in my ears.

Cole’s hand lands on my thigh. Heavy. Possessive. Burning through my skirt.

“Eat,” he murmurs. So low only I can hear.

I swallow. Nod. Pick up my fork. Hands trembling.

He doesn’t let go. His thumb drags slowly up my inner thigh. Just once. A claim. A threat. A promise.

I stop breathing.

The rest of dinner is a blur. Polite chatter. Clinking glass. Forced smiles. All while Cole’s hand rests on my leg. While his eyes track every move I make. While his silence screams louder than any words could.

When dessert is cleared, he stands.

“Up.”

I rise. Legs weak. Mind reeling.

He doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t need to. The air between us is wire-tight. Charged. Ready to snap.

We walk out. Through the hallway. Past the library. Past the guest rooms. Down the long corridor to his wing.

My pulse hammers. My skin prickles. My cunt drips. Useless. Desperate.

He stops at his door. Key in hand. Doesn’t look at me.

“Inside.”

I step through. He follows. Closes the door. Locks it.

The room is dark. Minimal. Cold. Black sheets. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A desk. A chair. A bed.

He turns. Closes the distance.

In two steps. In one breath.

His hands are on me. Rough. Urgent. Fingers gripping my waist. Pulling me against his chest. I gasp. He groans.

His lips crash onto mine. Hard. Hungry. Desperate.

I melt. Immediately. Completely. My hands fly to his chest. Clutch the fabric. Pull him closer.

He breaks the kiss. Breathing ragged. Eyes burning.

“You think I don’t feel it?” he growls. Voice shredded. “You think I don’t feel you looking at me? Touching yourself in your sleep? Whispering my name when you think I’m gone?”

I shake my head. Tears prick my eyes. “Cole—”

“Don’t.” He pins me against the door. One hand braced beside my head. The other tugging my skirt up. Bunching it at my hips. “You don’t get to run. You don’t get to pretend you’re untouched by me. Because you’re not. You’ve been mine since the moment you walked into that kitchen. Since the moment you looked at me and didn’t look away.”

My breath hitches. “I’m not—”

“You are.” His hand slides under my panties. Fingers brushing through dampness. Soaking wet. Already dripping for him. He curses. Low. Dark. “Fuck. You’re so fucking wet. For me. After all this silence. After all this cold. You’re dripping. Aching. Begging.”

I whimper. Eyes flutter shut. “Please.”

“Please what?” he demands. Voice rough. Edge of madness. “Tell me what you need. Tell me you want it. Tell me you’re mine.”

I open my eyes. Look at him. Really look at him.

See the hunger. The fear. The raw, bleeding need beneath the ice.

“I’m yours,” I whisper. Voice breaking. “I’ve always been yours. Take me. Please. Take me.”

His breath leaves him in a rush. He lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bed. Drops me onto the sheets.

Kneels. Hands shaking. Eyes wild.

He tears my panties off. Throws them aside. Doesn’t care about the mess. Doesn’t care about the rules.

His fingers slip between my thighs. Wide. Heavy. Pressing into my clit. I arch. Cry out. Back off the mattress.

“Cole—”

“Look at me.” His voice is a command. A plea. A breaking point. “Look at me when I ruin you.”

I do.

His fingers drag through my slick. Slow. Deliberate. Stretching. Coating. He circles my clit. Presses inside. I gasp. He grunts. Thrusts two fingers deep. Rough. Fast. Perfect.

I’m crying. Already. So close. So overwhelmed.

He leans back. Unbuckles his belt. Unbuttons his jeans. Shoves them down. Kicks off his shoes.

His cock springs free. Thick. Heavy. Veined. Dark head glistening. So hard. So perfect.

I stare. Mouth dry. Heart stopping.

He grabs my hip. Pulls me to the edge of the bed. Lifts my leg. Wraps it around his waist.

“First time,” he murmurs. Voice unsteady. Raw. “You sure?”

I nod. “Yes. Please. I want it. I want you.”

He lines up. Presses the broad head against my entrance. Stretches. Promises. I brace. Wait.

He thrusts. Deep. Hard.

I scream. Back arches. Fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans. Loud. Ragged. Buried to the hilt.

We both freeze. Breathing. Burning.

He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Pulls back. Slams in. Again. And again. Fast. Relentless. Rough. Claiming.

I’m torn open. Filled. Stretched. Aching. Perfect.

His hand grips my throat. Not choking. Claiming. Thumb pressing over my pulse. Feeling it race.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” I sob. “I’m yours. Only yours. Please. Cole. Please.”

He loses it.

Thrusts deeper. Faster. Harder. Cock slamming into my cunt. Balls slapping against my ass. Skin slapping. Breath tearing. Every nerve alight. Every muscle coiled.

I’m screaming. Crying. Begging. Clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me alive.

He leans down. Bites my shoulder. Hard. Marking. Owning.

“I’ve wanted this since day one,” he growls against my neck. Voice shattered. “Since I saw you in that kitchen. Since I heard your voice. Since I knew I’d never let you go. I was trying to be good. Trying to be patient. But you’re not patient. You’re fire. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

I can’t think. Can’t speak. Only feel. Only him. Only the brutal, beautiful friction. Only the way he fills me. Only the way I break.

His pace becomes frantic. Desperate. He drives into me. Over and over. Deep. Unforgiving. Perfect.

I’m right there. The coil snaps.

“Cole!” I scream. Back bowing. Eyes rolling back. Orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Shatters me. Waves crash through my core. I clamp down on his cock. Cry out. Shatter again. Shatter again.

He roars. Grabs my hips. Fingers bruising. Drives deep. Last thrust. Buried to the root.

He comes. Hot. Thick. Pumping into me. Cum flooding my womb. Claiming. Marking. Sealing.

We collapse. Breathless. Trembling. Shattered.

He stays buried. Chest heaving. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes closed. Jaw tight.

I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer. Don’t want him to leave. Don’t want this to end.

He pulls back. Just enough to look at me.

His hands cup my face. Thumbs brushing tears. So gentle now. So broken.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers. Voice raw. Final. “No more running. No more hiding. You belong to me. Body. Soul. Every fucking breath. Do you understand?”

I nod. “I understand. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”

He kisses me. Slow. Deep. Tender. A stark contrast to the violence we just made. A promise. A vow. A cage.

When he pulls back, his eyes are different. Darker. Heavier.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. Screen lights up. One unread message.

He stares at it.

Color drains from his face.

His hand trembles. The phone clatters to the sheets.

“What is it?” I whisper.

He looks at me. Voice barely audible. Shaken. Terrified.

“They found out,” he says. “They know you’re here. And they’re not asking.”

His grip tightens on my waist. Fingers digging in.

“They’re coming tonight.”

His eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Deadly. Unbreakable.

“Don’t fight me,” he warns. “Not then. Not ever. If they touch you, I’ll burn the world down. You hear me? You hear me, Emma?”

I nod. Heart stopping.

He leans in. Lips brushing my ear.

“Hide in the closet,” he murmurs. Voice final. “When the car pulls up. When the door opens. You stay quiet. You stay still. And you don’t look at them. You only look at me. Because I’m not losing you. Not now. Not ever.”

The hallway door creaks.

Footsteps. Heavy. Close.

Cole rises. Pulls me up. Shoves me toward the closet.

“Now.”

I slip inside. Pull the door shut. Just a crack.

His footsteps stop. The bedroom door opens.

A voice. Cold. Familiar. Wrong.

“Cole.”

He doesn’t answer.

The voice laughs. Soft. Sinister.

“He’s not here, brother. But I know who is.”

My breath stops.

The closet door handle turns.

I’m alone in the dark.

And the lock clicks shut.