Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

Sunlight, sharp as a razor, sliced through a gap in the heavy curtains, striking Eleanora's closed eyelids.

She groaned, a low sound of pure misery. Her head felt like it had been split open with an axe. Her body... her body ached in ways she had never known. A deep, grinding soreness, as if she'd been run over by a truck.

The sheets beneath her weren't cotton. They were silk. Cold and unfamiliar.

And she was naked.

Her eyes flew open.

She was in a strange bed, in a strange room. Panic, cold and immediate, seized her. Then she saw them.

Dark, ugly bruises blooming on the pale skin of her collarbone. A cluster of them on her hip. They were fingerprints. They were bite marks. They were a map of last night's violation.

The memories came back not in a trickle, but a flood.

Kason. Brielle. The red wine on her dress. The cold water of the pool.

Horace.

His cold eyes. His brutal strength. The feeling of being pinned beneath him.

A strangled cry tore from her throat. She shot up, grabbing the duvet and pulling it around herself like a shield. Her body trembled violently, a storm of shock and shame and revulsion. Her stomach churned, and she gagged, bile rising in her throat.

She looked around the room, her eyes wild.

And there he was.

Horace stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a dark silhouette against the morning light. He was wearing a silk bathrobe, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He looked calm. Rested. As if he hadn't just shattered a woman's life into a million pieces.

"You!" she shrieked, the sound raw and broken. "What did you do to me? You animal!"

He turned slowly. His expression was one of utter, chilling indifference. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes coolly assessing her breakdown.

He walked toward the bed, stopping a few feet away, looking down at her. A cruel, lazy smirk played on his lips.

"You were quite enthusiastic last night," he said, his voice a casual drawl. "Are you telling me you didn't enjoy it?"

The words were so callous, so dismissive, they stole the air from her lungs. With a scream of pure rage, she grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him.

He caught it easily, his reflexes impossibly fast, and tossed it to the floor. The smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of annoyance.

He moved to the edge of the bed and leaned over, his hand shooting out to grip her chin. His fingers were like steel, forcing her to look at him.

"You brought this on yourself," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You come into my home, high as a kite, and you have the audacity to scream another man's name in my pool. You don't get to play the victim now."

A feeling of suffocation closed in on her. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

She wrenched her chin from his grasp, the tearing pain in her body a distant echo to the agony in her soul. She had to get out. Now.

She scrambled off the far side of the bed, but he was faster. He grabbed her shoulder, his grip bruising, and shoved her back onto the mattress.

"You walk out that door," he warned, his voice low and deadly, "and your life as you know it is over."

"I hate you," she sobbed, her voice thick with tears and loathing. "I wish I'd never met you. I wish you were dead."

She shoved him, using the last of her strength. This time, he let her go.

She stumbled to her feet, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. She looked around frantically for her clothes. Her dress was in a wet, torn heap on the floor, destroyed beyond recognition.

There was nothing.

Wrapping the duvet tighter around her trembling body, she felt a fresh wave of humiliation.

"Going out like that?" Horace's voice, cold and mocking, came from behind her. "You'll give Kason and the morning papers quite a show."

She froze for a second. The thought of anyone seeing her like this, of Kason seeing her like this, was a new kind of horror. But the thought of staying in this room with him for one more second was worse.

She would rather die.

With a choked sob, she ran. She stumbled through the living area, past the pool, to the main door of the suite. Her fingers, slick with sweat, fumbled with the heavy handle.

She pulled it open and ran out into the hallway, not looking back.

Horace stood in the center of his room, watching the empty doorway. The indifferent mask on his face finally cracked, replaced by an expression of dark, possessive fury.

He pulled his phone from the pocket of his robe, his thumb pressing down hard on the screen.