The Billionaire's Blood Debt: Ruined by My Enemy

Elowen's POV

The silk slip hit the floor with a soundless rustle, leaving me exposed under the harsh, cold lights of the penthouse suite. I stood there, trembling not from the cold, but from the raw, predatory weight of Killian's gaze. He didn't move. He didn't rush. He just stood there with his arms crossed over his tattooed chest, dissecting me like I was a piece of art he'd bought at a discount.

"Turn around," he commanded. His voice was a low, velvet rasp that sent a traitorous shiver down my spine.

I gritted my teeth, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. "You've seen enough, Killian. Sign the medical release for Leo."

"It's Mr. Blackwood," he corrected, his eyes narrowing. "And I'll sign it when I've verified the quality of the merchandise. Turn. Around."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and did as he said. I felt his eyes roaming over the curve of my back, the line of my hips, the marks where Thatcher's hands had been only hours before. I felt like a sacrificial lamb, but the fire in my gut-the need to see the Montgomery empire turn to ash-kept my knees from buckling.

Suddenly, his heat was right behind me. He didn't touch me at first, but the air between us was electric, thick with the scent of scotch and something darker, more primal.

"Thatcher was a fool," Killian whispered into my ear. His breath was a warm contrast to the icy fear in my blood. "He had a thoroughbred and he treated you like a pony. No wonder you ran to the devil."

"I didn't run to you," I snapped, turning my head to glare at him over my shoulder. "I recruited you. There's a difference."

Killian let out a dark, dry laugh and finally placed his hands on my waist. His fingers were large, calloused, and bruisingly firm. He pulled me back against him, the friction of his rough skin against my soft flesh making my breath hitch.

"Recruited? Is that what you're calling this?" He spun me around, his grip moving to my shoulders as he pinned me against his hard frame. "You sold yourself, Elowen. You didn't just sign a contract; you gave me the keys to your body. And I intend to drive you until you break."

"Then do it," I challenged, my emerald eyes clashing with his silver ones. "Stop talking and do it. Or are you all talk, Mr. Blackwood?"

His expression shifted from cold amusement to something lethal. In one swift motion, he lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He slammed me back against the bedroom door, the impact jolting my spine.

"Careful, Little St. Claire," he growled, his face inches from mine. "You're playing a game you don't understand. I don't give. I take. And I take exactly what I want, when I want it."

He crashed his mouth onto mine. This wasn't the polite, guarded kissing I'd shared with Thatcher. This was a war. He bit my lower lip, demanding entry, and when I opened for him, his tongue invaded with a ruthlessness that left me lightheaded.

I hated him. I hated the way he'd ruined my father. I hated the way he looked at me like I was nothing. But my body was a traitor. My heart hammered against my ribs, and a shameful, honeyed heat began to pool between my thighs.

Killian groaned, his hands moving from my shoulders to my chest, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbones before sliding down. He didn't tease. He didn't ask. He molded me with a possessiveness that made my head spin.

"You're already wet for me," he murmured against my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Even with all that hate in your heart, your body knows who its master is."

"It's... it's just biology," I gasped, my head falling back against the door as his mouth moved lower. "It doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything," Killian said, his hand sliding down, his fingers finding the center of my ache with a precision that made my vision white out. "It means that while you're planning your revenge, your soul is screaming for the very man who destroyed you. Tell me, Elowen. Tell me you want this."

"I... I want my brother safe," I choked out, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer even as I tried to push him away.

"Lie again and I'll walk out that door," he threatened, his fingers moving with a rhythmic, torturous pace. "Tell me you want me. Tell me you need the monster."

The pleasure was a tidal wave, crashing over my pride and my dignity. I was drowning in it, in him. "Yes," I sobbed, my back arching off the door. "Yes, Killian. Please."

He stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening. I opened my eyes, my breathing ragged, my body humming with a desperate, unfulfilled need. Killian was staring at me, his eyes dark with a cruel triumph. He wasn't even breathing hard.

"Please what, Little St. Claire?" he asked, his voice deathly quiet.

"Don't... don't stop," I whispered, the shame of the words burning hotter than the rain outside.

Killian stepped back, letting my legs drop to the floor. I stumbled, my knees weak, forced to grab the door handle for support. He looked down at me, his smirk returning-the cold, billionaire smirk that had haunted my family's dreams for a decade.

"I told you in the car, Elowen," he said, reaching for his discarded shirt on the chair. "I am a very stingy man. You don't get the release you crave just because you asked for it. You haven't earned it yet."

"You... you can't be serious," I breathed, my face flushed with a mix of arousal and fury.

"I'm very serious." He buttoned his shirt with steady fingers, his gaze never leaving mine. "You're going to spend the night in this room, thinking about what you've become. You're going to feel every bit of that itch, and you're going to remember that I'm the only one who can scratch it."

He walked toward the door, picking up the signed contract from the floor.

"In the morning, a stylist will be here at six," he continued, his tone turning business-like and cold. "We have a press conference at the Montgomery Center. I'm announcing a hostile takeover of Thatcher's primary holding company. And you're going to be on my arm, looking like the happiest woman in the world."

"You're going to flaunt me in front of him?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"I'm going to show him exactly what happens to things he fails to protect," Killian said, opening the door. "Get some rest, Elowen. You're going to need your strength. The public part of your ruin begins tomorrow."

The door clicked shut, and I heard the unmistakable electronic chirp of the lock engaging.

I was alone. I was aching. And for the first time in my life, I realized that I hadn't just signed a deal with the devil. I had invited him in, and he was never going to let me go.

I walked over to the nightstand and picked up my phone. A new notification was sitting there-a picture Bianca had just posted to Instagram. It was her and Thatcher, clinking champagne glasses. The caption read: The right sister always wins. #NewBeginnings.

I threw the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the marble wall.

I didn't need a phone. I didn't need my father. I didn't even need my dignity.

I looked at the door Killian had just walked through. Tomorrow, Thatcher would see me. Tomorrow, the world would see me. And if I had to be used by a monster to make them suffer, I would be the most beautiful tool Killian Blackwood had ever owned.

But as I lay down on the cold silk sheets, my body still pulsing with the ghost of his touch, I knew the truth.

The war wasn't just between the St. Claires and the Blackwoods anymore. It was between me and the man in the other room. And I was already losing.