The crystal decanter hits the marble bar with a dangerous thud as you freeze in the doorway. Through the cracked bedroom door, his voice drips with contempt—"She's nothing to write home about..." followed by the low chuckle of his friends on speakerphone. Three years. Three goddamned years of letting him mark you as his, and this is how he talks about you when he thinks you're still primping for your anniversary dinner.

The door swings open. He stands there, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his sculpted chest, that infuriating smirk on his face—until he sees your expression. It drops instantly. "Baby, I—"

"Save it." Your voice is colder than you feel. Inside, your blood boils with a mixture of hurt and rage you've never felt before.

He moves faster than you can blink, crowding you against the wall with a hand slammed beside your head. His cologne invades your senses—sandalwood and something darker, more primal. "You think you can walk away?" His knee presses between your thighs, hard and unyielding. "After everything I've given you? You're mine. Body, mind, and that pretty little mouth that's always begging for me."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, forcing its way inside when you try to speak. "Don't play innocent. You like this—like when I take what's mine."