Who fucking owns you?

I'm still fiddling with the annoying opening chapter because they address so many important topics. There's nearly two dozen versions of this scene from 2021 to now. The range in discussions, locations in the penthouse where this takes place, and emotions run the gamut and is driving me a little nuts. I need this chapter to be solid since it sets the tone for the book.

Anyway, whenever I rewrite something, the dialogue and their interactions change ever so slightly. I did a minor tweak and Roth went off. This whole fucking scene isn't supposed to exist! In the other versions he was civil. Dare I say... sweet? Anyway, Roth decided to have a tantrum, which means I have a lot more rewriting to do. Sigh. Pray for me.

“Take your hand off me.”

He gave her a rough, teeth jarring shake that shifted her focus from what was going on inside of her to the asshole manhandling her. Again. She prepared to knee him in the balls, but a glance at his face banished that notion.

“Don’t tell me not to touch you. Who fucking owns you?”

His emotions, usually hidden behind an apathetic mask were on full display, startling her into dialing back her own anger.

“You said we wouldn’t fight,” she said quietly, hoping her even tone would mollify him.

“We won’t if you tell me who the fuck you belong to.”

Her recent vow to retreat when possible and avoid confrontation at all costs fell to the wayside at his crass demand. She couldn’t stop her chin from lifting or her hands from balling into fists at her sides. His eyes narrowed.

“I told you, I’m through with you denying me my place. If I want to touch you, I will.”

To prove his point, his hands went to her hips and gripped as he walked her backward until she hit the counter.

“If I want to kiss you and fuck you, if I want you to scream my fucking name, that’s what you’ll do. Tell me why, princess.”

He placed his hands on either side of her and leaned down so his brutal face was inches from hers. His eyes were seething, every inch of him hard and vibrating with the threat of violence, but she didn’t cower.

“You want to fight me on something, this isn’t it,” he warned. “Whose fucking cock do you cum on? Whose bed do you sleep in? Whose ring are you wearing? Whose protecting your sisters from ruin?” His hand came up to collar her throat and squeezed ever so lightly. “Who did you choose to give it all up to, princess? Who owns you?”

Denying the obvious would get her nowhere, but when had that ever stopped her? She wanted to rake her nails down his face, but there was something in his eyes, something about the way he was standing so utterly still that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. When he got her out of bed he seemed calm, gentle even. Even when she splashed him with her bath water, he didn’t get mad, he took it in stride, but this… This was something else and had seemingly come out of nowhere. He was closer to losing control at this moment than he had been at any other point last night. If she pushed him, he would punish her, and the cycle she was trying to break would start over.

She swallowed hard before she whispered, “You do.”

He didn’t drop the hand around her throat or relax his aggressive stance. “I, what?”

He wanted her to say it, the bastard. Again, the need to fight fire with fire rose, but she shoved her emotions aside and focused on the unnatural glint in his eye that promised retribution if she didn’t heed him in this. Even as she drew breath, she felt a slight tremor in his hand as his control wavered.

Pride be damned. “You own me.”

“And who am I?”

For a moment, she didn’t understand what he was asking and then it hit her. As she blinked rapidly, he brushed his lips over hers.

“Who am I, princess?”

“My husband.” Her voice was hoarse with strain. She wasn’t sure why that label was so significant, but it was and they both knew it. She wore his ring and bore his name once more, but she hadn’t claimed him. And he noticed. She called him anything but the label he’d once had. It helped her keep their marriage of convenience in perspective, but he was trampling through her boundary lines, muddying and confusing everything as usual.

He kissed her slow, deep, and gentle enough to make her panic. She broke the kiss and turned her face away, face flaming, heart racing. It should be illegal for him to morph from a violent, possessive psycho into a tender, indulgent lover. The fact that he could go from cold to hot and then warm and do the same to her without effort was unacceptable.

*This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

Keep in mind that this is a raw draft. I'm never sure how much of this will end up in the book or if things will have to be changed based on later events. This is just the seeds of what the story looks like at the moment :) Enjoy.