Chadwick stared at the crying girl on the floor. The muscles in his jaw ticked violently. He turned his back on her, walked over to the crystal decanter on the wet bar, and poured a heavy measure of scotch. He downed it in one burning swallow, praying the alcohol would kill the raging fire in his groin.
It didn't.
Amalia took advantage of the distance. She scrambled backward, her bare skin scraping against the carpet, and grabbed the torn pieces of the black silk dress, holding them desperately against her chest. Her breathing was rapid and shallow.
The alcohol hit Chadwick's stomach, but the heat only amplified his physical awareness of the girl behind him. The veins on the back of his hand bulged as he gripped the empty glass.
He turned around. His dark eyes swept over Amalia's trembling body, stripping away her pathetic attempts to cover herself. His gaze was heavy, physical, and completely violating.
Amalia felt the weight of his stare. It made her skin crawl. Desperation clawed at her throat. She reached into the pocket of her discarded jeans and pulled out the tissue paper.
Her hands shook violently as she unwrapped the bright pink party pill. She held it out toward him, her palm flat.
"I'll take it," she cried, tears streaming down her face. "I'll take it right now. Just... just let me go after."
Chadwick looked at the pink pill. A surge of violent, humiliated rage boiled in his chest. He didn't need a drug. The fact that she thought he needed a chemical to perform insulted his fragile, hyper-masculine ego.
He crossed the room in two strides. He kicked his foot out, striking her hand.
The pink pill flew across the room and bounced under the bed.
Amalia shrieked, throwing her arms over her head and curling into a tight ball on the floor, bracing for a brutal beating.
But the punch never came. Instead, two massive hands clamped around her waist. Chadwick lifted her off the floor as easily as if she weighed nothing.
He threw her onto the center of the massive king-sized bed.
The soft mattress absorbed her fall, making it impossible for her to find any leverage to push back. Before she could scramble away, Chadwick was over her. He planted his knees on either side of her hips, trapping her completely in his shadow.
"You had the guts to drug me," Chadwick said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "Now you face the consequences."
Amalia's tears flowed freely, soaking into the white sheets. "Please," she babbled, her voice breaking. "My grandmother is waiting for me. I need to go back to my country. Please."
The words "go back" triggered something dark in Chadwick. He hated losing control. He hated the idea that this girl-his only cure-wanted to leave him.
He grabbed the torn silk she was clutching to her chest and ripped it completely away. The sound of the fabric tearing was deafening in the quiet room.
Amalia's survival instinct flared. She screamed, throwing her fists wildly, striking his hard chest, trying to scratch his face.
Chadwick didn't even flinch. He caught both of her wrists in one massive hand and pinned them hard against the mattress above her head.
With his free hand, he traced the curve of her waist. His fingers were burning hot. Everywhere he touched her, her skin erupted in violent shivers. The contrast between her terror and his overwhelming heat drove his arousal higher.
Amalia felt the absolute, crushing weight of his dominance. Her struggles weakened. The fight drained out of her muscles. She went completely limp, turning her head to the side and squeezing her eyes shut.
She bit down on her lip. A single, cold tear slipped from the corner of her eye and dropped onto the pristine white sheet.
Chadwick felt her body go rigid and lifeless beneath him. The sudden deadness killed his momentum. A sharp spike of irritation pierced his chest.
He stopped moving. He released her wrists, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look at him.
"Open your eyes," he commanded.
Amalia opened them. Her eyes were red, filled with tears, but behind the water was a look of absolute, hollow hatred. There was no submission. Only disgust.
That look stabbed directly into Chadwick's immense pride. He was a billionaire. He didn't force women. They begged for him.
He let go of her chin and sat back slightly.
"A deal," Chadwick said coldly. "Please me tonight. Tomorrow morning, I hand you your passport."
Amalia stopped breathing. She stared at his hard, emotionless face. Her brain felt like it was tearing in two. The humiliation was suffocating, but the reality of her situation was absolute. If she refused, he could kill her here, and no one would ever know.
She took a slow, shuddering breath. The tears stopped falling. The light in her eyes slowly died, replaced by a cold, empty numbness.
She released her bitten lip.
"Okay," she whispered, the sound barely audible in the quiet room.
