Bound By Revenge: His Unwilling Wife
7.7 / 10.0
Share
I was suffocating in a borrowed Valentino gown at the Met Gala, but it wasn't the corset that was killing me. It was the debt collector, Vargo, stalking me through the crowd like a wolf.
Desperate to hide, I ducked into a private lounge and threw myself at the silhouette of a man sitting in the shadows, pressing my lips to his in a frantic plea for cover. When I pulled back, the air turned to ice; I was staring into the ocean-blue eyes of Kingsley Osborn, the billionaire who believed I’d sold his company secrets six years ago.
Kingsley didn’t save me; he trapped me. The next morning, he slid a "Marriage Service Agreement" across his desk, revealing he knew everything about my father’s illegal Ponzi scheme and the quarter-million dollars I owed to loan sharks. He offered to pay my debts and protect my father, but only if I signed over two years of my life to be his trophy wife.
"I don't want your money, Cassidy. I want your life."
The marriage was a cold, calculated war. He forced me into his glass fortress, banned me from contacting my friends, and treated me with a distilled hatred that felt like a physical weight. When I accidentally broke his grandfather’s vintage watch during a nightmare, he didn't see an accident—he saw a crime, threatening to destroy my father if I didn't "charm" his board of directors into submission.
I was a prisoner in a three-piece suit, until I found a mislabeled file buried in his company’s server. It contained evidence of a massive, illegal hostile takeover that would ruin Kingsley if the Feds ever saw it.
I held the gun that could destroy the man who had cornered me. But as I looked at the champagne roses he’d secretly kept from my "peace offering," I realized I didn't want to pull the trigger. I wanted to see how far he’d go to keep me from leaving.
Bound By Revenge: His Unwilling Wife Chapter 1
The borrowed Valentino gown felt like a vice around Cassidy Steele's ribcage, restricting oxygen just when she needed it most. She moved through the crowded ballroom of the Met, her eyes darting not at the priceless art, but at the exits.
She wasn't looking for a drink. She was looking for an escape route.
A flash of movement near the catering station made her stomach drop. Vargo. He had no business being here, yet he'd somehow managed it, likely by cashing in a favor from one of her father's less reputable contacts. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was dressed as a server, holding a tray of empty flutes, but his eyes were fixed on her with the predatory focus of a wolf that had cornered a wounded rabbit. He stuck to the periphery, a shadow in her peripheral vision, and tapped his earpiece, his gaze never wavering from her face.
Cassidy's heart hammered against her ribs. He was going to make a scene. He was going to demand the money right here, in front of the donors, in front of the press. It would be the final nail in her career's coffin, and worse, it would leave her father defenseless in federal prison.
She turned sharply, her heels skidding slightly on the polished marble. The main exit was blocked by a wall of paparazzi, their flashbulbs popping like strobe lights in a nightmare. Too public. Service corridors were unpredictable, a potential trap. She needed a temporary sanctuary, a place to think.
Vargo eased past a woman in silk, dropping the pretense of service. He was coming.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. To her left, a heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, guarded by a velvet rope and a distracted security officer. The brass plaque read: Private Lounge. It was a calculated risk. One guard, easily distracted.
Cassidy didn't think. She didn't breathe. She ducked under the rope, flashing a dazzling, fake smile at the guard.
"My partner has my inhaler," she lied, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. Before the guard could check a list, she slipped through the crack and pushed the heavy door shut behind her.
The silence was instant and jarring. The roar of the gala vanished, replaced by the hum of aggressive air conditioning and the scent of expensive leather. The room was dim, lit only by low amber sconces.
Cassidy leaned back against the door, her lungs burning. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She was safe. Just for a minute.
Then the door handle turned against her spine.
Vargo. He was trying to force his way in.
Cassidy's eyes snapped open. She scanned the room frantically. It was empty, save for a figure sitting on a velvet sofa in the deepest shadow of the corner.
A man.
He was motionless, a silhouette of broad shoulders and stillness. An unlit cigar rested between his fingers. He radiated a terrifying kind of calm, the kind that exists in the eye of a hurricane.
The door cracked open an inch. "Miss Steele," Vargo's voice hissed through the gap, low and ugly.
Cassidy's brain short-circuited. If Vargo saw her alone, he would drag her out. She needed a shield. She needed a reason to be here. Her gaze locked on the silhouette again, and a jolt of recognition, cold and electric, shot through her. She knew that posture. She knew that stillness.
She pushed off the door and ran across the plush carpet. The man on the sofa didn't move, didn't even turn his head as she threw herself at him. This wasn't a plea to a stranger; it was a desperate gamble with the devil she knew.
She crashed into his lap, her knees hitting the cushions, her hands flying up to cup his face. His skin was cool, his jaw rigid as granite. She blocked his view of the door with her body, her desperate eyes locking onto his shadowed ones for a fraction of a second.
"Please," she whispered, the word barely air.
She pressed her lips to his.
It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a collision. A desperate, terrified plea for cover.
The man went rigid beneath her. His muscles turned to steel, his entire body radiating a sudden, violent tension. She expected him to shove her away, to throw her to the floor.
Instead, the door fully opened. Vargo stepped in.
Cassidy squeezed her eyes shut and deepened the kiss, trembling against the stranger. She smelled cedar, cold rain, and whiskey.
Vargo stopped.
The man beneath her didn't push. His hand, large and heavy, came up and clamped onto the back of her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her head down, locking her mouth to his in a way that was possessive and punishing. He bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.
It was a claim. It was a warning.
Cassidy gasped into his mouth, but he didn't let go. His other hand gripped her waist, his thumb digging into her hip bone through the silk of her dress.
"Sorry," Vargo mumbled, his voice shrinking. "Wrong room. Mr. Osborn... apologies."
The door clicked shut.
The man released her instantly.
It wasn't a gentle release. He practically shoved her back, his hand detaching from her neck with disdain. Cassidy scrambled off his lap, her legs failing her, collapsing onto the adjacent cushion. She wiped her mouth, her heart beating so hard it hurt her throat.
"Thank you," she breathed, staring at her knees. "I just needed..."
"To hide?"
The voice was a low rumble, familiar in a way that made her blood run cold. It wasn't the voice of a stranger. It was the voice of a ghost.
Lightning flashed outside the floor-to-ceiling window, illuminating the room for a split second.
Sharp cheekbones. Eyes the color of a frozen ocean. A scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
Kingsley Osborn.
Cassidy stopped breathing. She scrambled backward, hitting the armrest of the sofa. This wasn't a savior. This was the man she had run from six years ago. The man who believed she had sold his company secrets to his rival.
Kingsley didn't look at her. He picked up a gold lighter and flicked it open, the flame dancing in his eyes. He lit the cigar, took a slow drag, and then turned his head.
His expression was devoid of humanity. It was pure, distilled hatred.
"Hello, Cassidy," he said, smoke curling from his lips. "You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn't throw you out the window."
Continue Reading
Bound By Revenge: His Unwilling Wife of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
7.3
I found out my husband of three years had cheated on me and his mistress is the one who told me-because he didn't have the balls to do it himself.
I move out and get a new apartment, a job as a bartender, and try to move on with a broken heart. I wonder where it all went wrong, if I hadn't been enough for him, if I'd been stupid for marrying him in the first place.
I'm at work one night when he walks inside-the most beautiful man I've ever seen. He sits at the bar and a forest fire burns between us. I was depressed the moment before he entered, but the second I look at his blue eyes, I forget the dumpster fire that my life has become. I invite him back to my place and it's the most passionate night of my life. I expect to never see him again.
I just want him as an anti-depressant-but he wants me all to himself. I just got my heart ripped out of my chest so I want something easy and no-strings-attached, but he wants all the strings because he's hooked.
I don't get much of a say in the matter, and that's not surprising when I learn why-because he's the Butcher. The crime lord of all crime lords, the boss that overshadows all of Paris, that makes everyone abide by his rules-or pay.
And now I'm his.
7.2
In the roaring flames of the abandoned warehouse, my skin blistered and peeled.
Through the crackling fire, my sister Elara's malicious voice echoed. She told me my husband, Damien, was dead, and it was all my fault.
For years, I had treated Damien like a monster. I fought him, threw tantrums, and desperately tried to escape our marriage, all because I blindly followed Elara's advice.
"Remember, the harder you fight, the more disgusted he'll get."
She texted me things like that, telling me to smash vases over his head and run away, claiming she was protecting me.
In reality, she was poisoning my mind, stealing my valedictorian spot at university, and plotting to crawl into my billionaire husband's bed.
My foolish rebellion cost me everything, ultimately leading to Damien's tragic death and my own fiery end.
As the massive explosion tore my consciousness to shreds, I finally understood who truly loved me and who the real monster was.
I died suffocating on my own agonizing regret, wishing I could tear Elara apart.
Then, a rush of freezing air punched into my lungs.
I opened my eyes to the crisp scent of cedar and mint. I was back seven years ago, on the very night our marriage was supposed to go to hell.
This time, looking at Damien's flawless, unscarred face, I didn't push him away.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and made a silent vow: I would make every single person who ever hurt him bleed.
9.4
I thought the Burch family gave me a loving home when they took me out of the orphanage.
But when the global deep freeze apocalypse hit, my adoptive parents mercilessly kicked me out of the bunker to freeze to death.
As I lay dying in the snow, covered in horrific purple frostbite, my adoptive sister Kendal walked past me in a pristine designer jacket.
Around her neck was my only childhood possession—an antique gold necklace my adoptive mother had ripped off my neck to give to her.
Kendal gloated, bragging that my pendant held a magical space with infinite supplies and fresh food while the rest of the world starved.
I realized I had spent years emptying my life savings to fund their luxury cars and fake medical emergencies.
They had drained my bank accounts, stolen my bloodline's heirloom, and used my magical lifeline to live like royalty while leaving me to die.
I took my last ragged breath in that blinding blizzard, consumed by a toxic hatred.
Why was I so hopelessly weak? Why did I let them take everything from me?
Opening my eyes again, the painful frostbite scars were gone. My skin was warm.
I grabbed my phone. The screen lit up: November 12.
It was exactly three days before the world ended.
When my adoptive mother called, faking a tearful emergency to demand another thirty thousand dollars, I smiled coldly.
"Just tell me where to send the money, Mom."
This time, I'm taking my space back, and I'm going to drain them dry.
9.1
Waking up with a cold, scaly hand wrapped around my throat wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was realizing I'd transmigrated into the body of Terra Mason—the most despised woman in the entire Enclave. She drugged high-level beast-men and forced them into life-binding bio-contracts. She locked an aquatic warrior in a dry basement until his organs failed. She treated the most lethal males in the city like broken toys.
Zev, the Level 6 serpent who's currently choking me, would rather blow up his own heart than spend another day as my slave. His affection metric? Negative ninety. His trust? Zero.
Then my system activates: the Kore AI. It gives me exactly 500 credits, a medical nano-gel, and a recipe for neutralizing the radioactive poison in mutant meat. Real food. In this world, that's worth more than gold.
I save Rhys, the dying aquatic male everyone left for dead. I season a slab of purple mutant steak until Sam, a battle-scarred grizzly shifter, groans at the taste—and his trust points finally tick above zero. When my backstabbing ex-best friend tries to steal my males and destroy me, I don't scream or throw a tantrum like the old Terra. I dismantle her with the truth.
But earning their trust means more than grilling meat. A scorpion swarm ambushes us at midnight. Sam throws himself between me and a stinger the size of my arm. As he stands over the corpse, fur receding from his claws, he stares at me and whispers, "You were testing me."
Yes. I was. Because in this world, the weak don't survive. And I refuse to be weak again.
Four beast-men. Four contracts. One system. And a whole lot of steak. Let this dystopian wasteland know—I'm not the monster they remember. I'm worse. I'm the one who's going to feed them until they'd kill for me.
7.6
After an exhausting fourteen-hour flight, Katia returned to her Upper East Side penthouse, expecting the quiet comfort of the life she had built.
Instead, she found a pair of familiar red stilettos in the foyer and her fiancé, Caleb, tangled in their bedsheets with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
She didn't scream or cry. She simply took off her three-carat engagement ring, threw it at his bare chest, and demanded he buy out her half of the penthouse by Friday.
Seeking to numb the sickening disgust, she got blackout drunk and crashed at a luxury hotel, accidentally stumbling into the wrong suite.
Thinking the imposing man inside was a high-end escort hired by her friend, she threw him over her shoulder and spent a wild night with him.
The next morning, she left five thousand dollars on his nightstand with a lipstick-stained note.
"Good Job."
For six years, she had funded Caleb's dreams and built his startup from the ground up, only to be treated like a lifeless ATM.
With ruthless precision, she spent the next two months systematically bankrupting his company, cutting off his venture capital, and erasing his life's work.
She felt no heartbreak, only a cold, calculating need to cleanse herself of his betrayal.
But when Katia finally returned to corporate headquarters to co-lead a massive merger, she literally crashed into the new Vice President.
Strong arms caught her waist, and the sharp scent of cedarwood and whiskey hit her like a freight train.
"You came back," Jackson whispered, his eyes burning as he stared at the woman who had treated him like a cheap gigolo.
8.3
I was the long-lost Donovan heiress, finally brought home after a childhood in foster care. My parents adored me, my husband cherished me, and the woman who tried to ruin my life, Kiera Reese, was locked away in a mental facility. I was safe. I was loved.
On my birthday, I decided to surprise my husband, Ivan, at his office. But he wasn't there.
I found him at a private art gallery across town. He was with Kiera.
She wasn't in a facility. She was radiant, laughing as she stood beside my husband and their five-year-old son. I watched through the glass as Ivan kissed her, a familiar, loving gesture he’d used with me just that morning.
I crept closer and overheard them. My birthday wish to go to the amusement park had been denied because he’d already promised the entire park to their son—whose birthday was the same day as mine.
"She’s so grateful to have a family, she’d believe anything we tell her," Ivan said, his voice laced with a cruelty that stole my breath. "It's almost sad."
My entire reality—my loving parents who funded this secret life, my devoted husband—was a five-year lie. I was just the fool they kept on stage.
My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ivan, sent while he stood with his real family.
"Just got out of the meeting. So exhausting. I miss you."
The casual lie was the final blow. They thought I was a pathetic, grateful orphan they could control.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were.
