Bound By The Billionaire's Golden Leash

The interior of the Maybach was a sensory deprivation tank of luxury. Leather, silence, and Fulton.

Eveline slid into the back seat. The air was warm, but she shivered.

Fulton was reading a file. A copy of her lab results lay on the seat between them.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the Manhattan traffic.

Fulton closed the file. He turned his head slowly to look at her.

"Disappointed?"

Eveline swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, orange plastic bottle.

Eveline's breath hitched. Her birth control pills.

"Hessie tells me you haven't refilled your prescription in three months," Fulton said, turning the bottle over in his long fingers. The pills rattled.

"I forgot," she lied. "I've been busy."

"You forgot." His voice was flat. "Or maybe you thought a baby would be a nice insurance policy."

"I'm not like my mother!" Eveline snapped.

Fulton popped the cap open. He shook a single white pill into his palm. For a fraction of a second, as the pill rested against his skin, a flicker of something possessive-almost triumphant-flashed in his grey eyes before being extinguished by his usual cold indifference.

"Open your mouth."

Eveline pressed her lips together, glaring at him. "I can take it myself."

"I don't trust you," he said. "Open."

When she didn't move, his hand shot out, gripping her jaw. He squeezed, forcing her mouth open.

He placed the pill on her tongue. His fingers lingered there, invading her space, tasting her submission.

"Swallow."

He handed her a bottle of Evian water. He watched, unblinking, as she drank. He watched her throat work as she swallowed the pill.

"Good girl," he murmured, releasing her.

Eveline wiped her mouth, feeling violated. "Are you happy now? I'm not pregnant. I'm medicated. Can I go?"

"We need to discuss this... engagement," Fulton said, leaning back.

"You agreed to it at breakfast," Eveline reminded him.

"I agreed to a check-up. I didn't agree to let you marry Bryson Montgomery."

"Why not?" Eveline challenged. "He's a good man. He respects me."

Fulton's eyes darkened. The temperature in the car plummeted.

"Respects you?" He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Do you think he'll respect you when he finds out whose bed you've been warming for the last two years?"

"He doesn't care about rumors!"

"They aren't rumors, Eveline. They are facts."

Fulton pressed a button on the armrest. The partition between the front and back seats slid up with a soft whir, sealing them off from Vance.

Eveline's heart began to race. "What are you doing? We're in the car."

"Exactly."

Fulton lunged.

He pinned her against the door, his body heavy and hard against hers. "You want to play the blushing bride for Bryson? You want to wear white?"

He grabbed the collar of her blouse and ripped. Buttons popped, scattering onto the floor mats.

"Fulton, stop!" she cried, trying to push him off.

"You belong to me," he growled against her neck. "Every inch of you. Your trust fund, your house, your body. You don't get to give any of it away."

His hands were everywhere, claiming, possessing. The car hit a pothole, jarring them, but he didn't stop.

"Vance can hear us!" she sobbed, humiliation burning her cheeks.

"Let him hear," Fulton whispered, biting the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "Let him know exactly who owns you."

Eveline stopped fighting. It was useless. She lay there, staring at the ceiling of the car, tears sliding into her hair.

He wasn't making love to her. He was marking his territory.

And as his hands roamed over her, Eveline made a silent vow. She would marry Bryson. She would do whatever it took. Because being owned by Fulton Horn wasn't love. It was a death sentence.