His Uncle, My Sweetest Revenge
Chapter 6
The dinner concluded in suffocating silence.
Joanna lingered in the powder room, splashing cold water on her wrists to calm her racing pulse. She needed to avoid the rest of the family. More importantly, she needed to make sure Carlton didn't think she owed him anything for destroying Freddie's career.
She stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, heading toward the side exit.
As she passed the arched doorway leading to the terrace, she stopped. A tall, broad silhouette stood in the shadows. The glowing cherry of a lit cigar illuminated the sharp angles of Carlton's face.
Joanna took a deep breath. She adjusted her posture and stepped out onto the cold stone terrace.
She stopped a safe five feet away. "I suppose I should thank you," she said, keeping her tone polite and distant. "For taking the heat off me in there."
Carlton didn't turn around. He exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke into the night air.
"I protected the stock price," he said, his voice colder than the wind. "It had absolutely nothing to do with you."
The brutal dismissal stung. Joanna frowned, her pride flaring. She took a half-step forward, trying to read his expression in the dark. "Right. Just business."
Carlton turned his head. The gray-blue of his eyes caught the moonlight, flashing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
"Your acting is sloppy," he warned, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "If you ever try to sell those cheap, fake tears to Eleanor again, I will throw you out of this family myself."
Joanna's breath hitched. Her stomach plummeted as a wave of genuine fear washed over her. She had gotten arrogant, thinking she could play the entire family, forgetting that this man saw through every single lie she told.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She lowered her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. "Goodnight, Carlton."
She turned and practically ran off the terrace.
An hour later, Joanna collapsed onto her own bed in her Manhattan apartment. She kicked off her heels, her body exhausted, but her mind was spinning out of control. Carlton's cold, threatening eyes burned in her memory. The pressure of her rebirth, the constant lying, and the sheer terror of dealing with him were pushing her to the edge.
She grabbed a bottle of melatonin from her nightstand, swallowed two pills dry, and buried her face in the pillows.
Sleep dragged her under heavily.
But the darkness quickly shifted.
The environment around her changed. She was no longer in her modern, airy bedroom. She was in a dimly lit, enclosed space. The air was thick, heavy with the intoxicating scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco.
Joanna looked down. She was wearing the oversized black French-cuff shirt she had stolen from Carlton's closet.
Panic flared in her chest as she tried to move her arms. She couldn't. Her wrists were bound together above her head, tied to the heavy iron headboard with a dark silk tie.
A tall figure stepped out of the shadows.
It was Carlton.
But his eyes weren't cold anymore. They were dark, dilated, and burning with a raw, predatory hunger that terrified and paralyzed her.
He stepped up to the bed and dropped to one knee. He reached out. His rough, calloused fingers traced a burning path up her bare calf, moving slowly over her knee and up her thigh.
Joanna gasped. She tried to thrash, to pull her hands free, but her body betrayed her. Her muscles melted into the mattress, arching into his touch.
Carlton leaned down. His face hovered inches from hers. His hot breath fanned across her neck. He pressed his lips against the exact spot on her collarbone where his knuckles had grazed her earlier that day.
The sensation was violently real. The heat of his mouth sent a shockwave of pure electricity straight to her core. Joanna let out a soft, desperate moan, her mind fracturing under the weight of the intense taboo.
He grabbed the collar of the black shirt and ripped it open. The buttons popped, scattering across the floor.
"You belong to me," Carlton growled against her skin, his voice thick with dark obsession.
The sheer wrongness of the situation-he was her fiancé's uncle-clashed violently with the overwhelming physical pleasure. Driven by a mix of panic, shame, and raw instinct, Joanna turned her head.
She opened her mouth and sank her teeth hard into the thick muscle of his forearm, right above his wrist.
She bit down until she tasted the hot, metallic tang of blood.
Instead of pulling away, Carlton let out a deep, guttural groan of pleasure. He pressed his body heavier against hers.
Joanna's eyes snapped open.
She shot up in bed, gasping for air as if she had been drowning. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard it hurt. Her entire body was drenched in a freezing sweat.
She looked frantically at her wrists. There was no tie. She looked down at her chest. She was wearing her normal silk nightgown.
She scrambled out of bed and ran into the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink. She stared at her reflection. Her face was flushed crimson, her chest heaving, her eyes wild.
She covered her face with her trembling hands, a wave of sickening shame washing over her.
She was having explicit, violent sexual fantasies about her fiancé's uncle. The stress of her rebirth was destroying her mind. She was having a mental breakdown.
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