My Coldhearted Ex-Husband Demands A Remarriage

Doyle didn't pull away. He didn't even flinch.

Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest.

He released one of her wrists, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her off the sofa.

Erika stumbled, her bare feet dragging on the floorboards as Doyle pulled her into the tiny bedroom.

He walked to the small toddler bed in the corner. With a rough but strangely calculated movement, he tossed the sleeping Connor onto the mattress.

Connor rolled over, clutching his blanket, and stayed asleep.

Erika's heart leaped into her throat. She tried to run to the bed, but Doyle caught her by the hips and slammed her back against the cold plaster wall.

His massive frame caged her in.

He brought his hand up, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His grip was bruising.

"Who is he?" Doyle gritted out, his eyes bloodshot with a jealousy he refused to name. "Who is the father? Was he worth losing everything?"

Erika stared back at him, her eyes shining with defiant tears. "He is ten times the man you will ever be."

The words acted like a match to gasoline.

The last thread of Doyle's control snapped.

He let out a guttural sound and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a violent, desperate claiming. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, forcing her mouth open. He tasted like mint and the blood she had drawn from his shoulder.

Erika gagged. She brought her fists up, hammering them against his solid chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

Doyle's large hands slid down her spine, gripping her hips and pulling her flush against his rigid body.

The heat radiating from him, the overwhelming scent of his cologne-it all triggered a violent flashback to that dark hotel room five years ago.

Panic seized her lungs. She couldn't breathe.

Erika brought her knee up, aiming straight for his groin.

Doyle anticipated the strike. He shifted his weight, blocking her knee with his thigh, and kicked her legs apart, stepping into her space until they were pressed together seamlessly.

His mouth softened for a fraction of a second, his tongue sweeping along her lower lip in a sick, twisted imitation of passion.

Erika squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, tracking down her cheek and dropping onto the back of Doyle's hand.

Doyle froze.

He pulled his head back, his chest heaving. He looked at the tear on his skin as if it burned him.

But the hesitation only lasted a second. His eyes darkened again. He reached down and gripped the collar of her cheap blazer.

With one violent pull, he ripped the fabric open, the plastic buttons popping off and scattering across the wooden floor. His cold fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, touching her bare stomach.

Erika stopped fighting. Her body went completely limp.

She looked up at him and let out a cold, hollow laugh.

Doyle's hand stopped moving. He frowned, looking down at her.

"Is this it?" Erika mocked, her voice trembling but laced with venom. "The great CEO of Morgan Group, forcing himself on his ex-wife in a slum? Go ahead. Do it. I'll make sure Taryn gets the photos tomorrow."

At the mention of Taryn, Doyle's face contorted.

He pulled his hand out from under her shirt. His fingers moved up, wrapping loosely around her slender throat. His thumb pressed dangerously close to her pulse point.

"You flatter yourself," Doyle sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "At least Taryn is honest about what she wants. You hide behind a mask of innocence while sleeping with my brother."

The words sliced through Erika's chest like a scalpel, but she kept her chin high, refusing to let him see the bleeding.