Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

The icy shock of the water was a physical blow.

It stole her breath, a brutal contrast to the fire raging under her skin. For a split second, the cold was a relief, a baptism. Then, her dress, soaked and heavy, began to pull her down.

Her limbs felt disconnected from her brain. She flailed, her arms slapping uselessly at the surface. Water splashed into her mouth, and she coughed, a raw, choking sound that echoed in the silent, cavernous room.

She tried to grab the edge of the pool, her fingers scraping against smooth, slick tile, finding no purchase.

The door to the suite's main living area slid open.

Horace walked into the poolside lounge, his focus on a stack of documents in his hand. He'd come back for the quarterly reports he'd forgotten. A muffled splash, a sound that didn't belong, made him stop.

He looked up.

His brow, which had been set in a line of cool indifference, instantly furrowed. There was a woman in his pool. Thrashing. Drowning.

Through the distorted veil of water and her own blurred vision, Eleanora saw the tall, dark silhouette on the deck. Kason. He'd followed her. To mock her? To finish the job of destroying her?

Panic, raw and primal, clawed at her. She tried to back away, pushing herself deeper into the pool, away from the figure. The movement made her swallow more water.

Horace strode to the edge, his shadow falling over her. He looked down, his expression unreadable.

He saw her flushed face, the unnatural brightness of her eyes, the way her pupils were blown wide in the dim light. This wasn't just a clumsy fall. This wasn't a normal drowning.

A cold, sharp intuition, the kind that had kept him alive in boardrooms and back alleys, screamed at him. She was on something. A powerful hallucinogen, by the looks of it. A roofie.

He tossed the files onto a lounge chair and crouched, stripping off his suit jacket. He extended a hand. "Take my hand."

But Eleanora, lost in the drug-fueled nightmare, didn't see a rescuer. She saw her tormentor.

She slapped at the water, sending a weak spray in his direction.

"Go away!" she slurred, the words garbled. "Leave me alone, you... you cheating bastard! You disgusting old pervert!"

Horace's hand didn't freeze. A slow, cold smile spread across his lips. Old pervert. The insult, so juvenile, only seemed to amuse him, though the amusement was razor-sharp and dangerous.

"Watch your mouth," he said, his voice dropping to a low, cold growl.

She didn't hear the warning. She only felt the threat of his presence. Sobbing, she tried to swim away, toward the center of the pool, toward the illusion of safety.

Then, a brutal, searing cramp seized her right calf. Her leg locked up.

Her body went rigid, then sank.

Water rushed over her head, into her nose, her mouth. The world went silent, blue, and terrifying. A desperate, burning need for air consumed her. Her eyes were wide with a final, silent scream as her hands clawed at the water that was filling her lungs.

On the deck, Horace didn't hesitate.

He launched himself into the pool in a clean, powerful dive. The splash was a violent explosion in the quiet room. He was on her in two powerful strokes, a predator closing in on his prey.

A strong arm snaked around her waist, a band of steel locking her against him. He hauled her upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

Her back was flush against his hard chest. Water streamed from his hair, dripping from his sharp jawline onto her face. She was coughing, sputtering, but she was breathing.

The drug was still in control. The terror of drowning was replaced by a confusing, shameful sense of security. His body was a warm, solid anchor in her spinning world. The strength of his hold wasn't just restraining; it was... grounding.

Her struggles ceased.

Like a drowning sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood, her wet, trembling arms came up, wrapping around his neck. She held on, her survival instincts overriding everything else.

Dazed, she tilted her head back, her cheek resting against his chest. Her lips, swollen and parted, were inches from his throat.

Horace felt the shift in her. The fight going out of her, replaced by a pliant, desperate clinging. He felt the heat of her body through their soaked clothes, the soft press of her breasts against his ribs.

His entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing as if bracing for a blow.

His face was a mask of stone, but his voice was a low, guttural snarl, laced with a fury she was too far gone to comprehend.

"What the hell did you take?"