Vengeance in His Bed

The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to be suffocated by. Dorrent’s hand remained clamped on Jannah’s arm, his thumb digging into her skin, his body a wall of high-priced fabric and suppressed violence. He expected her to ask for a penthouse, a car, or perhaps even his father’s influence to clear a criminal record. He expected greed.

He didn’t expect a psychological ambush.

Jannah looked up at him, her dark eyes reflecting the sterile, white light of the kitchen. She remembered the way he had looked at her in the bathtub—the raw, cutting disgust in his eyes when he called her "untidy," "primitive," and "unkept." He had used her natural state as a weapon to make her feel small. Now, she would use his fastidiousness to make him feel trapped.

"I want you to help me shave," she whispered, her voice dangerously calm.

Dorrent’s brow furrowed, his grip loosening slightly in genuine confusion. "Shave? What are you talking about? If you need a salon or a beautician, tell Avana. Don’t waste my time with—"

"I’m not talking about that, Dorrent," Jannah interrupted, leaning in until her chest nearly touched the lapel of his charcoal suit. She saw the flick of his eyes, the way his pupils dilated. She felt the heat radiating off him. "I’m talking about my vagina. Since you found it so ’foul’ and ’unpleasing’ to look at, I want you to be the one to fix it."

Dorrent’s reaction was visceral. It was as if she had splashed him with acid.

He let go of her arm so abruptly he almost stumbled backward, his polished shoes scuffing the tiles. His face, usually a mask of cold stoicism, contorted into a look of such absolute, vibrating horror that it would have been comical if the stakes weren’t so high. He backed away until he hit the center island, his hands flying to his sides as if he were trying to keep from touching anything in the room.

"You... you are absolutely insane," Dorrent rasped, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and revulsion. He grabbed a linen towel from the counter and began to wipe his hands with a frantic, obsessive motion, as if her words had left a physical stain on his skin. "If you think your pathetic, wild fantasies for me are going to manifest through some sick, forced intimacy, you are lost. Have you no shame? Have you no sense of mannerless, low-born decency?"

Jannah didn’t flinch. She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest, a bitter, triumphant smile playing on her lips.

"Manners?" she echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Since when have you ever expected manners from the people of the slums, Dorrent? You call us ’filth,’ you call us ’trash,’ you call us ’rats.’ Why are you surprised when a rat acts like a rat? I’m just playing the part you wrote for me."

"Stop joking," Dorrent hissed, his eyes darting toward the swinging doors, terrified that Joanne might hear. "Ask for money. Ask for ten million more credits. I will sign the transfer right now. But do not think for one second that I will put my hands anywhere near your waist again."

Jannah looked at him, her gaze dead serious. She felt a strange, intoxicating rush of power. She wondered where this courage was coming from—a girl who a while ago would have trembled at his shadow was now holding his entire reputation over a flame. She liked the way his composure crumbled. She liked the way his "perfect" alpha facade cracked under the pressure of her demands.

"I don’t want your money," Jannah said, her voice dropping into a cold, hard tone. "I want you to face what you loathe. I want you to see the ’filth’ up close. And if you won’t..." She began to push off the wall, walking toward the swinging doors. "I’ll walk into that dining room right now. I’ll sit next to your beautifu woman, and I’ll tell her exactly how the great Dorrent Grefo is a statue in the bedroom. I wonder if she’ll still think you’re ’delicious’ when she finds out you’re just a shell."

"You wouldn’t," Dorrent growled, stepping forward to intercept her, but he hesitated, his own disgust keeping him from grabbing her again. "She won’t believe a word you say. You’re a maid. She’ll have you thrown out before you finish a sentence."

"Try me," Jannah challenged, her hand reaching for the door handle. "I have enough details about your ’cold blood’ to make her skin crawl. Shall we see how loyal she is to a man who can’t claim her?"

She pushed the door open an inch. The sound of Joanne’s laughter drifted in from the dining hall—a light, musical sound that seemed to grate on Dorrent’s nerves.

"Wait!" Dorrent called out, his voice a strangled, desperate whisper.

Jannah stopped, her hand still on the door. She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"I... I need time," he panted, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. He looked smaller in that moment, the S-tier armor stripped away by the sheer weight of his secret. "Give me time to... to think."

Jannah let out a soft, mocking hum. She turned fully to face him, her eyes dancing with malice. "Think about what, Dorrent? Think about how to hold a shaving machine? Or are you trying to figure out how to look at me without vomiting? It’s a simple task. A blade, some cream, and your undivided attention."

Dorrent’s eyes flared with a lethal, crimson light. He looked at her as if he were imagining her neck between his hands again. "You know exactly what I’m talking about. Just... get out of here. Go back to your room."

Jannah nodded, her smile widening. She let go of the door, the latch clicking shut, sealing Joanne away for now. She walked past him, the scent of her wild, earthy omega musk brushing against his expensive cologne.

"Don’t take too long, Alpha," she whispered as she passed. "I’m not a patient woman."

She disappeared through the service exit, heading back toward the East Wing. Behind her, in the sterile, white silence of the kitchen, Dorrent stood alone. He gripped the edge of the marble island so hard the stone groaned under his strength. His knuckles were white, his face a mask of such concentrated, murderous intent that the air around him seemed to hum with static.

"I’ll kill her," Dorrent whispered to the empty room, his voice a low, jagged promise that chilled the very air. "I’ll kill that girl before I ever get anywhere near her waist."