His Brutal Game by Audrey Rush

CHAPTER 5

Wilder

Even the day after the wedding, I woke early, ready for work. And now, a few days had passed. I might have been married, but nothing had changed. Dawn crept in through the kitchen windows. I started a pot of coffee. The drip trickled at a steady pace, and I stared out into the dim morning light. Our family’s property was expansive enough that I had built my own house on our land, away from the main house but between both barns, with enough rooms to keep Maisie occupied and out of sight.

And it had stayed empty until now. I had never cared about luxury before. But out of simplicity, I had hired one of my father’s staff to fully furnish, decorate, and stock my house with my wife in mind. Now, there were decadent fur blankets, silk sleep masks, high-end electronics, other expensive garbage, and enough clothes to dress a stadium. I had also secretly installed a four-poster bed with hidden restraints, in case I needed to lock her there.

Yet Maisie followed me around the house like a duckling. She even brought up a honeymoon. But I had never taken a vacation or a trip before. None of that appealed to me.

The coffee pot beeped. I poured a mug. My phone buzzed.

Chef is out, Kyle sent. I didn’t talk to many people, but Kyle took over my duties whenever a livestock order cut into my time. I respected him.

Dairy Barn? I replied.

A few seconds later, he sent: Yes, sir.

I sighed, not because I cared about the indulgences that my brother and father insisted upon, but because I was smart enough to know that when your employees were well fed, they worked harder. He had been a good chef.

A throat cleared. Maisie stood in tight jeans with manufactured rips in the thighs, a slim tank top on her shoulders. Had I paid for the outfit or had she brought it herself?

“Morning,” she said.

I said nothing. What was the point?

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Now, if it was a question, one that seemed necessary, I could answer.

“Work,” I said. Speaking of which, we needed a substitute chef while we hired another one.

“But you only got in a few hours ago.” She put a hand on her hip. “From work.”

“Can you cook?” I asked.

She tilted her head, perhaps too intrigued that I had asked her a question, to notice the fact that I had ignored hers.

“I mean, I can throw something together—”

“Then you’re on kitchen duty.”

“Excuse me?” I took a long, hot sip of coffee, the liquid burning my throat. Maisie wrinkled her nose. “Why? Because I’m a woman?”

“Because the chef is out.”

“Do you cook?”

I raised a brow and she touched my arm. A jolt of electricity surged through me. I stepped back.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she whispered.

I narrowed my eyes. Even though I constantly rejected her, Maisie never gave up. She put her hands on her hips again. “What do you do during the workday? Dare I ask about the graveyard shift that keeps you out all night?”

“Cattle,” I said. “Livestock.”

I motioned for her to follow me. Kyle and a few others were waiting past the edge of my property. We only had about twenty cow-calf pairs. We honestly didn’t need this many men. But it was part of how we operated both sides of the business.

“Then let me do that.” She lifted her chin. “Trust me. I can handle it.”

For a second, I considered working in the main house kitchen myself, just so I could laugh at her trembling through a day of ranching. I nodded at Kyle.

“You want kitchen duty?” I asked.

Kyle practically leaped toward the house, his smile spread wide. “Yep. On it, boss.”

Maisie snorted at him. “Why is he so happy?”

“Air conditioning,” Kyle yelled back. Maisie’s brow furrowed, and I buried a chuckle. She’d learn fast.

I dipped my head toward her clothes. “Get dressed.”

When she came back, she was dressed in the same holey jeans, but this time, she had a short-sleeved shirt. I considered telling her to wear long-sleeves, but seeing as she was so damn confident in what she was doing, I let it be.

I had Maisie and a rancher corral a few of the calves into the barn, with the other ranchers keeping the mothers separate. The two of them led the calves down to the chute, where we quickly vaccinated and tagged their ears, then let them off into another pen where the cows lined up at the gate, bawling for their babies.

We opened the pen to let the calves back in with their mothers, but one eager cow headed straight through us for her calf. I smacked a hand into Maisie’s chest.

“Hey!” she yelled. But then she saw why. The cow moved past us, sniffing at her calves’ back. Once the cow confirmed the calf was her own, the cow grunted at us, the noise deep and protective.

Maisie’s mouth was open, her fingers shaking, but she nodded at me to prove she was fine. Nothing could scare her away. Not even almost being trampled by a thousand-pound animal.

After taking them back to their pastures, Maisie and I took the tractor out to lay hay bales to supplement anything they needed. She cut the net wrap. Strips of hay clung to her arms and neck, and she slapped it off. Long-sleeves; she’d figure it out. Kitchen duty was a prized position.

I took a seat at the edge of the pasture, leaning against the metal gate. A few of the pairs, including the trampling mother and her babe, acknowledged me, their low sounds humming toward us. Some pairs were still new to our farm, and it was good to have them get used to us, especially if Maisie planned to do the day shift. The pond glared with sunlight. Maisie’s strong scent spread through the air, mixing with hay, dirt, and fur. Either she had forgotten the perfume, or her musk was too strong for it. I kept my gaze on the reflective pond.

“You swim?” I asked.

“I can survive,” she said. “I wouldn’t drown or anything.” I had a hard time believing that. Under the right circumstances, anyone could drown. “I can doggy paddle.” I snickered, and Maisie sunk down beside me. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You ought to learn how to swim,” I said.

“Throw me in some water. I’ll be fine.”

I gave a subtle shake of my head. She wanted to believe that? “All right,” I said.

Later, after we had said our goodbyes to the rest of the ranchers, I took her back to the house. Once she was in the shower, I excused myself. I had work to do in the Dairy Barn, some livestock orders I didn’t need her help with.

By the time I got back, it was dark, well into the night. My boots crunched against the floor. Maisie, like a restless ghost, stood in the doorway to the kitchen like she had that morning, waiting for me.

“You didn’t join me in the shower,” she said. I went past her. I had barely touched her since our kiss at the ceremony; why would I have taken a shower with her?

I went to the master bathroom, closing the door behind me. She was smart enough; she had to pick up those signals. I showered, then toweled myself off, leaving it wrapped around my waist, my chest exposed.

Once again, she stood in the doorframe, her arms crossed, her eyes focused on me.

“Where were you?” she asked.

I didn’t have to answer that.

“I am your wife,” she said. “Arranged marriage or not, I deserve respect.”

What did she know about respect? “I was working,” I said.

“Working? You said ‘goodnight’ to the ranchers. We both did.” She shook her head. “You weren’t working. That’s bullshit.”

I studied her with sudden focus. Such anger from someone so tiny. Why did she care?

“I saw you wash your hands,” she said, nodding towards the drop of blood on my fist. “Is it from the animals? The equipment or something?”

I wasn’t going to answer that.

“You’re cheating on me,” she gasped.

I relaxed my shoulders. I almost wanted to toy with her. How could she feel possessive when we shared nothing, not even the same bed?

Instead, I said nothing, feeding into her paranoia as she stewed.

“That’s why you married me, isn’t it?” she asked, stomping one foot on the ground. “You’re protecting someone. You’re not supposed to be in love with her, but you are. And I’m your cover-up.” She stepped closer. “If that’s the truth, then you need to tell me. I don’t care what’s going on with you. But I can help you, if you help me.”

She wasn’t jealous, then. She wanted to switch the situation, to give herself a better advantage. Surprising. Courageous. And stupid. She had no idea what my family was capable of.

She sauntered closer still, her funky body heat coming toward me, making my dick twitch, her scent filling me. Making her so damn hard to ignore. The scent of overconfident prey. Someone ready to be cut down to size.

“I told you to wear perfume,” I said, my voice low. Anything to drown out that intoxicating scent.

“Be honest for once,” she said. “Answer the fucking question.”

Every time she spoke, she drained me. Always asking questions. Always demanding answers. Never backing down. I admired that. But I wanted a moment of peace. She was getting paid for our marriage; wasn’t that enough to leave me alone?

I grabbed her arms, her muscles straining against me. I carried her through the door frame, back to her bedroom.

“Be careful of what you ask for,” I said.

“Answer. The. Question,” she repeated. “Where were you?”

I squeezed my grip around her arms. “Working.”

I threw her down on her king-sized bed. Ripped off her loose pajamas until she was bare before me, lying on top of the fur blanket. She grinned up at me, pleased with herself. She must have thought she had finally gotten a rise out of me. And perhaps she had. My cock swelled in my pants, proof of arousal, but anyone who had half a brain would be attracted to Maisie. Physical attraction didn’t have any value to me.

She pushed herself up, linking her arms and legs around me, but I pinned her down with my weight. I leaned over the bed, removing the cuffs from under each bedpost, binding her wrists and ankles. She writhed, moving her hips, thinking this was a sexual play. It reminded me of the first time I had seen her: so at ease with her sexuality, knowing the power she had. Over men. Over me. Even tied to a bed, she was oversexed. A filthy deviant.

I unlocked the drawer in the side table and removed a vibrator wand. As soon as I had known I was getting married, I had stocked the house with everything she would need, to keep her occupied, away from me. I removed my belt, the leather sliding out of the loops in a hum. She raised her hips, knowing exactly what I was doing, using the belt to keep the vibrator in place. She wiggled as it touched her, putting on a show, demonstrating how possessed she was.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Touch me, Wilder. Please.”

Her smooth skin. The dark freckles splattered across her flush-tinted skin. The scent coming from between her legs. An urge swelled inside of me, wanting to touch her. To stroke her. To learn exactly how soft she was.

I stepped back, standing in the doorway. Her breasts flattened as she laid on her back, her nipples round and taut, stretching up, begging for attention. I licked my lips. Stubble ran over her mound. I resisted the urge to run my hand over it.

“Stop shaving,” I ordered.

Her eyes widened as if her beauty choice was the sole reason I wouldn’t touch her. It had nothing to do with it. But I liked knowing that she may have shaved for her job, to please her clients—but for me? I wanted her to be natural.

And hell, it would strengthen her scent, and that would slowly sabotage my control.

Perhaps I wanted to be driven to madness.

But I hadn’t touched her yet. I could resist. If I wanted to.

“Is this a game to you?” she whispered, her eyes full of lust.

Her moans built, and I moved so that all I could see were her hips and legs. I needed to go back to work—get my mind off of Maisie. Focus on what made sense. The Dairy Barn had a system. A way of life. But Maisie aroused me. Full of false sweetness. Broken under depravity. A drop of arousal traced her pussy lips. Did she taste as sweet as she smelled?

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Desire made me lose control. And the only thing I would let myself desire was my work. It was the only way our family existed, the way our power thrived. I bowed my head, going to my bedroom. But Maisie’s moans transformed into pleasure-soaked cries; she was close. I needed to get out. Maisie would be fine, and in a few hours, when she was worn out and satiated and I had cured myself of these urges, I could go back to her. Remove the restraints. Power off the vibrator.

Or I could kill her.

But that would mean I cared. And I didn’t.

Which meant that whatever I did, she meant nothing to me.

I clenched my fists. This was ridiculous. I forced myself to do what I wanted.

I went to the bathroom, soaking a large, thick hand towel with water, then stormed into her room. I climbed onto the bed, kneeling on her shoulders, pinning her down, the water dripping from the towel, sprinkling both of us. Her eyes glazed over. Like I was going to fuck her now. Not quite.

The wet towel slapped down over her face and she gasped, the towel sucking into her mouth. I rubbed my cock through my pants. Each time she struggled, my cock grew. She wiggled her hips, my weight crushing her. Her body thrashed in each direction, trying to throw the towel off. I moved to the floor and slipped out of my jeans. I straddled her again, the fur digging into my knees, and pulled out my cock. With one hand, I fucked myself, then held the cloth over her nose and mouth. She panted and swallowed, but she never told me to stop. Never complained. Had she done anything like this before, during her other job? Did she like being forced? How had she ended up doing that job in the first place? She seemed like the kind of person who could do anything she wanted. She was annoyingly persistent.

Did she want to do that work, then?

I let go of my grip on her mouth, then adjusted the vibrator so it was back on her clit. She cried out, her whole body convulsing, and I realized she had made this happen. I could have left, could have gone back to work, but instead, I was jerking off to her squirming on the bed, watching her fight for life. I bent forward, resting both hands on her mouth and nose, pressing the cloth down, making sure she couldn’t breathe. My cock pressed against her bare chest, and I thrust my cock forward, jabbing her chin. A slick stream of water trickled down her breasts.

“If you want to breathe, you’ll come,” I said. Little shots of red blood vessels coursed through her eyes. I let go, giving her one last breath, then I held her down again. Pressing harder the more she struggled, her face puffing into a purplish-red, sweat beading all over her. “Fight for it,” I whispered. “Come for me.”

Her hips twitched, and I let go, her face contorting in a gasp as her pussy clenched. I fucked myself, gripping my cock so hard I grunted. Once her last twitch subsided, I smacked a hand down on the towel again, fucking myself, watching her fight and thrash. I pumped myself harder. With only one hand and a renewed will to fight, she yanked at the chains, but I bared my teeth until my cock twitched and come dashed across her face.

I pulled up my boxers, then slipped into my jeans. She exhaled, her breathing labored. Red dashes scoured the whites of her eyes. Her skin fading back to its normal color. The vibrator humming on her hip, dislodged from the belt.

I needed to get out of here.

“If you obey anything I say,” I said, waiting for her eyes to meet mine, “Don’t follow me.”