Page 29 of Broken Crown

He checked his watch. “I’ve ordered the car be brought around for us by eight. I have a morning meeting.”

I shook my head. Then, just to test his control, I said, “I won’t be ready. I can go by myself later.”

Without responding to me, he gestured to a servant, who was bringing in his espresso and fresh fruit. “Tell my driver that we will be leaving at eight thirty instead.” He then placed a call on his phone. “Move my meeting to nine.”

He took his seat at the far end of the table opposite me, as if the distance between us was both too much and not enough.

I gripped the knife handle so tightly my knuckles turned white. “There is no need to reschedule your meeting.”

He flipped his linen napkin open and placed it over his lap before taking a sip of his espresso. The sharp clatter the cup made when he set it back on its saucer made me jump because my nerves were wound so tightly.

“We have been over this, Sabrina. The answer is no.”

“The answer has been no for weeks,” I bit out. “I’m not a prisoner, Sebastian.”

“Aren’t you?”

“You can’t keep me locked away forever.”

“I can keep you alive. That’s what matters.”

“To you.”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. “To me.”

I pushed back from the table. “What if you’re wrong? What if my father was trying to rescue me, not kill me?”

“Rescue you? From me?”

“You basically kidnapped me onto your plane. You’ve tried to force me to marry you. You’re actively trying to get me pregnant.” I threw the words at him like stones. “How is that different from what he did?”

Sebastian rose slowly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. “The difference, cara mia, is that I would never hurt you.”

“You hurt me every day.”

He went still. “Sabrina⁠—”

“Forget it.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. “I’ll be ready at eight thirty.”

I groaned and rested my forehead on my knees, the shower stream pummeling my back, hot water turning my skin pink, the memory fading.

Sinful memories of the time he fucked me on the sacred grounds of the Vatican tried to push into my thoughts. I ruthlessly shoved them aside.

I was confused enough without thinking about how shamelessly I'd responded to his violent touch.

Why was a domineering man so fucking sexy?

It should be wrong. I should be disgusted.

And yet…there was just something about the way he arrogantly kissed me even when he knew I was in a rage.

Confidence in a man was such a freaking turn-on.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

The man was toxic, extreme, violent, possessive, overbearing, and absolutely infuriating.

But he still made me want to curl up in his lap and hear him call me his "good girl" while he chased all my monsters away.