Owned Without Mercy

ISLA'S POV

His hand grips my thigh and slides upwards. Firm, deliberate, commanding.

We're in the backseat of his Bentley, heading toward the boat deck.

The silence between us crackles with electricity. In minutes, I’ll be on his private island. No boundaries. No rules. No rescue.

His fingers drift higher, grazing the edge of my panties. My breath catches. My heart beats like it’s overdosed on adrenaline.

My clit throbs, aching for more. He hasn’t even taken off my clothes, and already my body’s betraying me.

His knuckles brush over the sensitive spot. I gasp.

A moan threatens, but I swallow it down. My legs part instinctively. I should stop him. I haven’t told him—

He taps against my clit–light, teasing. I tremble. The heat between my thighs builds to a pulse. I’m soaked. My nipples harden painfully beneath my dress.

I want him to rip the damn thing off.

But the car slows.

He withdraws his hand, leaving me empty. My body screams at the loss.

The driver’s door opens. Damien steps out without a glance back. No hand offered. Just cold detachment.

Jerk!

I climb out slowly, trying not to look like my knees are jelly. The salty wind kisses my skin, bringing some sanity back. But not for long.

We board his yacht—a sleek vessel soaked in luxury and silence. The polished wood, the faint smell of citrus and varnish…it’s too pristine, too curated.

Memories of scrubbing outhouses in my foster home flash in my mind. I used to bleed trying to clean floors half this nice.

I shiver.

Inside the cabin, I’m greeted by extravagance. A tray of exotic fruit. Two bottles of champagne chilling in crystal. A bed big enough to swallow me whole.

A bouquet of red roses rests on silk sheets.

I stare. Are those… for me?

I pick up the flowers and inhale. They smell like nothing. I never understood why women did this. Beauty doesn’t need a scent.

Behind me, I sense him. He knocks, soft, controlled on the open door.

“Get some rest, Isla,” he says. “You’ll need it.”

Then the door shuts. Clicks. Locks.

What the—?

I rush to it. Twist the handle. Nothing.

Seriously?

I’m not going to jump off the freaking boat, Damien.

I kick off my shoes and flop on the bed, muttering curses. I pour myself a glass of champagne. Down it. Pour another.

The engine rumbles beneath me. We’re leaving land.

The pit in my stomach deepens.

What am I doing? Trapped on an island with a stranger. For six months. This isn’t just reckless. It’s insane.

I should’ve dropped out of med school. At least that would’ve made sense. I have no parents, no one to disappoint. No one to disappoint me.

I slide beneath the silk sheets. The bed is warm. Too warm. I curl into myself, tug the covers over my head.

I try to pray.

But what’s the point?

I made my bed. Now I’ll lie in it. And ride whatever dick comes with the mattress.

******

We’re sharing a bed.

Of course we are. It’s probably in the fine print I didn’t bother to read.

No staff. No guards. Just me and him.

If I scream, whether in pleasure or fear, no one’s coming.

I check my phone. No service.

Of course not.

This is starting to feel like the setup to every rich-psycho thriller I’ve ever read. But damn it! the island is beautiful. Turquoise waves. Soft sand. A sky so clear it looks fake.

I stand on the bedroom balcony and breathe. It helps. A little.

Who the hell owns a tech empire, buys an island, but forgets Wi-Fi?

Unless he didn’t forget.

Control. That’s what this is.

I head back inside and stash my phone in my purse. Damien said no phones. He didn’t say no books. I pull out an old Agatha Christie and curl on the bed, just as he walks in.

Two glasses in hand.

He holds one out.

“I’m not thirsty.”

His eyes harden. Rule #1 just shattered.

“Drink it. Now.”

His voice is velvet-wrapped steel. I down the champagne without argument. It burns.

“Get up.”

I obey, heart pounding. He watches me like a man starving.

“Take that off,” he says.

My eyes drop to my wrist. My bracelet. The only thing I’ve kept since Rosie.

Still, I unclasp it.

He settles into the leather armchair, drink in hand, gaze locked on my chest.

There’s something about the way he looks at me… Like I’m his. Not rented. Owned.

I know it’s stupid. I barely know him. But still, I felt something in that car. His fingers weren’t just testing the goods. It felt… personal.

My nipples tighten. My core clenches with memory.

“You have beautiful skin,” he murmurs.

I hear it all the time. Deep caramel. “Like a chocolate fountain,” my ex once said. I didn’t take it as a compliment.

But the way Damien says it?

It makes me want to melt.

“You're wearing panties. Not anymore. Understood?”

I nod. It's no use fighting this.

My body wants this.

“Take them off.”

I do. I kick them to the side.

“Good girl”

He rises and walks up to me. My pulse quickens but I don't flinch.

His fingers slide up my thighs, stopping at my throbbing pussy.

He taps my clit. Gently. I gasp.

“Shhh” he coos “Say you want this”

I want it. More than anything.

I nod. Not enough.

“Say it!” he hisses. His palm meets my ass with a sharp crack, and I shudder.

“I want this,” I moan, breathless.

Another spank. His hand slips between my thighs, fingers teasing, claiming.

I gasp. My knees tremble. My body begs for him.

Then—he stops.

I whimper at the loss.

He grips my jaw, pries my mouth open, slides two fingers in. My taste floods my tongue.

His gaze holds mine.

“Go to sleep.”

I'm still panting as I climb into bed. Trembling. Wet.

“I'll bring up food later. Rest now, Angel. Tomorrow...”

His voice drops.

“Tomorrow, you're mine.”

My heart stutters. My soul screams.

But my body whispers back the only answer that matters:

Yes, Damien. I’m yours.

I just don't know if I'll survive what that means.