Vengeance in His Bed novel Chapter 16

Chapter 16: A Psychological Ambush

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.

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