Page 76 of Branded

Every instinct I have screams to assert dominance. To remind her of the contract, the money I paid, the legally binding contract that makes her mine regardless of what she wants. To back her against the wall and fuck compliance into her until she remembers her place.

That’s what I was taught. That’s what generations of men in my family did when their wives got uppity, when women tried to claim power they weren’t supposed to have.

But looking at her now, eyes blazing with defiance and hurt, every line of her body screaming that she’d rather destroy herself than submit, I see something I didn’t let myself see before.

She means it. She’d leave. She’d find a way to break the contract, face legal consequences, ruin herself, just to get away from me. Because what I’m doing to her is worse than any of that.

“I don’t know,” I finally say.

“That isn’t good enough,” she whispers, the hope draining from her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can be what you want. What you need.” I move past her, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like pull her to me and kiss her, or toss her over my shoulder and take her to bed. This isn’t the time for my need to take over. “I was raised by a man who treated my mother like property for years. Who taught me that control equals strength, that dominance equals love, that owning something completely is the only way to keep it.”

“That’s not love, Sebastian.”

“I know that now. I figured it out eventually. But the conditioning runs deep, Lennox. Even though my father changed the way he treated Mom, he made sure we knew what the expectation was.”

“So you’re telling me you won’t change?”

“I’m saying I don’t know how.” I turn to face her. “This morning, when you tried to leave, my first instinct wasn’t to ask why or try to understand. It was to force compliance. To remind you that I’m in control. To threaten you into submission because that’s what I know how to do.”

“And you think that excuses it?”

“No. It explains it. There’s a difference.” I lean against the kitchen counter, suddenly exhausted. “My father built an empire by being ruthless. By never showing weakness, never backing down, never letting anyone, especially a woman, question his authority. It worked for him. Made him wealthy and powerful and feared.”

“It also made him a bastard who nearly lost his wife.”

“Yes. It did.” I run both hands through my hair.

“Then you know it’s possible.”

“For him. Maybe. But I’m not my father, Lennox. Maybe I’m worse.” The admission hurts. Silence. She stares at me, and I can’t read her expression.

“Is that what you think?” she finally asks. “That there’s nothing between us except transaction?”

“I hope not.”

She moves to the window, looking out at the ranch. “This morning, recovering the cattle, I thought maybe there was something here, a potential that could grow. Partnership? Mutual respect? The foundation for something that could survive two years and come out the other side as—I don’t know. Friends, at least.”

“And now?”

“Now I think I was delusional. That I wanted so badly for this to be survivable that I invented a version of you that doesn’t exist.” She turns back. “The man who showed me the ranch, who let me work cattle, who fucked me in the barn like we were celebrating a win together, that wasn’t real. The real you is the one who threatened me this morning. Who reminded me I’m property. Who stood by and allowed his father to accuse me of selling out your family.”

“Both versions are real.”

“Then which one am I married to?”

The question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does. Because she’s right, I’ve been showing her two different people. The husband I thought I might want to be and the man on the power trip I’ve been trained to be. And this morning, when tested, the power won, when the husband should have understood.

“I want to be the first version. The man who treats you like a partner. But when I feel control slipping, when you defy me or try to leave or challenge my authority, the second version takes over automatically.”

“Then we have a problem. Because I can’t live with that version for two years. I won’t.”

“Even if it means breaking the contract? Facing legal consequences?”

“Even then.” There’s no hesitation in her voice. “I’d rather deal with lawyers and money problems than slowly lose myself to your abuse. You’ve been treating me just like your dad treated your mom.”

The words land like physical blows. Because she is right, I’ve been telling myself it’s just enforcement, just maintaining the agreement we’ve both signed. But the truth is much uglier.