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Her Master's desire

"Take her," the dangerous man orders casually, like I'm the most boring little human he's ever encountered in his life. "I said stay the fuck away!" I yell at him this time, causing him to tilt his head in amusement. "A little girl like you shouldn't be swearing at your elders. It's bad habit. Your daddy should have taught you better." Hold on. My daddy. And if I heard correctly the first time, the other man had mentioned something about 'daughter' and 'grown woman'. Shit! What's going on? This must be Darius Hunter! And how do they know about my existence!? Oh no! My father! Have they taken him? Have they hurt him? "Darius... Hunter?" I stutter in sheer terror, the dangerous man tensing as I mention his name. "You know my name. I don't know if I should be impressed or disappointed," Darius chuckles, amusement seeping into his tone. "Errrm... I... Where's my father...?" My demand sounds more like a plea, my voice shuddering in painful anticipation. "Waiting for you at my place. He said we should come get you. I didn't expect you to be old enough to beat up my man. I am definitely impressed, and your value, my dear, has just gone up." --------------------------- Allison, a confined young woman who finds solace in books and writing, is thrust into a world of danger and deceit when her father, Frank, a reformed gambler turned priest, sells her to Darius Hunter, the infamous "Devil of California," to settle an old debt. Darius tries everything possible to break Allison for his pleasure, promising himself not to touch her innocence. Yet, as Allison navigates the treacherous waters of her new life, she discovers hidden strengths, forms unexpected bonds, and unravels the dark secrets of her family’s past. Amidst turmoil and passion, Allison and Darius find themselves entangled in a powerful and transformative love story, punctuated by shocking twists and turns.

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41 Chs

Chapter 32

Allison's POV

Mr. Jeremiah Raphael Gerald.

I won't deny it—he's a far better dancer than I could ever hope to be. While my experience with dancing is limited to a half-forgotten salsa and bachata tutorial, Jeremiah moves with effortless grace. My left hand rests awkwardly on his right shoulder, my other hand tightly gripped in his, almost too tight, as if he's determined to keep me from fleeing the floor.

But what truly unnerves me is that we're at the very center of the ballroom, the crowd's eyes glued to our every step. Or rather, to his. Jeremiah leads confidently, guiding me across the polished floor as I struggle to keep up, letting him pull me into spins that threaten to twist my ankles beyond repair. If he spins me one more time, I swear I'll crumble right here, a heap of limbs and humiliation.