Losing Your Memory ° Kai Parker

Chapter 32

The house felt colder the moment Kai closed the curtains. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Like they were listening.

He moved through the room with an eerie calm, as if none of what he'd said earlier had been monstrous — as if discussing children like a hostage negotiation was normal.

"You're shaking," he said quietly.
He wasn't even looking at me.
He could still feel it.

"I'm cold," I said.

"No," he murmured. "You're scared."

He was right.

He walked behind me, slow, deliberate, until I felt the warmth of his body at my back. His hand rested on my shoulder — light, almost gentle, almost affectionate.

Almost.

"You should get used to being near me," he said. "You'll be spending a lot of time here."

My breath caught. I hated how my body reacted — how it tensed, how it anticipated the next move he might make.

Kai leaned forward just enough that his breath brushed my neck.
"You don't have to want me," he said. "Not now. But you do need to understand that you're mine."

I flinched. "I'm not—"

He pressed a finger to my lips, not hard, but enough to silence me.
The gesture was intimate. Wrong. Possessive.

"Careful," he whispered. "Lying to yourself is exhausting."

I took a shaky step away, but he caught my wrist before I could move far. His grip wasn't painful — that was the worst part. It was firm, grounding, inescapably gentle.

Like he was training me.

"I'm not going to hurt you tonight," he said. "But you should know what I expect."

My throat tightened. "Kai—"

He guided me toward the small bedroom — not dragging, not forcing. Just leading. With the quiet authority of someone who already believed the outcome was decided.

The bed was neatly made. Too neatly. Like he had prepared it.

Prepared for me.

My pulse roared in my ears.

"I'm not— you can't make me—"

He turned me to face him, his hands lightly gripping my arms. "Stop. You don't have to be afraid of that."
Then, with a chilling softness:
"Not yet."

Not yet.

The words hollowed me out.

He touched my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw with unsettling tenderness.

"You think I want to rush this?" he murmured. "No. I want you alive. I want you sane. I want you here. When the time comes, it won't be because I'm impatient."

My breath shook. "Then what do you want right now?"

His eyes darkened, not with lust but with obsession. Possession.
"Right now?" he whispered.
"I want you to understand that your future is tied to mine. That your body, your bloodline, your life—"

His hand slid to the side of my throat, fingers resting just below my pulse. Not squeezing. Not harming.
Just claiming.

"—belong to me."

I swallowed hard. His thumb pressed lightly against my pulse like he was memorizing it.

"And when your friends try to take you back," he said softly, "I want you to remember this moment. Remember that you stayed. That you listened. That you didn't fight."