Bound To The Ruthless Billionaire Captor

The crisp autumn wind of New York whipped through the grand portico of the Turner Mansion.

Jocelyn Yang stood on the cold marble floor. Her fingers twisted the fabric of her black dress so tightly her knuckles turned a stark, bone white.

"Stand straight," Sterling Finch, the head butler, muttered. He snapped his Patek Philippe pocket watch shut.

The sharp click severed Jocelyn's instinct to step back into the shadows.

A heavy, low engine rumble vibrated through the iron gates. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom crushed the fallen maple leaves beneath its tires. It stopped dead at the base of the stone steps.

The silence in the mansion became absolute.

Leland Vance, the driver, stepped out and pulled the rear door open. A pair of polished, custom-made leather shoes touched the pavement.

Elam Turner stepped into the fading light.

His dark, tailored suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He stripped off his wool overcoat and threw it at the waiting butler without looking.

The oxygen vanished from the grand hall. Every maid and staff member bowed their heads in unison.

Jocelyn's lungs locked. She stared fixedly at the tips of her own worn shoes.

Elam's cold gaze swept over the bowing staff. It stopped, with lethal precision, on the thin figure trembling in the corner. A dark, suppressed gleam flashed in his eyes.

He ignored the butler's greeting. His long legs closed the distance across the marble floor.

His heavy footsteps echoed like a death countdown.

The shadow of his tall frame swallowed Jocelyn. The sharp scent of cedar cologne mixed with raw tobacco invaded her nose.

Her body shook. A violent, uncontrollable tremor. She tried to swallow the dry sand in her throat, but no sound came out.

Elam stared down at her shaking shoulders. His jaw tightened. Her absolute terror of him sparked a flare of irritation in his chest.

He raised his hand. His thumb and forefinger, calloused and unforgiving, clamped around her jaw.

He forced her head up.

Jocelyn's breath hitched. She met his eyes. They were deep, freezing pools of dark water. She saw nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred in them.

Elam's thumb roughly dragged across her pale bottom lip. She flinched.

His eyes darkened instantly at her retreat.

"You turned eighteen this year," Elam stated. His deep voice, a low baritone laced with the clipped tones of old money, bounced off the high walls, devoid of any warmth.

The ice in his voice pierced her chest. Her eyes burned.

"Yes," Jocelyn forced a pathetic, broken whisper past her lips.

A humorless smirk twisted Elam's mouth. His grip on her jaw tightened, pressing hard enough to leave red marks blooming on her pale skin.

He leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of her ear.

"Since you are an adult," he whispered, "it is time for you to start atoning for your father's sins."

The brutal sentence hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. The blood drained from her face. Her knees buckled.

Elam