SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER

I came to beg for mercy. He offered to save me… for a price.

One week. Seven forbidden nights in his snowbound lake house. $187,400.17 wiped clean if I obey every single command.

Cassian Voss. My mother’s ex-husband. The man who raised me, then vanished the day the divorce was final. Now a billionaire photographer who shoots the most depraved, beautiful fantasies money can buy… and keeps the pictures for himself.

He says I only have to be his assistant. Hand him ropes. Hold the lights. Watch while perfect, naked women kneel and call him Sir.

But I feel his eyes on me every time the shutter clicks. I hear the way his voice drops when he calls me “little girl.” I see the way he smiles when I flinch.

He promised he wouldn’t touch me. He never said I wouldn’t beg him to.

By the seventh night, the debt will be paid. The only question left is whether I’ll drive away free… or drop to my knees and plead with my stepfather to keep me forever.

Warning: extremely spicy, very taboo, praise kink, forced proximity, possessive alpha, no cheating, guaranteed HEA.

The crash echoed through my apartment like a gunshot, splintering wood and jolting me upright in bed. It was barely dawn, the kind of gray December morning where the world outside my window looked frozen and unforgiving. My heart slammed against my ribs as I scrambled for my robe, but before I could even tie the sash, they were inside.

Two men, built like refrigerators with faces scarred from too many bad decisions, stood in my living room. The door hung off its hinges behind them, snowflakes swirling in from the hallway. One of them, the shorter one with a tattoo creeping up his neck like a venomous vine, held a crowbar loosely in his gloved hand. The other, taller and meaner-looking, cracked his knuckles and scanned the room as if appraising what he could smash next.

“Where’s the money, sweetheart?” the tattooed one growled, his breath fogging the air. He had an accent, thick and Eastern European, the kind that made every word sound like a threat.

I froze in the bedroom doorway, clutching my robe closed. My mind raced, Mom’s debt. The gambling loans she’d hidden from me until the cancer took her eight months ago. I’d been scraping by, paying what I could, but the interest piled up like the snow outside. “I… I don’t have it yet. Please, I just need more time.”

The taller one laughed, a sound like gravel under boots. He stepped forward, close enough that I could smell the stale coffee on his breath. “Time’s up. Your mama owed us one-eighty-seven grand plus change. That’s on you now. We ain’t charities.”

They weren’t wrong. The paperwork had come after the funeral, stacks of it, from underground bookies who’d fronted her bets on everything from horse races to poker games. She’d sworn it was under control, right up until the end.