NOVPUBNot like the men he hired. He believed in control. In strategy.
There were so many ways he could break her in. He had thought of dozens—some psychological, some intimate, some both.
But he wouldn't hurt her. Not unless she forced his hand. No, he wanted her to bend willingly. To forget Ross. To choose him, eventually.
He would make her understand. 𝚗ovp𝚞b.𝚌om
And if she didn't?
Well… there was always time to change her mind.
Thomas leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "You'll soon be mine, Jade. And I'm going to make sure you never want to leave."
He stood, locked the door behind him, and began preparing for her awakening.
He was about to take advantage of her.
Jade lay unconscious on the bed, her chest rising and falling in soft, rhythmic breaths.
Her barely-covered curves strained against the thin fabric, and her generous bosom practically spilled out, tempting him like forbidden fruit.
Thomas licked his lips. Her body was a work of art—ripe, sensual, and maddeningly seductive.
She'd been parading it around him for days, knowingly or not, and it had driven him to the edge.
A cup or two won't hurt, he thought, reaching down slowly.
His fingers hovered just above her skin, trembling slightly from the surge of lust.
He'd never been this hard in his life. Every nerve in his body screamed for release, and she was right there—helpless, warm, inviting.
His hand was just an inch away from her when the door slammed open.
"Someone followed us," a gruff voice said.
Thomas froze.
A man stepped in—ugly, broad-shouldered, his body littered with tattoos like graffiti scrawled on prison walls.
His expression was grim, his presence like a bucket of cold water over Thomas's smoldering lust.
Thomas clenched his jaw.
"I'll be there," he muttered, standing up.
He cast one last lingering look at Jade, her face serene and unaware of how close she'd come to being violated.
Then he followed the tattooed man down the dimly lit hallway.
They entered a control room filled with monitors and glowing equipment.
Surveillance feeds covered nearly every angle of the estate—exterior walls, interior halls, entry gates.
The room buzzed with static and the faint hum of electricity.
"Show me," Thomas ordered.
One of the screens flickered, and the cameras zoomed in on a figure scaling the tall iron gates with effortless grace.
No tools. No hesitation. The man moved like a phantom, slipping past security as if he'd done it a thousand times.
Once over the top, he landed cleanly on his feet, dusted off his clothes, and started walking toward the building—calm, unrushed, and confident.
Thomas leaned in closer. His eyes narrowed.
"I know that man. That's Ross Oakley."
A few of the other men in the room looked at each other, confused.
"Who does he think he is, Mack Bolan?" one of them joked.
A round of laughter followed—but Thomas didn't so much as crack a smile. His face was carved from stone, and a chill had settled in his bones.
"He's not someone you joke about," Thomas said coldly.
"Ross Oakley is dangerous. Smart, calculated, and utterly ruthless. If he's here, it's for a reason—and it's not good."
The room fell silent.
"Check if he has anyone with him," Thomas said.
The men worked quickly, switching camera feeds and scanning every angle of the grounds. One by one, they ruled out every hiding place.
Ross Oakley was alone.
But somehow, that only made it worse.
"Is he fucking stupid?" one of the men scoffed, unable to contain his laughter as he leaned closer to the monitor.
Onscreen, Ross Oakley stood at the front entrance, knocking on the reinforced door like it was a neighbor's house.
The man snorted. "He's seriously knocking. Who does that? What's he expecting, a welcome mat and tea?"
Another chuckled. "He might be stupid, but he sure as hell ain't a pussy. I'll give him that. Look at him—just standing there like we won't fill him with holes."
The room buzzed with low chuckles, but Thomas didn't share their amusement. His eyes stayed fixed on the monitor, expression tight.
The fact that Ross was here—alone, unarmed, and completely at ease—was setting off every internal alarm Thomas had.
"Focus," he said, voice cool but unmistakably sharp. "This isn't some street thug. Don't underestimate him. We don't want to fuck this up."
The laughter died quickly.
"Go and meet him," Thomas added, turning away from the screen. "Don't talk. Don't hesitate. Just see what he wants. But don't kill him. We need him to talk."
"Yeah, boss," came the reply in unison.
Five of the men moved out, each one locking and loading as they grabbed their weapons—military-grade assault rifles with scopes and extended mags.
They pulled on black tactical masks as they stepped into the hall, their boots thudding against the concrete floor.
Their formation was tight, movements disciplined. These weren't amateurs—they were trained, and they'd dealt with threats before.
But none of them had ever faced Ross Oakley.
Outside, the sunset bathed the compound in silver. Ross still stood in front of the door, hands relaxed at his sides, head tilted slightly as if he were admiring the craftsmanship of the building.
He looked more like someone waiting for a friend than someone about to face down armed men.
The door creaked open.
The five masked men stepped out and immediately spread into position, surrounding Ross in a half-circle. Guns raised. Safety off. Fingers ready.
And Ross?
He didn't move.
Didn't raise his hands.
Didn't even blink.
His eyes scanned them slowly, lazily, as if sizing up livestock at a market.
One of the men tightened his grip, uncomfortable beneath that calm, unshakable gaze.
Ross sighed.
"This is the welcoming committee?" His voice was smooth, laced with disdain. "Five lapdogs with guns and no brains?"
"Hands where we can see them," one of the men barked, trying to assert dominance.
Ross turned his head, just slightly, and looked at the man who spoke.
"I'm not here to play games," he said. "Now call your boss down. I didn't come all this way to chat with dogs."
