He holds my gaze, eyes flat, cold not with mischief or calculation, but with a fury that feels like a physical force. The anger in him is vast, controlled, but I can see how much effort it costs him to keep from exploding. His jaw ticks. For one terrible, breathless moment, I think he’ll kill me right here. Just another problem to be erased.
I shrink away, spine pressed to the wall, phone clutched so hard the plastic cracks beneath my grip. My thoughts race, panic crowding out reason. I can’t run. I can’t even scream. Miron takes a step closer, then another, moving with a slow, inescapable certainty.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t strike. He just takes the phone from my hands, thumb crushing the power button, ending the last fragile thread of hope. He pockets it, still silent.
“Miron—” My voice is a rasp, desperate. “I’m sorry. Please!”
He cuts me off, voice like ice. “Don’t speak.”
That single command roots me to the spot. I watch him, wild-eyed, heart jackhammering in my chest. He reaches out and takes my arm. His grip is viselike, not cruel but without tenderness. He drags me out of the room, down the corridor, every step echoing in the hollow quiet. My mind reels with terror. I glance at the faces of his guards as we pass—some avert their eyes, others look on with blank indifference. No one will help me.
He pushes open the heavy door to his bedroom. The air inside is colder, darker, the curtains drawn tight. At the head of the bed, thick metal rings are bolted into the wall—nothing decorative about them. He pulls a length of chain from the drawer of his bedside table, the links heavy, the sound sharp and final.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper. “Please. Please, I’ll behave, I won’t try to run again—”
His eyes narrow, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You already had your chance. You threw it away.”
He binds my wrists, attaching the chain to the ring above the bed. The metal bites cold into my skin, and I bite back a sob. His hands work with a brutal efficiency, not lingering, not gentle. When it’s done, he steps back, staring at me—chained, helpless, caught like some creature in a trap.
He paces for a moment, hands raking through his hair, the silence between us stretching into something unbearable.
Finally he stops, voice low, shaking with barely controlled rage. “You think you can outsmart me? You think I wouldn’t be watching? Listening? There is nowhere you can run that I won’t find you, Sera. No one you can call that I can’t reach first.”
I meet his gaze, defiant even as I tremble. “You lied to me.”
He laughs, short and bitter. “I protected you. You chose to become prey.”
I jerk at the chains, frustration and humiliation burning through me. “You call this protection?”
He comes close—too close—leaning over the bed until I can smell his anger, sharp as vodka and smoke. “It’s the only kind I know. The only way to keep you alive. If you’d gone to the real FBI, to anyone else, you’d be dead by now.”
I stare at him, unblinking. “So what am I now? Your prisoner, your trophy, your pet?”
He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, he crouches, eyes level with mine, voice a knife’s edge. “You’re mine. You always have been.”
For a long, shuddering minute, he just watches me—reading every flinch, every ragged breath, every defiant glare I can muster. Then he stands, turning his back, shoulders rigid.
“You will stay here. You will not speak to anyone. You will not leave this room unless I say so. Do you understand?”
I nod, the motion small, tears pricking at my eyes.
Miron stands framed in the light. He’s still angry, the storm in his eyes undimmed. He doesn’t speak as he crosses the room, his steps unhurried, measured, but there’s no mistaking the tension in his shoulders. He looks at me—at the way I sit, legs drawn up, back pressed to the headboard, chain stretched taut. I glare at him, refusing to shrink away.
“You want to fight?” His voice is quiet, dangerous. “You want to show me you still have teeth?”
I bare them, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You want a pet you can control, go buy a dog.”
His lips twitch, not quite a smile. He stalks closer, stripping off his jacket, the movements sharp and efficient. “You belong to me,” he says again, softer this time, as if testing the truth of it between us. “I want all of you, not just obedience.”
He sits at the edge of the bed, close enough that I feel the heat of his body, the rough scrape of his hand as he reaches out. His palm traces the line of my jaw, the side of my throat, down to the collarbone exposed by the slip of my nightgown. He lets his thumb linger over the pulse that leaps under my skin.
I jerk my head away, but his grip is gentle, unyielding. “You can fight all you want,” he murmurs, “but you don’t want to run from me. Not really.”
The chain rattles as I move, the sound embarrassingly loud. My cheeks burn, but I glare up at him, every muscle drawn tight. “I don’t want this,” I say, but the protest falters. My body betrays me—the way I lean into his touch, the way my breath comes quick and shallow.
He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. “Liar.” His hand slips into my hair, tilting my face up so he can kiss me—hard, bruising, possessive. I resist for a heartbeat, but when his tongue teases the seam of my mouth, I open for him, hungry and angry, desperate to take back control even as I give it up.
His hands move with ruthless purpose, pushing my nightgown down over my shoulders, baring me to the cold air and his gaze. He kisses along the curve of my neck, down to my breasts, biting just hard enough to make me gasp. I arch into him, the chain biting at my wrist, but I don’t care. All I can feel is the ache low in my belly, the way he touches me like he has every right.
