I watch her for a long moment, feeding on the tension, the uncertainty, the desperate want that flickers in her gaze. I could chain her again, make her beg, but that’s not what I want now.I want her to choose. I want her to admit, if only to herself, that she’s already mine.
“You’re free,” I say, the words almost a dare. “If you want to run, run now. The door’s open. If you stay—if you come to me—there’s no going back. Not ever.”
Her fingers tremble against the blanket. She looks at the door, then back at me, her breathing ragged. For a heartbeat, I see her struggle with it: her pride, her anger, her fear.
Except when she moves, it’s not away from me. It’s into my arms, her body curling against my chest, her lips finding mine with a hunger that’s more honest than anything she’s said all night.
I hold her tight, anchoring her to me, feeling the last of my own anger fade. She’s trembling, but she’s here. She’s mine.
I tilt her chin up, searching her eyes. “You belong to me,” I say, voice rough with something dangerously close to hope. “I want to hear you say it.”
She hesitates, lips trembling, but then she gives in. “I belong to you.”
It’s not a surrender. It’s an invocation, a binding. I kiss her, slow and deep, letting her feel it. My claim.
We sit like that for a long time, her breath warm on my neck, the chain forgotten on the bed. When I finally let her go, I know that whatever comes next—whatever war she wages in her heart—she’ll always return to me.
That, more than any chain, is what keeps her here.
***
She’s free now. The shackle sits open on the floor, gleaming faint in the lamplight. She doesn’t move. Not really. She curls into the bed—my bed—shoulders tense, eyes open just enough for me to see the defiance hasn’t bled out of her yet. Themark around her wrist is fading, red pressed into pale. I know every line of her body now, every bruise and scar. I know the way her breath hitches when she thinks I’m not looking, the way she fists my sheets in one hand when fear edges out her bravado.
I pull a chair up close, setting it where she can’t forget I’m here. My laptop glows cold in the half dark. Files flicker: encrypted, urgent, the kind of work I used to do with one hand while eating dinner. Tonight, my attention is split. I keep looking at her. The room feels smaller than usual, heavy with her scent—jasmine and coffee and something that is only her.
She watches me for a while. Her eyes trace the room, the corners, the door. She knows escape is pointless. I can almost see the calculations in her head: the distance between us, the weight of the chain on the floor, how fast I can close the space if she tries anything. She’s learning, adapting, the way all survivors do. I like that about her. I need it.
Most women would cry, plead, try to sweeten their way out. Sera just folds herself smaller, silent, refusing to offer more than she’s willing. There’s pride in that. I respect it. Maybe that’s why I don’t want her out of my sight tonight.
Maybe that’s why I don’t bother with the old games—power and punishment, mercy or threat. She already knows the rules. She knows I won’t let her go.
I work, or pretend to, for hours. My mind keeps drifting to her, the way she breathes, the way her legs tangle in my sheets. When I shift, her gaze flicks to me, quick, wary, never trusting. She looks like she’s waiting for a verdict that might never come.
The truth is I’ve already decided. There’s nothing left for her beyond these walls. No life that doesn’t tangle with mine. I don’t need to spell it out. I think she knows, in the way she hasn’tbegged, hasn’t broken, hasn’t so much as asked when I’ll let her go.
A message pings on my screen, something urgent from Moscow. I reply with the bare minimum, sending encrypted lines of command and warning, but my focus never leaves her for long.
I watch the line of her spine, the ragged hem of her T-shirt, the bare skin at her hip. I want to touch her. Not just to claim, but to anchor myself. Her presence is the only thing that feels real anymore.
She shifts, sighs, then sits up, back against the headboard. Her voice is hoarse. “Do you ever sleep?”
I let out a sound—maybe a laugh, maybe just a breath. “Not much. Not when you’re here.”
She looks away, studying the window, the cracks in the ceiling. I see the way she presses her lips together, as if swallowing questions she knows I won’t answer. She thinks I’m dangerous. She’s right. She thinks I’ll keep her forever. She’s right about that too.
Minutes slip past, heavy with the kind of silence that doesn’t invite comfort. I close the laptop, shoving it aside. My chair scrapes across the floor as I lean in, elbows on my knees, studying her face.
“You can sleep,” I say. “I won’t touch you unless you ask.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face, then anger, then something softer. Fatigue, maybe, or relief. She nods, drawing the sheets higher. She’s trembling. Not with fear. With exhaustion.
I force myself to stay seated. My hands want to reach for her, to smooth her hair, to pull her against my chest until I can feel her heartbeat slow. I want her softness, her sharpness,every last scrap of resistance. I want to own her fully, not as a possession but as a necessity.
It’s not enough anymore to have her locked away. I want her willing, or as close as I’ll ever get.
The minutes drag. Every so often, her eyes close, then flutter open again, as if she’s fighting sleep. I watch, hunger and longing gnawing at my insides. She’s become a habit I can’t break, a craving that gets sharper the more I try to ignore it.
Nothing matters but this: her in my bed, her breath fogging the air, her presence warping the space around us until the rest of the world feels distant, unimportant.
