I don’t.
The air between us is molten, suffocating, the line between rage and something far more dangerous blurring with every second.
For the first time since stepping into this estate, I don’t feel like a prisoner.
I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff, one step from falling, and I can’t tell if I want to jump.
***
The next night, the tension coils so tightly I can feel it before the door even opens. I’ve barely moved from the bed, the hours stretched into one long, bruised silence. When Alexei finally steps in, I know instantly what’s coming: not punishment, not threats, but something else entirely.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and unyielding. He doesn’t speak. He crosses the room in three strides, grabs me by the wrist, and drags me up from the bed. My back slams against the wall, the chain at my ankle rattling as he cages me in.
Then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is rough, demanding, all fury and possession. His lips crash against mine like a challenge, like he’s daring me to resist. Heat surges through me, anger and arousal tangled into something volatile. I bite back a sound I don’t want to give him, my body betraying me as my mouth opens under his.
I kiss him back.
Hatred sharpens the hunger, makes it jagged, reckless. His hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, his bodypressing hard against mine. The taste of him floods my mouth—smoke, whiskey, iron from the cut I gave him.
For a moment, I let it consume me.
Then I shove him. Hard.
He stumbles back a step, eyes blazing, chest rising fast. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my voice raw. “Don’t think for a second this means anything.”
What I expect is more force, more fury. What comes instead is restraint. He doesn’t lunge again, doesn’t drag me back into his arms. He stops. He respects it.
The realization jolts through me, unsettling in its own way.
His lips curve into something cold, cutting. “You’ll come back to me on your own. Hate tastes sweeter when it turns to hunger.”
The words land like a knife. Before I can retort, he turns and walks out, the door slamming behind him, the lock sliding home.
I sink against the wall, breath ragged, mouth still burning.
The lock clicks into place, the echo still ringing when I let out the breath I’ve been holding. My lips tingle where his mouth crushed against mine, my wrists ache where his grip pinned me, and my chest is tight with fury that refuses to ease.
I hate him.
The thought should steady me, should anchor me in the fire that keeps me alive, but instead it splinters. Hate isn’t simple anymore. It burns, yes, but tangled in the flames is something darker, an ache I don’t want, a hunger I refuse to name.
I pace the room until my bare feet ache against the thick carpet. The velvet curtains hang heavy, the gold-framed mirrorsreflecting back the sharp lines of my face, the restless flicker in my eyes. Everything here is meant to dazzle, to distract, to make me feel small under the weight of it. Instead, it suffocates me.
I rip the sheets off the bed, shove the decorative pillows to the floor. The chain rattles at my ankle with every movement, a reminder of where I am, of who controls this game. My pulse refuses to calm.
By the time I head into the bathroom, I’m raw, my skin prickling like it doesn’t fit.
The water hisses to life, steam spilling over the marble. I strip quickly, stepping under the spray so hot it sears my skin. The sting grounds me, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I scrub hard, nails raking down my arms, over my chest, as though I can wash away the memory of his mouth, his voice, his heat.
It doesn’t work.
When I close my eyes, I see him. The fury in his stare, the moment of hesitation before he walked away. The words he left behind, sharp as glass:“You’ll come back to me on your own.”
I curse aloud, the sound swallowed by the steam.
When I step out, toweling my damp hair, my anger has settled into something colder. Something steady. He won’t break me. Not like this.
