The man who wraps his hand around my throat, who forces me to eat from his fingers like a pet, who promises to break me in his basement—that same man is breaking his own soldiers' bones for threatening me.
The journey back feels longer, each shadow potentially hiding the man whose photos prove he knows how to stay invisible. My bare feet stick slightly to the marble—sweat, fear, arousal—leaving invisible prints that scream my guilt. What if he's watching right now? What if he lets me escape just to see what I'd do? Each movement is calculated, precise—not the fumbling of a frightened captive but the prowess of someone who's killed in silence before. My brothers trained me to be decorative. I trained myself to be deadly.
My suite door relocks from the inside with a soft click. 3:52 AM. Just under two hours of freedom, of seeing behind the curtain.
I slide into bed, but my mind won't stop spinning. Two revelations war for dominance, each one reshaping everything I thought I understood.
The surveillance changes everything. He hasn't been planning revenge for weeks or months—he's been hunting me for years. Every move I've made, every pattern I've established, every moment I thought was private—he's been there, watching, learning, anticipating.
I thought I was being clever, leaving strategic gaps in my security. But he already knew my security. He's probably studied it longer than I have.
I thought I was the hunter, walking into his trap with my eyes open, my lockpicks hidden, my skills sharp.
But he's been hunting me longer. Much longer. I was hunted before I even knew there was a hunt.
The second revelation disturbs me more. The violence against his own men—it's not about revenge or torture or breaking me down. It's about possession. He doesn't want anyone else to touch what he considers his.
He's planning to kill me, which is why I have my blade sheathed against my thigh even now.
But first he wants to possess me.
The thought sends heat spreading through my body. My hand drifts to my throat. The ghost of his fingers in my mouth haunts me. Now I understand the hunger in his eyes wasn't just about humiliation—it was about possession. About finally touching what he's only been able to watch.
What would Marco do if he knew I could pick locks? Would Dante be proud or horrified? Would Luca laugh and offer to teach me more? The family knows I'm skilled with a blade and can take down a man in the blink of an eye, but they aren't across my other skills. They have no idea what their princess has taught herself in the shadows.
The guards' conversation echoes in my mind. They didn't say it, but they thought it: I'm Alexei's weakness.
Good.
A weakness I can exploit. An obsession I can manipulate. If he's already half-possessed by thoughts of me, I can push that further. Use it against him. Make him want me so badly he forgets to be careful, forgets his revenge, forgets everything but the need to have what he's been watching for so long.
Let him watch me through his cameras. Let him beat his men for looking at me wrong. Let him think he's in control while his obsession consumes him from the inside out.
I'll weaponize his desire, turn his obsession into my escape route. Be the weapon he doesn't see coming, hidden in plain sight, wrapped in calico and bruises and his own desperate need.
The power in that thought makes me feel more in control than I have since I walked into his car.
Sleep won't come. Every time I close my eyes, I see those photos on the wall—my face over and over, moments I thought were mine alone.
The worst part isn't the violation of being watched. It isn't even the sick thrill I feel knowing someone has been that obsessed with me for years.
The worst part is the heat pooling in my belly when I imagine him alone in that room, staring at those photos in the dark.
Does he touch himself while looking at them? Does he imagine what I taste like, sound like, feel like? Does he plan all the ways he wants to break me, or does he plan all the ways he wants to worship me?
My hand drifts down my body before I can stop it, sliding under the rough cotton of the nightie I found in the closet, fingers finding the heat between my thighs. The wetness there makes me gasp—I'm soaked, dripping, just from knowing he watches. Just from seeing those photos, evidence of an obsession that makes me ache in ways I've never felt before.
I press harder against his phantom touch on my throat with my other hand, feeling his fingerprints like a brand, and my hips buck involuntarily. The pain shoots straight to my core, making me wetter, needier. My fingers slide through my folds, finding my clit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
I imagine him watching this on his cameras—me touching myself while wearing his marks, getting off on the knowledge of his obsession. Would he storm in here? Would he replace my fingers with his? Would he finally take what he's been watching for so long?
The thought pushes me closer to the edge. I circle my clit faster, pressing against my throat harder, chasing something dark and wrong and perfect. My back arches off the bed as I remember his fingers in my mouth at dinner, the way he watched me take each bite like it was a claim, a promise, a threat.
The orgasm builds fast and devastating. I press two fingers inside myself, imagining they're his, that he's finally touching what he's only been able to photograph. My pussy clenchesaround my fingers as I come, his name a whisper on my lips that I'll deny in the morning.
As the aftershocks fade, leaving me breathless and ashamed and still somehow wanting more, the truth settles over me:
I'm going to seduce him for information. To stop him from killing me. And I'm going to seduce him because I need to.
