His hand rises to cup my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness. "Connection. Understanding. Mutual recognition of something rare and valuable." His eyes hold mine, intense and uncompromising. "Love, Delilah. Inconvenient, unexpected, undeniable love."
My hands are numb where they grip the bedspread, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognizeas truth fighting to be acknowledged. Because for all his flaws, for all the red flags and boundary violations and manipulations, there is something between us I can't dismiss as merely transactional or psychological.
"I'm scared," I admit, the words barely audible.
"Good," he says, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair with possessive intent. "You should be. What I feel for you isn't safe or simple. It's all-consuming. Absolute." His grip tightens slightly. "And it means you will never successfully run from me, Delilah. Never."
The declaration should terrify me. Instead, it sends a forbidden thrill through my veins—the knowledge that this powerful, dangerous man has chosen me, specifically me, as the recipient of his unprecedented emotional surrender.
"Fifty-seven minutes," I repeat his earlier words. "That's how long it took you to find me."
His smile is predatory. "Next time, it would be less. There will always be a tracker you miss, a camera you don't spot, a digital footprint you can't erase." He leans closer, his breath warm against my lips. "Running is useless, Delilah. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can stop fighting what we both know is inevitable."
"And what's that?" I whisper, though I already know the answer.
"Us," he says simply. "You and me. Not for thirty days, but for as long as I draw breath."
As his mouth claims mine with possessive intent, as his arms envelop me in an embrace that feels equal parts cage and sanctuary, I realize the truth in his words. Running from Roman is useless—not just because of his resources and determination, but because part of me doesn't want to escape at all.
And that realization terrifies me more than any tracker or surveillance ever could.
sixteen
. . .
The hotel roomfeels charged with dangerous energy—our confrontation leaving both of us breathing hard, teetering on the edge between anger and something more primal. Roman's kiss is bruising, demanding, his hands gripping me with barely leashed strength. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are storm-dark with a mixture of fury and desire that makes my stomach clench with equal parts apprehension and anticipation. "You tried to run from me," he says, the softness of his voice belying the intensity of his gaze. "Now I need to remind you exactly why that's futile."
His words should offend me. They should trigger my defiance, my feminist principles, my intellectual objections to his possessiveness. Instead, they send a treacherous heat flooding through me, pooling low in my belly with shameful eagerness.
"Roman," I begin, not even sure what I'm going to say—protest, acquiescence, something in between.
"No," he interrupts, one finger pressing against my lips. "No more words. No more analysis. No more running from what you feel." His hand slides from my mouth to my throat, resting therewith just enough pressure to remind me of his strength. "Right now, there's only you and me and this connection you're so determined to deny."
His free hand moves to the buttons of my blouse, unfastening them with deliberate slowness. "I was vulnerable with you tonight," he continues, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that always makes my pulse race. "I gave you something I've never given anyone else. And you ran." The last word contains a wealth of hurt beneath the anger.
"I was scared," I whisper as my blouse falls open under his skilled fingers.
"And now?" His hand cups my breast through the thin lace of my bra, thumb brushing across the nipple in a caress that's both tender and possessive.
"Still scared," I admit, my voice catching as desire clouds my better judgment. "But not of you. Of... this. Of what I feel when I'm with you."
Something softens in his expression—satisfaction mingled with unexpected tenderness. "Then let me show you there's nothing to fear," he says, pushing the blouse from my shoulders. "Let me remind you of what you're so desperate to forget."
His mouth reclaims mine, softer this time but no less commanding. His hands move over my body with practiced familiarity, knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply, which spots make me gasp and which make me moan. It's terrifying how well he knows me, how completely he's mapped my responses.
"Stand up," he commands, pulling back to create space between us.
I obey without thinking, my body responding to his authority before my mind can form objections. Roman moves to sit at the edge of the bed, his eyes never leaving mine as he efficiently undoes his belt.
"Remove the rest of your clothes," he instructs, his voice quiet but allowing no argument. "Slowly. I want to watch you."
Heat floods my cheeks but I comply, unzipping my skirt and letting it pool at my feet. The lace bra follows, then the matching underwear, until I stand naked before him while he remains fully clothed except for the open belt. The power imbalance is deliberate, emphasized—a physical representation of our relationship.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, eyes traveling over my body with possessive appreciation. "Every inch of you perfect. Every inch of you mine."
The claim should trigger my resistance. Instead, it sends another wave of treacherous heat through me. Roman notices—he notices everything—and his smile turns knowing.
"Come here," he says, crooking one finger in beckoning.
