"Tell me you feel it," Roman demands, his rhythm faltering slightly as passion overtakes precision. "Tell me you feel this connection that goes beyond physical. Beyond contractual. Beyond logical."
"I feel it," I admit, unable to lie while joined with him so intimately. "I've always felt it."
Something like triumph flashes in his eyes. His movements become more urgent, more demanding, pushing both of us toward release with single-minded determination. One hand slides between our bodies, finding the center of my pleasure with unerring accuracy.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough with need. "Show me who you belong to, Delilah. Show me who owns your pleasure."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his body against mine pushes me over the edge. I shatter beneath him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me with unexpected intensity.
My release triggers his own. With a guttural groan, Roman buries himself deep within me, his body tensing as he follows me into ecstasy. For a brief, transcendent moment, the power imbalance between us dissolves. We're just a man and woman, locked together in the most ancient of connections.
Reality returns slowly. Roman's weight presses me into the mattress, his breathing harsh against my neck. I feel strangelyvulnerable now, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with my physical nakedness. I gave him more than my body just now. I gave him a glimpse of something I didn't intend to reveal—my capacity to need this. To need him.
He lifts himself on his elbows, studying my face with that penetrating gaze that seems to see through all my defenses. Whatever he sees makes satisfaction curl his lips into a predatory smile.
"Now you understand," he says, brushing sweat-dampened hair from my forehead with unexpected gentleness. "This isn't just about control or possession, Delilah. This is about completion. You fulfill something in me I didn't know was missing. And I..." His thumb strokes over my lower lip. "I give you what you've always needed but never admitted wanting. Structure. Protection. Absolute devotion paired with absolute demand."
There's a terrible truth in his words that I can't quite deny. For all the disturbing aspects of our relationship, for all the red flags and warning signs, there is something about Roman's focused intensity that fills a void I've carried since my parents died. A void of belonging, of mattering absolutely to someone.
"What if I run again?" I ask, the question emerging unbidden from some rebellious corner of my mind.
Roman's smile doesn't waver, but something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Then I find you. Again. And again. As many times as necessary until you accept what we both know is inevitable." His hand slides to my throat, resting there with possessive intent. "But each time will become more... difficult for both of us. I don't enjoy punishing you, Delilah, but I will if that's what's required to keep you."
The threat should terrify me. Should make me plan my next escape more carefully, find a way to disappear where his trackers and technology can't follow. Instead, it sends a forbiddenthrill through me—the knowledge that this powerful, dangerous, brilliant man considers me valuable enough to pursue so relentlessly.
"I won't run again," I hear myself say, the words surprising me even as they leave my mouth.
Roman's expression softens slightly. "No," he agrees, his hand moving from my throat to cup my face with unexpected tenderness. "You won't. Because now you understand that there's no point. No matter where you go, no matter how you try to hide from me or from your own feelings, the result will always be the same." He presses his forehead to mine, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. "You belong with me, Delilah. The sooner you accept that, the happier we'll both be."
As he gathers me against his chest, as his arms encircle me in an embrace that feels equal parts prison and sanctuary, I can't help but acknowledge 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.
What I feel for him may be complicated, problematic, perhaps even unhealthy by conventional standards. But as I drift toward sleep in the cage of his arms, I can no longer deny that it exists. That despite every logical objection, every feminist principle, every warning bell, I am falling for the man who tracked me, bought me, and now claims to love me.
And that terrifies me more than any tracker or surveillance ever could.
seventeen
. . .
Morning light filtersthrough cheap hotel curtains, turning the room golden and making the events of last night feel almost dreamlike. I wake slowly, my body aching pleasantly from Roman's thorough possession. He's still here, his arm locked possessively around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. For the first time since our arrangement began, I feel a strange sense of equilibrium—as if something that was off-balance has finally settled into place. It terrifies me.
"You're thinking too loudly," Roman murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with sleep but still commanding. "I can practically hear the gears turning in that brilliant mind of yours."
I didn't realize he was awake. "Just processing," I say quietly.
His arm tightens around me, pulling me more firmly against his chest. "Processing what, exactly? Your failed escape attempt? My declaration? The fact that I tracked you down in under an hour?" His lips brush my shoulder in a surprisingly gentle caress. "Or perhaps you're processing how completely you surrendered to me last night."
Heat floods my cheeks at the reminder. In the harsh light of morning, my wanton behavior seems shameful, my eager responses to his dominance difficult to reconcile with my usual independent self.
"All of it," I admit. "It's... a lot."
Roman shifts, turning me in his arms until we're face to face. Without his usual perfect grooming, he looks more human—his hair tousled from sleep and my fingers, stubble darkening his jaw, tiny lines visible at the corners of his eyes. Still devastatingly handsome, but approachably so. Almost vulnerable.
"Do you regret last night?" he asks, his gaze searching mine with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
I consider lying, but what's the point? Roman reads me too well. "No," I say softly. "I don't regret it."
Something like relief flashes across his face, quickly masked by his usual confident expression. "Good." His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking my lower lip with possessive intent. "Because I meant everything I said, Delilah. Everything I did."
