I reach out, hesitating, and then brush a stray strand of hair from her face. My fingers linger, tracing the line of her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear. She stirs at the touch, not waking, her lips parting with a tiny sigh.
She whispers something. My name, maybe, or just a breath of sound, half dreamed. The urge to answer nearly undoes me. I want to tell her she’s safe, that nothing will harm her here, that I would tear down the world before letting anyone touch her.
I want to say her name, gently, the way a man might pray.
I straighten, jaw tight, reminding myself who I am, what I’ve done. I remind myself I own her. That’s all this is meant to be.
Even as I pull away, I know the truth is a knife in my side. I don’t just want her obedience. Obedience is easy; obedience is what I’ve always taken from those beneath me. What I want from her is something else—something deeper, more dangerous.
I want her surrender, and not just of her body. I want the fire in her eyes to burn for me. I want her to choose me, to want me, to give in because she can’t help it.
It’s a sickness, this want. I know it. I can feel it every time she looks at me and I see, for a flicker of a second, the wall of hatred crumbling into something less certain. I see the confusion in her eyes when I touch her with care, when I hold her through the aftermath, when I don’t press for more than she can give. I know what I’m doing. I know what it makes me, but I can’t stop.
I study her for another long moment, memorizing the shape of her in sleep, the way her hair spills across the pillow, the vulnerable angle of her throat. There’s a mark there, my mark, faint but visible. It should make me feel powerful. Instead, it makes me ache.
I stand, quietly, unwilling to wake her. I smooth the sheets around her, careful not to disturb her peace. I want her to rest, to heal, to wake tomorrow without fear, even if it’s only for an hour, a minute, a breath. It’s a pointless kindness. I do it anyway.
When I leave the room, I close the door softly behind me. The corridor feels colder, emptier. My footsteps echo on the marble as I walk back to my office, the old ache twisting tighter with every step.
This isn’t about power anymore. I can admit that, at least to myself. If it was only power I wanted, I would have broken her completely, crushed every last ember of her resistance. But I don’t want ashes. I want the fire. I want her fierce, unbroken,wanting me not because I command it but because I am the only one who sees her for who she is.
I know what I’m willing to do to get it. I’m willing to break every rule I’ve ever followed, every code I was raised with, every line I drew in blood. I will tear down her enemies. I will destroy my own if I have to. I will make the world smaller, quieter, safer for her, if only she’ll let me in.
It is a dangerous thing, this wanting. More dangerous than any bullet or knife. I should fear it, but I don’t. Not enough.
In the hush of the empty house, I let myself remember the way she looked tonight, the way her body curled into mine, the tremor in her voice as she whispered my name in sleep. I want to hear her say it when she’s awake—want it more than any victory, any title, any kingdom. I want her surrender.
Chapter Twenty-One - Isabella
Days blur together, one identical to the next, each hour hemmed in by velvet and marble and the click of locks behind me. The mansion is a masterpiece of wealth: vaulted ceilings, gold filigree, endless halls awash in afternoon light.
The beauty is a trap, suffocating and inescapable. Every room is furnished for comfort, yet I can’t find rest. I drift from window to window, pressing my palm to the glass, searching for cracks in the world Emil has built around me. There are none.
Emil’s guards shadow my every move. Big men in tailored suits, guns hidden but always present, their faces impassive as stone.
For your safety,they say, but I know the truth. I am a prize, a hostage, a living warning to his enemies. Every step I take is measured, every word I say overheard and reported back to him.
When I try to wander the gardens alone, I find a guard already posted at every gate. When I retreat to my room, I hear footsteps outside my door at all hours, the muffled exchange of words in Russian.
Sometimes, in the silence, I imagine what would happen if I ran—how quickly I would be caught, how little it would matter.
I push back where I can. I refuse the meals brought to my room, let the food go cold on the tray until the maids carry it away untouched. I avoid Emil whenever possible, locking myself in the bathroom or pretending to read by the window, determined to deny him my company. I try not to let him see merattle the windows at night, testing for weaknesses. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Still, he always finds a way under my skin. I wake one morning to find a cup of tea waiting on a silver tray by my door. Not just any tea—my favorite, the one I mentioned offhandedly weeks ago, a blend I haven’t tasted since I was a girl. The scent rises in the quiet, soft and nostalgic, and for a moment I almost let myself feel comforted. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. The knowledge that he remembered, that he listened, makes something hot and traitorous flicker inside me. I hate that he knows how to do this, how to make me feel seen just enough to keep me off-balance.
At breakfast, he waits for me in the sunlit dining room, already seated at the head of the long table. He stands when I enter, gestures for me to sit across from him. The guards post themselves at the door, and the staff flit in and out, heads down, avoiding my gaze. The place setting in front of me is flawless—fine china, polished silver, another cup of that same tea.
Emil is immaculate as always, dark suit, cuff links gleaming. He studies me as I take my seat, his mouth curled in a faint, knowing smile. He doesn’t bother with small talk. Instead, he leans forward, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Did you sleep well, Bella?” The words are innocuous, but his eyes spark with private amusement. “Or are you still recovering from our little adventure the other night?”
My cheeks burn, but I refuse to look away. I meet his gaze, cold and steady. “If you’re trying to embarrass me, you’ll have to try harder.”
He laughs softly, tapping his spoon against his mug. “I like when you fight me. Makes things more interesting.” He takes asip of his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “I think you enjoyed it too, didn’t you?”
I want to throw the tea in his face. I want to scream at him, curse him, shatter the china and storm out. Instead, I keep my hands flat on the table, gripping the napkin so tightly my knuckles ache. “If you think I’ll ever beg for you, you’re delusional.”
His grin widens. “I don’t need you to beg. I know you want me either way.”
