She doesn't love me enough to save me.
Darius crouched down in front of me, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in the ice blue of his eyes.
He reached out, and I flinched, but he just tucked a strand of purple hair behind my ear—gentle, almost tender.
"I know,maya soloveyka," he murmured, and there was something in his voice that sounded almost like pity. Almost like regret. "That's what I'm counting on."
And somehow, that was worse than everything else.
I opened my mouth and let out a wail of panicked misery.
CHAPTER 7
DARIUS
Eleanor had lost her mind.
Her scream was the most hideous sound I'd ever heard. A high-pitched, hysterical sound—half scream, half-heartbroken sob. I couldn't stand it.
I wanted to hear her screams. I wanted to pull them from her lips one by one. But not like this, not the result of fear and hysteria. I wanted screams from pleasure and pain mixing in ways that she didn't know her body could handle.
Thank fuck I had rented out the entire floor. Not that I had planned on making her scream, I just didn't want others to be too close. Ironically enough, I was worried about other people making too much noise.
"Eleanor, stop screaming," I demanded.
She didn't stop; she didn't even look at me.
Her fingers clawed at the necklace, her purple nails scraping along the pale, delicate skin of her throat, leaving bright red scratches in her wake.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and slid her up the wall so she was back on her feet, hoping I could get through to her.
Her eyes were wide, her pupils barely pinpricks as she lost herself to pure panic. It happened when despair and stressbattled in the body. When a person's mind knew that death was near, but their body wasn't ready to give in, and logic couldn't override the chemicals flooding their system.
She refused to accept it, even though she knew it was utterly futile.
A misfire of the fight-or-flight instinct. Too many signals overwhelming someone at once, so their body simply descended into chaos.
If she were a man, or really anyone else, I'd slap her across the face for a manual reset of her nerves. But I couldn't bring myself to do that to her.
If I were going to shock her senses, there were more entertaining ways to do it. Ways I shouldn't even be thinking about, but I couldn't seem to control my thoughts around this woman.
She inspired something in me that had lain dormant for too long.
"Eleanor," I demanded, my voice sharp enough to cut, though I doubted she could hear me through her own screaming.
Pretty, sparkling tears spilled down her beautiful face, a face twisted in rage and terror. Pink lines colored her delicate throat where her nails raked across it in a vain search for the clasp.
There was no clasp, at least not one she'd be able to find. The necklace could only be opened with the magnet tucked safely in my pocket. A perfect, elegant little shackle for my prisoner. A fashionable and expensive status symbol, a modern cage.
Or maybe it was more like a collar for my new pet.
To everyone else, it signified that she had someone who took care of her, someone of means, someone powerful. To her, it was a heavy reminder of who she belonged to, who controlled whether she lived or died.
But only if she didn't rip through her own neck first.
I grabbed her wrists when she scratched deep enough that a drop of blood welled just over where the necklace rested.
I couldn't let her hurt herself. I just couldn't.
