Butterflies detonated in my stomach, wild and humiliating. My pulse thundered so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
I hated the reaction—hated the way my gaze lingered despite my will, hated how heat curled low in my belly when I should have felt only fear and anger.
He was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous, almost sacrilegious. A fallen angel sculpted from rage, power, and restraint.
And worst of all—he knew it.
I forced my eyes away, clenched my jaw, pressed my lips together until they ached. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply my body betrayed me.
“You have no right to defy me, Elena,” he said, voice low, steady, almost conversational—like stating a fact, not a threat.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, each movement measured.
“Do not confuse my patience for mercy. Kindness is a luxury I do not grant. Disobedience... will be remembered.”
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell his clean, expensive cologne layered over something darker—leather, smoke, danger.
“Now strip,” he said evenly. “And get on the bed.”
“No.”
The word came out small but unyielding. It surprised even me.
Silence slammed down between us.
He studied my face for a long moment, gray eyes unreadable. Then he gave a single, slow nod—as if I’d only confirmed something he already knew.
Without another word, he turned away.
My heart stuttered.
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of California, the city spread beneath him like a conquered kingdom. His back was to me now—broad, bare, impossibly strong.
I took an instinctive step forward, dread pooling heavy in my stomach.
I knew that stillness. That controlled quiet. Men like Ruslan Volkov didn’t shout when they decided to destroy someone. They didn’t threaten. They simply acted—and by the time you realized it, it was already over.
“Ruslan.” My voice cracked despite my effort to steady it. “Please.”
He didn’t turn.
“We’re still strangers,” I rushed on, words spilling out before courage could abandon me. “We’ve barely spoken. We don’t know each other. We don’t trust each other. How can you expect... this? How can you expect me to just lie down and—”
He remained silent, gaze fixed on the city beyond the glass.
“Sex is supposed to be...” I faltered, swallowing hard. “...making love. Between two people who care. Who want eachother. Not a transaction. Not a punishment. Not a reminder that I don’t have a choice.”
Still nothing.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing against my lungs until breathing felt like work.
I hugged my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how small I was in this massive suite, how exposed. “Please don’t punish me again,” I whispered. “I know you won’t force me—you proved that when you killed the therapist. You’re not a rapist.”
The words cost me something to say.
“But I also know you’ll make me pay for refusing you,” I went on, quieter now, rawer. “And I don’t think I have anything left to give.”
My fingers brushed the ring on my hand, the metal suddenly heavy, unforgiving.
