"You knew. You simply didn't believe." He was close enough now that I could see flecks of silver in those grey eyes. "The money made you feel clever. Smarter than everyone else. Like you'd found a loophole in the universe where desperate girls get rewarded without consequence."
Each word hit like a precisely aimed dart. He'd built a psychological profile all right, and it was horrifyingly accurate.
"But there are always consequences," he continued, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "And now you're here, dressed in clothes I selected, wearing a collar that marks you as mine, about to begin a journey you can't imagine."
"I'm not yours." The words came out as a whisper when I'd meant them as a shout.
"Aren't you?" He reached out, one finger tracing the edge of the collar. Not touching me, just the leather, but I felt it like a brand. "Your signature says otherwise. Your presence here says otherwise. Your body's response to my proximity says otherwise."
I slapped his hand away. Or tried to. He caught my wrist with reflexes that spoke of anticipation, holding it gentle but unbreakable.
"There she is," he murmured, something like approval warming his voice. "The fighter underneath all that fear. I was beginning to worry you'd gone catatonic."
I tried to jerk free. When that failed, I did the only thing left: I spit in his face.
It landed on his cheek, a glob of saliva and rage that made him go still. Completely, utterly still. The kind of stillness that comes before avalanches.
"I see." He released my wrist, pulling out a handkerchief with deliberate calm. Wiped his face. Folded the fabric. Placed it back in his pocket. Every movement precise and unhurried. "Would you like to try that again?"
"Go to hell."
"Mm. Not quite the response I was hoping for." He stepped back, straightening his cuffs. "Tell me, Lilah, what do you think happens next? In your imagination, how does this scene play out?"
"You let me go because keeping me here is illegal and you're not actually insane?"
"Incorrect. Try again."
"I scream until someone hears me and calls the cops?"
"The room is soundproofed, and we're miles from anyone who might care. Another attempt?"
My throat tightened. "You... hurt me. To make mecomply."
"Hurt is such an imprecise word." He moved to the wall, pressing something I couldn't see. A panel slid open, revealing equipment that made my stomach drop. "I prefer 'correct.' Sometimes correction is unpleasant. Sometimes it's overwhelming. Sometimes—if you're very, very good—it's exactly what you need."
"I don't need anything from you except freedom."
"Freedom." He selected something from the cabinet—restraints, medical grade, with soft padding beneath the leather. "You had freedom. You used it to make catastrophically poor decisions. Perhaps what you need is structure. Boundaries. Someone to take all those difficult choices away."
"That's not—" I scrambled backward as he approached, but there was nowhere to go. "Don't touch me. I'll scream. I'll fight. I'll—"
"You'll do all of those things," he agreed pleasantly. "And then you'll learn why they won't help."
He moved faster than someone in a suit had any right to. One moment I was standing, the next I was face-down on the bed, his weight pinning me as efficiently as any restraint. I bucked, twisted, tried to throw him off, but he controlled me with an ease that spoke of practice.
"Get off me!" I thrashed harder, panic and fury making my voice crack. "Get the fuck off me right now!"
"Language," he murmured against my ear, securing my right wrist with clinical efficiency. "We discussed this. Repeatedly."
The restraint attached to something—the bedframe, probably—holding my arm extended. I tried to hit him with myleft hand, scratch, anything. He caught it with the same ease, and soon both wrists were secured, leaving me face-down and helpless.
"This isn't necessary," he said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather. "You could simply comply. Follow the rules. Make this pleasant for both of us."
"Fuck. You." I turned my head to glare at him over my shoulder. "I'll never comply. Never. You'll have to keep me tied up forever because the second you let me go—"
"You'll what? Spit again? Curse more creatively?" He sat on the edge of the bed, perfectly composed despite having just wrestled me into submission. "Your defiance is expected, Lilah. Predictable, even. Every response you've had so far has been catalogued in dozens of subjects before you."
"I'm not a subject!"
