She is sprawled on her stomach, her face turned toward me, cheek pressed against the pillow I slept on. Her hair is a chaotic spill of caramel silk, tangled from my fingers, from the friction of her head thrashing against the mattress. The sheet is pulled down to her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her back and the faint, reddened marks on her hips where I held her down.
And her wrist.
I reach out, my hand hovering over her left arm. The skin is circled by a bruise. A ring of purple and blue where the steel cuff bit into her flesh.
It looks painful. It looks brutal.
To any other man, it might look like guilt.
To me, it looks like a wedding band.
I trace the bruise with the pad of my thumb, applying no pressure, just feeling the heat of the inflammation. She stirsunder my touch, a low, soft sound vibrating in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. In her sleep, she leans into me.
I belong to you.
The words she screamed last night echo in the silence of the room, louder than the ocean crashing against the cliffs outside. She admitted it. She surrendered. It wasn't just her body giving in to biology; it was her soul recognizing its owner.
A dark, possessive satisfaction coils in my gut, hot and heavy. I own her. I took her freedom, her choices, her name, and finally, her body. And in return, she found peace. I saw it in her eyes right before she fell asleep. The terror was gone, replaced by the heavy, drugged calm of absolute safety.
I carefully slide out of bed, ensuring the mattress doesn't shift enough to wake her. I want her to sleep. I want her to rest. Because when she wakes up, the reality of her cage is going to tighten.
I walk to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. I look different. The tension that usually tightens the corners of my eyes is gone. I look... fed.
I shower quickly, scrubbing the scent of her—vanilla, sex, and sweat—from my skin, though I hate doing it. I dress in fresh tactical gear. Black cargo pants. A black fitted sweater. I strap my holster to my thigh.
I walk back into the bedroom. I stand over her one last time.
"Stay," I whisper to her sleeping form.
I lock the door from the outside.
The war room is located in the basement of the Estate, three levels below the ground. It is a bunker encased in reinforced concrete and lead, impenetrable to drone strikes and electronic surveillance.
Luca is waiting for me.
He stands by the massive wall of monitors, his face grim. He looks tired. He’s been up all night cleaning up the mess I made in the woods.
"Report," I say, pouring myself a black coffee from the carafe on the metal table.
"The body has been disposed of," Luca says. "Standard protocol. No ID, no teeth, no fingertips. He’s just fish food now."
"And the phone?"
"Cracked it an hour ago." Luca taps the keyboard, and a map appears on the main screen. It’s a topographic view of the Estate and the surrounding ten miles.
"The operator was a freelancer, just like he said. But the payment trail... it’s clever. It bounced through servers in chaotic jurisdictions—Kyiv, Caracas, Tehran. But the origin point is undeniable."
He zooms in on a location in the city.
"A shell company registered to Nikolai Sokolov’s lieutenant."
"I know it was him," I say, sipping the bitter coffee. "I want to know what he saw."
Luca hesitates. He types another command.
A video file opens. It’s the footage from the drone before I crushed the controller.
It shows the conservatory. The resolution is 4K. Crystal clear.
