I do. The bracelet inside catches the low light immediately, diamonds set delicate and precise, expensive in a way that makes my chest feel tight. I stare at it, my mind struggling to catch up.
He’s excited. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he reaches for it without hesitation. “Let me,” he says. He takes my wrist carefully, reverently even, and fastens the bracelet around it. His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist when he’s done, right over my pulse, slow and intimate. I don’t know what to say. “What do you think?” he asks, searching my face.
I swallow. “I… I don’t understand.” He stills, listening. “I get the clothes,” I continue, my voice quiet but honest. “I need to look like I belong in your world because I’m with you. I understand that.” I lift my wrist slightly, the bracelet glittering between us. “But this… why this?”
His thumb continues to trace small circles against my skin, grounding and possessive all at once. He looks into my eyes, really looks, and for a moment the room feels very small.
“?? — ???????????,” he says softly. “???? ?? ????? ?????? ? ?????????? ??????, ??????? ? ?????-???? ????.” “?? ???????????? ????????, ??? ???.”
The words wash over me, unfamiliar but heavy with meaning.
“What did you say?” I ask.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You are precious,” he says in English, voice low and certain. “One of the rarest and most beautiful women I have ever known. You deserve more than this.”
Something twists painfully in my chest at that, because no one should sound that sincere while holding someone captive. I look down at the bracelet again, at how it gleams against my skin like a promise I don’t trust.
I don’t know what he’s trying to turn me into, or what version of myself he’s slowly shaping with silk dresses and soft words andgifts that cost more than my freedom. I don’t know what this bracelet really means, or what promise he thinks it makes just by sitting on my wrist, glittering like something earned instead of something forced. But I know this much with unsettling clarity, this isn’t just about control anymore, or about keeping me contained and compliant. This is about possession. About claiming me in ways that don’t leave marks, about deciding I belong to him long before I’m ever allowed to say it out loud.
THIRTY-ONE
BLADE
Six weeks.
Six fucking weeks since I’ve seen her. Since I’ve felt her in my arms, kissed her lips, heard her laugh in the same room as me instead of inside my head like a ghost that won’t shut the hell up.
Six weeks since I knew, without question, that she was protected.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I wake up every morning with my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my hands already curled like I’m ready to grab someone by the throat. I sleep like shit, when I sleep at all, and when I do, she’s there. Always her. Wrapped up in me, crying, calling my name, or smiling like nothing ever went wrong. Sometimes she’s hurt. Sometimes she’s just gone. I wake up reaching for her and there’s nothing but cold sheets and the echo of my own breathing.
Every. Single. Night.
I think about her at all hours of the day. When I’m working. When I’m riding. When I’m sitting in rooms full of men who are supposed to feel like brothers and still somehow feel empty without her presence grounding me. She’s everywhere. In my chest. In my head. In every quiet second that stretches too long.
When I get her back, I’m never taking my eyes off her again.
I already know how this is going to go. I’m going to hover. I’m going to watch every exit, every shadow, every man who looks at her too long. I’m going to touch her constantly just to make sure she’s real, that she’s still breathing, that she’s still mine to protect.
She’s going to get tired of my shit.
And I’m going to let her.
Because that’s the cost.
It doesn’t matter that she isn’t the reason I’ve gone without her for a month and a half. It doesn’t matter that she fought, that she survived, that none of this is her fault. No. These are the consequences of someone touching what’s mine.
And she’ll deal with them.
She’ll deal with me.
Fuck.
I need her.
We’ve done everything. Turned over every rock. Followed every lead until it bled dry. Burned through money, favors, patience. The operation is real, and it’s big, and it’s buried deep enough that tearing it apart takes time we don’t have.
