Damn. That one lands.
“You’re mad because you want me, Elara,” I bite out, stepping closer. “You’re angry at your attraction toward me. You’re angry you gave yourself to me yesterday without resistance.”
Her chest rises and falls, sharp and uneven, but she doesn’t speak.
“Learn to dissect your feelings and address them instead of lashing out,” I say, my voice low, dangerous. “I made you feel good. I made you scream.”
Her glare ignites. “Shut your mouth!”
“I bet that if I touch you right now, I’ll find you wet and waiting for me,” I say, voice low, taunting. “You hate that you claim to hate me, but your body is greedy for my touch.”
“Get away from me,” she spits, pressing back against the wall.
I take a step closer, just enough to make her pulse jump. “If I touch you, you’ll break,” I murmur. “You’ll beg me to fuck you. Want to test that theory?”
“Don’t you dare touch me.”
A bitter laugh slips from my throat. “Relax. Not even with a pole.”
Her eyes flash, cold and furious.
“I love women who know what they want,” I say, letting my gaze drag over her one last time, “and aren’t afraid to admit it.”
Then I turn and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I’m livid. Furious. The kind of anger that burns through my veins and leaves no room for thought.
I scrub my skin raw in the shower, like I can wash her off me—her scent, her taste, the memory of how she came apart under me. How could she surrender so completely last night and wake up pretending she’s untouched? Pretending I don’t exist?
Such a little minx.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step out, only to find the room empty. She’s gone.
I don’t panic. She can’t leave the estate. Every door, every gate, every guard belongs to me. Still, the image of her walking around half-naked, wrapped in nothing but those damn sheets, makes my vision darken.
I yank on a casual suit, fingers stiff with anger, and storm out of the room, only to almost collide with Luka in the hallway. I stop just short of slamming into him. “Have you seen Elara?”
Luka arches a brow. “Yeah, I passed her downstairs.”
My pulse spikes. “What was she wearing?”
He frowns, clearly confused by the question. “Sweatpants and a T-shirt. Why?”
“Good.” I exhale, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. “Meet me in the office in fifteen. There’s a lot to work on.”
Chapter 13 – Elara
It’s only been a day since I married Roman, and already it’s suffocating. Everywhere I go, the staff reminds me who I am now—his wife, the lady of the house. They bow when I pass, murmur “Mrs.?Rusnak,” and wait, heads lowered, until I disappear from sight.
I hate it.
I tried to correct them, told them to just call me Elara, but it’s like speaking to ghosts; they don’t hear me, or maybe they’re too afraid to.
When I mentioned it to Roman, he only shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
How could I?
Every polished marble corridor, every expensive chandelier, every obedient nod, it all feels like stepping into a gilded cage, one that gleams beautifully from the outside but reeks of control inside.
I truly hate it.
