“We need to talk.”
Roman’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns to Luka.
Luka hesitates for a second, eyes flicking between us, then gives a small nod and leaves. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click that somehow makes the air heavier.
Roman leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing on me. “Elara, this is starting to get out of hand.”
“Yes!” I snap, voice cracking with fury. “Things are getting out of hand. You’re getting out of hand.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like I’ve lost my mind. “What are you talking about?”
“You!” The word tears out of me before I can stop it. “You know too much about me, Roman. My habits. My past. Even things you shouldn’t know.” I take a step closer, trembling with rage. “You knew I was a virgin. You knew every damn thing about me before I even met you. Why?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with that unreadable calm that twists my stomach.
“I studied you,” he says finally, his voice even, almost casual. “I needed to know exactly how to break your father. Andyou….” He lets out a humorless laugh. “You seemed like the perfect mark.”
His honesty hits me like a slap, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. Then the fury comes, hot and consuming.
“You’re disgusting,” I spit. “You used me.”
He rises slowly from his chair, the movement measured, dangerous. “Don’t act like you didn’t use me too, Elara. You wanted protection, power—someone to keep you safe from the same men your father sold you to.”
I take a step back, shaking my head. “You don’t get to twist this. You don’t get to make yourself the hero.”
“I’m not the hero,” he growls, closing the distance between us. “But I’m the one keeping you alive.”
The tension between us crackles like electricity. We circle each other—him with his calm, deadly composure, me with my trembling rage. Every word feels like a blade drawn across the skin.
“I don’t need your protection!” I shout.
“Yes, you do,” he fires back. “Because whether you like it or not, you’re mine now. And if they come for you, they’ll have to go through me first.”
“Maybe I’d rather they did.”
His eyes darken. “Careful, Elara.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my heart pounding. “You’ll remind me again that you ‘own’ me?”
“I do own you.”
In one swift move, Roman pins me against his massive mahogany desk, his body pressing me back against the hard, cool wood. My breath hitches, the air squeezed from my lungs. I glare up at him, defiant even as my body betrays me with a tell-tale flush of heat.
“My touch unravels you. You crave it,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
“That’s a lie,” I snap, the words weak. “Get your hands off me.”
Instead, he wraps a large hand around my throat, not choking me, but cupping the delicate curve of my neck, holding me still. He trails devastatingly slow kisses down my throat. I swallow a gasp, desperate to maintain my resistance, and continue to fight him, shoving at the solid wall of his chest.
He nips my jaw with his teeth, and I gasp. The shock of the sharp pressure, the sudden, tiny pain, rips a desperate sound from my throat.
“Roman.” It’s a plea, a broken syllable.
“Shut up.” He nips harder, then drags his lips across the tender skin beneath my ear. “As of today, you’ll bear my mark on your skin. Because you need to realize you’re my property.”
The words are brutal, the intent utterly possessive. Yet even as the cold, hard reality of his claim settles, my body betrays me, responding to every intimate touch, every low-spoken threat. The friction of his trousers against my legs is a silent, searing promise. My shame is complete. The hatred is still there, sharp and burning, but it’s hopelessly tangled with the heat of his control.
“Say it!” His hand on my throat tightens deliciously. My body floods with a primal response, and I can barely breathe. “Roman….”
