She actually ran.
After this morning.
After she looked me in the eye and said yes.
After she admitted she wanted more, that she was ready, that she'd come to my room tonight and let me show her what else her body could do.
After everything.
She ran.
The rage hits me like a tidal wave.
Hot and vicious and utterly consuming.
It fills my chest, my throat, my head until I can't think about anything except finding her and dragging her back and making her understand exactly what she's done.
She's mine.
I bought her.
Paid two million dollars for her.
I've been patient with her—so fucking patient.
Careful.
Giving her choices, giving her space, doing everything right.
Everything the books said to do.
Everything Dr. Caldwell recommended.
And she fucking ran.
Like I'm nothing.
Like the past ten days meant nothing.
Like what I showed her, what I gave her, what I offered her—none of it mattered enough to make her stay.
I want to put my fist through the wall.
Want to find her and drag her back and show her exactly what happens when someone tries to escape from Vaughn Sutherland.
Want to make her understand that running from me was the biggest mistake of her life.
But underneath the rage, buried deep but undeniable, is something else.
Fear.
Cold, sharp, paralyzing fear.
Because she's out there. Alone.
With no money, no phone, no resources.
And it's going to freeze tonight.
