But I feel like today unlocked something in me that I didn’t know was there, that I craved but didn’t understand. I’m not sure I want to go back.
I touch my lips, remembering the way he kissed me. I touch the marks on my arm where Svetlana's nails broke skin, and I wonder what it means that I'm more affected by Ilya's touch than by her violence.
There's a soft knock on the door, and I know without asking that it's Ilya. I’m startled that he knocked, that he is giving me any semblance of control over the situation at all.
"Mara," he says through the door. "Are you all right?"
Am I all right? I don't even know what that means anymore.
"I'm fine," I say, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"Can I come in?"
I should say no. Should maintain this boundary, this last piece of privacy. But I don't.
"Yes."
The door opens, and he's there, looking at me with an expression I can't quite read. There’s concern, and possessiveness… and something else that might be tenderness if I didn't know better.
"What happens now?" I ask as I push myself up, standing disheveled and red-eyed in my messy clothes. I’m a disaster, but Ilya is looking at me as if it’s taking everything in him not to fuck me again here snd now.
"Now?" He moves closer, and I don't back away. "Now you accept what you are. What we are." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and then his hand moves to my throat, resting there gently, and I know he's thinking about the choker. “You’re mine, Mara Winslow. You’ll never not be mine again.”
I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, that I'll never accept this, that I'll never stop fighting.
But the words won't come. Because after what just happened in his office, after the way I surrendered so completely, after theway I sobbed that I was his—those words would be lies, and we both know it.
"I need time," I say instead, my voice still raspy. "I need—I need to process this."
"Take all the time you need." He leans in and kisses my forehead, gentle and almost sweet. "I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."
He slips one hand into his pocket and retrieves the diamond choker. “Here.” His voice is calm, assured. “You said you’re mine. Now put it on.”
I stare at the sparkling strip of diamonds in his palm. He’s right; I did say I was his. But everything in me rebels at putting that final symbol of acquiescence around my neck, no matter how beautiful it is.
I take a step back, and surprisingly, he lets me go. “No,” I say flatly, keeping my voice even. “Not until you’re honest with me. Completely.”
Ilya’s brow arches. This must feel like progress to him; that I’m considering it at all. That it’s no longerno, butnot yet.
“What do you mean?” He slides his other hand into his pocket, nudging the door closed behind him and leaning against it. “I’ve told you who I am, Mara.”
“You’re Bratva. You said that. But you must be important. To live like this…” I gesture at the room, at the penthouse beyond it. “You have money. So much of it, it looks like. You’re obeyed without question. Someone wanted to get to me to hurt you. You’re more than just some… foot soldier for the Russian mafia. So tell me, Ilya Sorokov.Who are you?”
I see Ilya’s hand close around the choker. For a moment, I think I’m going to be the focus of his wrath again, but instead, he sighs.
He walks to the edge of the bed, the choker still in his hand, and sits down on the edge of it. He looks up, meeting my eyes,and there’s a hint of tiredness in them. "What do you want to know?" he asks finally.
“Everything.” I stare him down, refusing to give. “You’re Bratva. A criminal. So what do you do for them?”
Ilya shrugs. "I'm a businessman. The fact that some of my business operates outside legal boundaries is... incidental."
"Incidental." I laugh at that. "You're a mobster, and you think that's incidental?"
"I facilitate transactions that benefit all parties involved. The fact that governments have decided these transactions are illegal doesn't change their fundamental nature."
"What kind of transactions?" I can hear the sharp edge in my voice, my stomach twisting with dread. "Drugs? Weapons? Human trafficking?"
His jaw tightens. "Not human trafficking. Never that. I have lines I don't cross, Mara. I'm not a monster."
