“Are you here for a reason?”
“You want to leave.” He says it flatly, a statement, not a question. Something flutters uncomfortably in my chest—a flicker of hope, but also a pang of what feels like disappointment. As long as he’s keeping me here against my will, I can chafe against my captivity without admitting that a part of me wants to love my chains.
“Yes,” I say defiantly, ignoring the part of me that doesn’t, in fact, want to leave. “I want to go outside, go for a walk, go anywhere that isn't this penthouse. I want to go home."
Ilya pauses. “And if I say no again?”
Something inside me sparks with anger. If this is a game, it isn’t one I feel like playing. Suddenly, more than anything, Idowant to leave.
"You can't keep me here forever," I snap, my hands clenched into fists. "You can't just lock me away and expect me to be grateful for it. I'm not your possession, Ilya. I'm not your pet. I'm a person, and I have rights, and I'm telling you that I want to leave."
“And if I say I’m the one keeping you alive, that I make that choice?”
"Then I'll never be safe, will I? Because you'll always find a reason to keep me here. There will always be another threat, another danger, another excuse to keep control of me."
Ilya’s jaw tightens, and I see the muscle there flex. He’s angry, but he also looks… hurt. Like last night I hurt him in some way, and he’s here to… what? Get retribution for it? Break up with me? The last thought almost makes me laugh, but I bite it back before it can slip out and make him angrier than he already is. This isn’t an equal relationship; there’s no ‘breaking up.’
"You want to run?" he asks quietly.
I swallow hard, wondering if this is a test. "Yes,” I say finally.It’s what I want, isn’t it? To get back to my life, my friends, my gallery…
"You want your freedom?"
I tilt my chin up, sticking to my guns and refusing to waver. "Yes."
"Fine." His voice is sharp and final. "I'll give you a chance."
I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. "What?"
"You want to run? I'll let you run. Come with me. We're going out."
I stare at him, utterly confused now. "Where?"
"You'll see."
I follow him, because I know deep down, there’s no other choice. If Ilya has decided on something, it’s going to happen, a fact that I can’t help but chafe at.If we were together, that would have to change,I think, and then balk at how ridiculous that thought is. He’s a mob boss. He’s mystalker. We’re never going to betogether, no matter how hard he makes me come.
He takes me down to the parking garage, to a black Maserati, opening the door for me. My stomach twists with fear as I slide inside, but I do, my hands brushing over the buttery leather of the seat as Ilya joins me in the driver’s side. The car smells like fresh, clean leather, and I swallow hard as he starts to engine, unsure of what’s happening. If I should be afraid, or excited, or…
Thirty minutes later, we end up in an industrial area I've never seen before, full of warehouses and factories, most of them looking abandoned. He pulls up to a large building with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls.
I look around, even more nervous now. This doesn’t look like somewhere that anything good happens. "What is this place?"
“It belongs to me.” He gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. "I own this warehouse. And several others in this area."
It’s clear he expects me to follow him, into this place that looks like where men like him torture and kill people.He wouldn’t do that to me,I think, sitting there frozen.He went to too much trouble to get me in the first place.But he’s had me. He’s fucked me. And maybe I went too far. Maybe my refusal…
Maybe I’ve caused him too much trouble. Maybe he’s decided to wash his hands of me after all.
“Out, Mara.” His voice hardens. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”
My stomach feels sick with dread, but I slide out of the car. I know instinctively that if I fight him, I’m only going to make this worse for myself. If he is going to kill me, maybe my obedience will make it quick.
The thought makes me want to burst into tears as Ilya puts a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the ugly, forbidding structure.
He unlocks a side door and leads me inside. It's dark, the only light coming from the broken windows high above. The space is enormous—probably the size of a football field—filled with old machinery and crates and shadows.
"What are we doing here?" My voice echoes in the empty space, shaking despite my desire to keep it steady.
