Astonishingly, I realize I could. That I’m so fucking close from the pressure of him inside of me, the rasp of his voice, the words dripping from his lips, the image of him aroused by the same terrible things that make me so ashamed of my desire.
He tilts his hips, the water lapping over my clit, and my mouth drops open as his hand tightens on my throat and I feel his cock stiffen and throb. I clench around him, soft waves of pleasure rippling through me, and he thrusts once, hard, hisforehead pressed to mine as he pulses inside of me, his heat filling me again.
“You were meant for me,” he breathes against my mouth. “Made for me. I can never let you go.”
I swallow hard, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of what just happened, the heightened eroticism between us that keeps us both on this constant edge of arousal.
“What happens when Sergei is dealt with?” I whisper. "What happens when the threat is gone and there's no reason to keep me here?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see something shift in his expression. Something that looks almost like vulnerability, though I'm not sure Ilya is capable of that.
"I'll keep you here," he says finally. "Forever, if I need to."
His knuckles brush against my cheek as he holds me there, underneath him, the hot water swirling around us. "I'll never let another man touch you. Never let anyone else put you in danger. You’re a part of my life now, Mara. Mine." His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "I'm not imprisoning you, Mara. I'm freeing you. Freeing you to be who you really are, to want what you really want, to stop apologizing for the darkness inside you."
I close my eyes, and after a moment, I feel him pull back. Cool air brushes over my damp skin, and I miss the weight of him against me, inside of me. I’m becoming addicted I think—to this, to him. To the way he makes me feel. To the fear and the desire tangled together.
He gets out of the tub and lifts me, setting me on my feet on the plush bathmat before getting a towel and wrapping it around me, drying me off with long, gentle movements of his hands. I’m exhausted, worn out to the bone, and I don’t protest when he picks me up again and carries me to the bed, laying me there and pulling the blankets over me.
“Sleep,” he says, his voice already drifting at the edges of my consciousness. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for dinner.”
I’m asleep as soon as the last word is out of his mouth.
—
I wakeup after it’s already dark. I hear the sound of Ilya in the kitchen, and I get up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I go to find something to wear. I pull on a pair of leggings and a soft wool cardigan over a tank top, and pad out of the room.
The smell of cooking meat reaches me before I get to the kitchen. I see that Ilya has the table set, a bottle of wine decanting, and I bite my lip, pausing at the granite bar.
“I like my steak rare,” I say after a moment, and he turns, a small smile on his lips. It never fails to startle me how a smile on his face softens him, makes him look less like the brutal killer that I know he is and more like… just a man.
“You have good taste,” he says after a moment. “Go sit down. I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”
I sit, still feeling slightly dazed after the events of this afternoon, and watch as Ilya pours me a glass of red wine. I sip it, watching him as he cooks the steak and takes asparagus out of the oven, trying to rationalize this domesticity with the man I’ve seen over the past days. I didn’t even know he could cook.
But apparently, he can. The food is delicious. We’re both quiet as we eat, and I watch him, trying to reconcile what’s happening. I’m sitting here in this beautiful prison, eating gourmet food, wearing clothes I didn’t choose, living a life that isn’t mine. I can surrender to him completely, put on the diamond collar without fighting him any longer, or…
I can try to force his surrender, too.
I can’t live a life of powerlessness. No matter how much pleasure he gives me, no matter how much he spoils me, how luxurious and blissful the temptations he’s offering me could be… I can’t live a life that I have no say in.
If I’m going to be his, he also has to be mine. And there’s only one language that I know Ilya speaks fluently.
The steak knives are top of the line, sharp enough to cut with a touch. I palm one when he goes to the kitchen to get more wine, sliding it into the pocket of the cardigan I’m wearing, hoping he doesn’t see me. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just continues eating, making small talk about the wine and some restaurant he wants to take me to when it’s safe for us to go out in public together.
“I’m still tired,” I tell him when dinner is finished, my heart beating an uneven patter in my chest. “I think I’m going to go back to bed.”
Ilya watches me for a moment with those sharp, icy eyes, and I think he’s going to see through me. But instead, he just nods.
“Alright,” he says after a moment. "Sleep well, Mara."
I go to my room and pace, the knife heavy in my pocket, my mind racing with what I'm about to do. I should feel guilty. Should feel horror at the thought of taking a life, even his life, even after everything he's done.
But I don't feel guilty. I feel determined.
This is the only way. The only way to reclaim my life, my freedom, my self. The only way to escape this darkness that's consuming me piece by piece.
I’ll give him the same choice he gave me. Speak the language of violence that he understands, that he lives and breathes. He can surrender to me in the same way I’ve surrendered to him, or he can die.
