He looks up at me with those icy eyes in the darkness, and there's something in them that makes me freeze. It’s not fear or anger. It’s almost soft. He’s looking at me as if he loves me… if love could exist in something so toxic, so fucked up.
What I see in his eyes though… it looks like love. Itdoes, and I feel myself hesitating.
Ilya reaches for the dropped choker and brings his hand up to my throat, pressing the cool chain against it as his other hand wraps around my wrist, pushing the blade firmly to his skin. More blood pools against the blade, dripping down his throat, and I feel his cock throb beneath me.
"Do it," he murmurs, his voice soft. "If you want to be free, if you want to escape me, this is the only way. Kill me, Mara. It's the only way I'll ever let you go."
26
MARA
Ican feel his pulse beneath the blade—steady and strong, unafraid. I should do it. I should press down, draw the blade across his skin, watch the life leave those icy eyes. I should end this. He's a monster—he's admitted as much. A killer, a criminal, a man who's destroyed my life without remorse because it got him what he wanted.
I should kill him. It's the only logical choice, the only way to reclaim my freedom, my life, my self.
But I can't.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my vision blur with tears. I can't do it. I can't kill him. Not because I'm weak, not because I'm afraid of the consequences, but because somewhere along the way—between Boston and the penthouse, between the gifts and the kidnapping, between that first kiss and this moment right now—he's become mine.
My monster. My darkness. My addiction.
Just like I’m his.
I’m not the same woman who locked eyes with him across a sidewalk in Boston any longer. I tried to convince myself it wasjust chemistry, just a moment, but he’s been right all along… it was so much more than that. And he’s sunk down into the core of me, found the darkness there, the duality of light and shadow that makes me who I am.
He’s the only one who ever has.
The only one who could ever make me admit it, even to myself.
He’s the only one who knew that the way he makes me feel is exactly what I've been searching for my entire life without knowing it.
But I can't be powerless. This can't be him taking and me giving until there's nothing left of me. If we're going to do this—if I'm going to wear his collar and accept what I am—then he needs to surrender too.
"I can't," I whisper, and my voice breaks on the words.
"I know." He doesn’t let go of my wrist, still holding the knife there. Still giving me the chance to end this. I think he’d let me do it, if I tried. He doesn’t want to live without me, not just as his possession, but ashis. Of my own free will, wholly and completely.
“If you want me,” I whisper, “you have to be mine, too.”
Ilya laughs darkly, his throat moving against the blade, heedless of the blood that drips down. “I already am, Mara. What do you think obsession is, if not that?”
“You need to prove it to me.”
For once, I realize I’ve caught Ilya on the back foot. For a moment, undisguised surprise shows in his eyes, before his expression goes carefully blank again. "How?"
“If you’re mine,” I whisper, “then let me take control. Right here, now, in bed. Let me make you be the one to beg. Don’t do anything until I tell you that you can. Let me take what I want from you.”
His eyes widen slightly, and I see desire mixed with uncertainty flicker there. Ilya Sorokov, the man who orchestrates wars and commands empires, is not one who cedes control. And for probably the first time in his life, I reflect, he seems unsure of what to do next.
Except… I feel him throb between my thighs, and I know he doesn’t hate the idea. That, he can’t lie about.
Good.
"You want control?" he asks, his voice rough.
“Yes,” I whisper, staring down at him. "I can't be powerless, Ilya. I can't just surrender without knowing that you'll surrender too. So prove it. Give yourself to me the way you're demanding I give myself to you."
For a long moment, he just looks at me. I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the need to dominate warring with the need to give me what I'm asking for. The need to control warring with the need to be controlled.
