Understanding dawns on his formerly handsome face. "M-Mara," he manages, the word slurred through broken lips.
"Good." I lean closer, making sure he can see my face, that he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life. "You will never see her again. Never speak to her. Never think about her. If I find out you've tried to contact her, if I find out you've even said her name to anyone else, I will come back and finish what I started. Do you understand?"
He nods, or tries to. It’s hard to tell with his head lolling like that.
I pull out my burner phone and take a photo. The flash illuminates his destroyed face, and I feel a dark satisfaction seeing the evidence of what I've done. What I’ll do to anyone who touches her.
I let him go then, letting him slump into the trash and piss littering the edge of the alleyway. He makes a low, helpless sound, but I don’t bother looking back as I walk away.
As I put distance between myself and him, the man’s blood drying on my knuckles, I feel apprehension rising in my chest.
I’m moving fast. Too fast, maybe. But I can’t allow someone else to touch her. A kiss was bad enough, if he’d taken it further… ifshe’d lethim take it further…
His cock would have joined the trash littering the alleyway tonight. I’d have done so much fucking worse than just beaten him to a bloody pulp.
I have to claim her before this escalates further. She clearly doesn’t understand yet, and it’s time that she does.
—
When I finally make itback to the penthouse, I can’t sleep.
Mara’s bedroom is dark, and I feel a stab of disappointment. I pour myself a glass of vodka and pace, wondering if I should wait until the morning to send her the photo. But I need her to see.
I need her to see that she’s mine.
I pull out my phone and send it before I can stop myself. I wait, standing at the window that faces her bedroom, and I see the faint glint of light that’s her opening her phone.
It’s impossible to see her reaction, and that only frustrates me further. Is she horrified? Elated? Sickened? I want to know…needto know, but I don’t. It takes everything in me not to go down there and force my way into her apartment and bring her back here now. She should be here, inmypenthouse. She should know that she’s mine.
I can feel my thoughts spinning out of control, and I know I’m losing my grip on the most important thing, the ability to manage my own reactions, my own emotions.
By losing that, I could lose everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve built. But none of it feels like it matters any longer, compared to havingher.
Will I feel the same way after I’ve been inside her? After I’ve claimed her? Will I lose interest when she’s no longer something forbidden, when the prey has been captured and the chase is over?
It’s possible. But as I drain the rest of my vodka from the glass, wishing I could see into her room right now, I don’t think I will.
I think I’ll want her forever, long after she’s already become mine.
I go and pour myself another glass of vodka, considering what to do next. I had a plan—a good plan. A plan that would have worked if I'd been able to stick to it. I was going to seduce her slowly. Meet her again as Alexander Volkov, successful businessman and art enthusiast, at some gallery opening or charity event in Manhattan, making up an excuse for why I’d followed her here. I’d planned to remind her of Boston, of that connection we had, but keep it light, friendly, non-threatening.
I was going to build trust—take her to dinner, show her the man I can be when I'm not consumed by obsession. Make her laugh, make her comfortable, make her want me even more than I know she already did.
I’d planned to wait until she was mine of her own volition before I let her see the darkness underneath, before I slowly unveiled to her the truth of the man she’d fallen for. I was going to wait until she was too far gone to run before I let her know who I truly am.
But my jealousy has destroyed all of that, and I’m well aware of it.
Seeing Richard Maxwell's hands on her made me send her his severed hand. Seeing that man tonight kiss her made me beat him nearly to death and send her the photo. I told myself I was protecting her, claiming her, showing her what she means to me.
I know, deep down, that I’m losing control. And I need to get it back. So I have two choices.
I can back off. Stop the gifts, stop the surveillance, stop the violence. Let her think whoever was stalking her has moved on. Wait three months, six, then "coincidentally" run into her again and start fresh with my original plan.
Or I can accelerate everything. Confront her as I.S. directly. I can go to her apartment, or show up at her work, tell her everything, make her understand that I'm not going away, that she belongs to me, that she can either accept it willingly or I'll make her accept it.
The first option is smarter—safer. But I already know I can’t do it.
I can’t stand to stop watching her for a night, let alone months. I’ll go insane if I have to wait for her, if I have to endure knowing that other men might touch her, have her, while I’m biding my time.
