I sit up slowly, taking in the room in the morning light. It's beautiful, of course. Everything about this place is beautiful in that carefully curated way that’s thanks to unlimited resources and someone else’s professional taste. The bed I'm lying in is enormous, the sheets so soft I could cry if I’d actually chosen to be here. The duvet feels like a cloud. The furniture is mid-century modern, all clean lines and rich wood tones. There's original art on the walls—actual original art, not prints—and I recognize at least two of the artists.
Despite everything, despite the fear and anger and confusion, I can't help but appreciate it… professionally. The composition of the room, the way the morning light falls across the abstract painting above the dresser, the subtle color palette.
I hate that I notice these things. I hate that even now, trapped here, part of my brain is analyzing and appreciating all of it.
I throw back the covers and stand, feeling shaky. I’m naked, and I glance nervously toward the door, but it still appears to be locked. My only options for clothing are what Ilya bought me, and I go to the dresser and then to the closet, pulling out items.
A pale pink set of underwear, silk panties again and a lace bralette. Soft cashmere lounge pants in a pale blue, a loose cashmere sweater in a soft cream that slides off one shoulder, exposing the strap of the bralette. Soft socks. The dresser and closet are filled with a wardrobe’s worth of clothing, all exactly my size and matching the style of clothes I have at home.
This is a gilded cage, and he’s been preparing it for me, ensuring my every luxury while getting ready to turn the key and trap me inside.
My stomach twists, and I feel dizzy. I shove the closet door shut, needing to focus on the next task. The next thing, before my sanity snaps altogether.
My hair is tangled and frizzy, and when I go into the bathroom, I find the hair products I use lined up on a shelf. My stomach twists as I spritz detangler into my hair and run a brush through it… the same brand of hairbrush I have at home.
He remembered everything. Purchased everything that I use for myself. It’s horrifyingly intrusive and stunningly thoughtful. I’ve never felt so cherished while at the same time being so bone-chillingly afraid.
And underneath that, there’s an ember of simmering desire. A reminder that last night, he ate my pussy like no man has ever done before. That he fucked me like no one else ever has, making me come three times on his mouth and his cock.
That no one else is ever going to fuck me like he did.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into clarity. 'm trapped in a penthouse with a man who's been stalking me, a man who claims I belong to him. And the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream or cry or both, is that I don't know how I feel about it.
I head downstairs after that, stepping out into the hall and looking around. The penthouse is enormous, sprawling across what must be the entire top floor of the building. I pass a formal dining room, a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, what looks like a home office with the door closed.
And then I smell coffee.
The kitchen is at the end of the hallway, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. Standing at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs, is Ilya.
He’s dressed casually, in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, clinging to him in a way that makes my mouth go dry and reminds me all over again that he made me come three times last night. His hair is slightly damp, like he's recently showered. He looks up when I enter, and the smile that crosses his face softens it, changing it from the beauty of a marble statue to something more human.
Like this is normal. Like I'm his girlfriend coming down for breakfast, not his prisoner waking up in captivity.
"Good morning," he says, his accent slightly thicker than usual, a rough hint to his voice, as if just looking at me turns him on. That feeling of intoxication pricks at my senses again, the overwhelming idea thatIcould have this effect on him. "I hope you slept well."
I stare at him, trying to find words through the rage that's suddenly flooding my system. He’s acting as if all of this is normal, but it’snot. And anger is better than desire. Anger won’t make me do something stupid. "You can't keep me here."
He sets down the coffee pot, his movements unhurried. "I made coffee. Do you still take it black, or would you like cream and sugar?"
"Did you hear me? You can't keep me here. This is kidnapping. This is?—"
He picks up one of the mugs and walks toward me, holding it out. "Please. Drink your coffee. We should talk about the rules."
"Rules?" I don't take the coffee. I just stare at him in utter disbelief. "What rules?"
He sets the mug on the counter beside me, close enough that I could reach for it if I wanted to. Which I don't. "You can go anywhere in the penthouse except my office. You can have anything you want—food, books, entertainment. There's a gym, a screening room, a hot tub on the roof where the pool is. You're not a prisoner, Mara. You're a guest."
"A guest who can't leave."
"A guest who shouldn't leave. Not until the situation with Sergei is resolved." He makes it sound as if I’ll be able to leave when it is, but I don’t believe that for a second.
He's quiet for a moment, and something flickers across his face. "I don't know. But until then, you're safer here."
"With my stalker." The word hangs in the air between us, sharp and accusatory. "With the man who's been watching me, following me, sending me gifts I never asked for. With the man who broke into my apartment and left a rose on my pillow."
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks almost uncertain. " Mara, everything I've done, I've done because?—"
"Because you're obsessed with me. Because you think you own me. Because you're—" I stop, trying to find the right word. Crazy? Dangerous? Sick?
