“Because you were meant to be mine.”
The words strike me harder than they should. The way he says it, with such absolute certainty, once again shakes the foundation of anger that I’m standing on. He believes it; why shouldn’t I?
And besides his horrifying lack of understanding of boundaries or normal courtship, what exactly is wrong here?
He hasn’t hurt me. He’s protected me. He’s shown his devotion in some uncomfortable ways, but he’s also paid attention to me. Learned me. Understood me.
Made me come harder than I ever have in my life.
"I know you felt it too, in Boston. That connection between us. I know you've been thinking about me, wondering about me, wanting?—"
"Stop!" The word comes out louder than I intended, echoing in the pristine kitchen. "You don't get to do this. You don't get tostalk me and trap me and then tell me it's meant to be. That's not love. That's?—"
"What is it, then?" He moves closer to me, prowling. “What is this, Mara?”
"It's obsession. It's control. It's?—"
"It's inevitable." His voice drops, his accent thick and rasping, his voice echoing with utter certainty. "You felt it the moment we met. I saw it in your eyes, the way you looked at me. Like you recognized something. Like you'd been waiting for me."
"I wasn't?—"
"You were. You are. You're just too afraid to admit it."
I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, want to scream that he's delusional and dangerous and everything about this is wrong. But the words stick in my throat because part of me—that traitorous, self-destructive part—knows he's not entirely wrong.
I did feel something in Boston. I have been thinking about him. And last night, I kissed him first.
"What's your real name?" I ask instead, changing the subject because I can't handle this conversation. "Is it really Ilya Sorokov?"
He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly.
The name means nothing to me. "Should I know who you are?"
"Probably not. I’m not a part of your world, or at least, I am only when I need to be." He picks up his coffee mug, takes a sip. "But you’re a part of mine now. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if you hate me for it."
"I do hate you." It sounds unconvincing even to me.
"No, you don't. You hate that you want me."
He's right, and I hate him for that too. Hate him for seeing through me, for understanding me in ways I don't understand myself. I hate him for being right about the connection betweenus, about the way I felt in Boston, about the fact that some sick, twisted part of me is drawn to him despite everything.
"I want to leave," I say, trying to sound firm. "I want to go home."
"You can't. Not yet."
"You can't keep me here against my will. That's illegal. That's?—"
He laughs, a dark, deep, rasping sound. “Mara, I’ve done so many illegal things I couldn’t count them if we stood here for hours. That doesn’t matter to me.”
"I'll never understand this. I'll never accept?—"
"You will." He sets down his coffee and moves closer, and I back up until I hit the counter. "You'll come to understand that this is where you belong. With me. Under my protection. In my home."
"This isn't my home."
"It will be."
The certainty in his voice terrifies me. Not because I think he's wrong, but because I'm afraid he might be right. Part of me can almost imagine it. Can almost see a version of reality where this makes sense, where I belong here, where this is home.
