That terrifies me more than anything.
“I’m not doing this,” I snap desperately. “I’m not wearing these clothes, I won't accept your generosity or your protection or whatever you want to call this. I won't?—"
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and I flinch as his fingers brush against the side of my cheek. "Eventually, you'll stop fighting. You'll realize that I'm not your enemy, Mara. I'm the only person in the world who truly sees you."
I shove him away, putting distance between us as I stagger backward, trembling all over again. "Stay away from me."
"I can't do that. You're in my home now."
"Then I'll stay in the guest room. I'll lock the door. I'll?—"
"The lock won't keep me out if I want to come in." He says it casually, as if that doesn’t matter at all. "But I won't. Not unless you ask me to."
"I'll never ask you to."
"We'll see."
The confidence in his voice makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, I turn and walk away, leaving the coffee untouched, leaving him standing in his perfect kitchen with his perfect view and his perfect certainty that I'll eventually break.
I won't break. I won't give him the satisfaction.
Not again.
I spend the rest of the morning exploring the penthouse while trying to avoid Ilya, looking for a way out. The front door is locked with some kind of electronic system I don't understand. The windows don't open—at least, not the ones I can access. There's the pool and hot tub he mentioned, but it's on the roof of a high-rise. My only option there is to jump off to my death, and I’m not there yet.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
The realization should send me into a panic, but instead, I feel a strange numbness settling over me. This is my reality now. This penthouse, this man, this impossible situation. I can fight it, can rage against it, but it won't change the facts.
I'm here, and I can't leave.
And part of me—that sick, twisted part that kissed him last night—wants to know what it would be like to stop fighting. To surrender to this thing between us, to let him take care of me the way he promises.
Part of me wants to be kept.
Like I'm not his prisoner.
Like he's not my stalker.
Like this isn't the most fucked up situation I've ever been in.
And I hate myself for it.
20
ILYA
Patience has never been one of my virtues. I built my empire through taking what I wanted when I wanted it. In my world, hesitation is one of many weaknesses a man can have, and weakness is death.
But watching Mara pace through my penthouse like a caged animal, I discover I have reserves of patience I never knew existed.
She’s magnificent when she’s angry. Her cool reserve from before has transformed into something wilder—something reflected in her appearance, which is more unkempt than I’ve ever seen it before. She’s been rotating through the same couple pairs of leggings and sweaters, refusing to touch most of the gorgeous wardrobe I picked out for her, and there are shadows under her eyes that tell me she hasn’t been sleeping well. Her hands keep clenching and unclenching at her sides like she's imagining wrapping them around my throat.
I should probably be concerned about that. Instead, I find it intoxicating.
She doesn’t know how often I watch her. Most often, from my office, with my door cracked open just enough to see what else isgoing on in the penthouse while I review contracts and go over paperwork, while my attention keeps drifting to her.
It’s been three days since I brought her here, and she hasn’t let me touch her again yet. It feels as if it’s driving me nearly insane, but every time I’ve tried to get close, she’s warded me away. And I won’t force her.
