I'm so close to freedom I can taste it.
“Mara.”
I freeze as I look up at the sound of my name, my blood running cold. I know it’s him before I see him, but my heart still stutters in my chest when I see Ilya is standing in the hallway, his face dark with fury.
The hope inside me shatters. My hand freezes on the button, and I know with absolute certainty that I've made a terrible mistake.
He doesn't run. He doesn't shout. He just walks toward me with that predatory grace, his eyes locked on mine, and every step he takes feels like a drumbeat announcing the end of everything.
I slam my hand against the door close button, pressing it frantically, but it's too late. He's there before the doors shut, his hand shooting out to stop them, and then he's in the elevator with me.
There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.
"Mara." His voice is soft and quiet, and somehow that's worse than if he'd yelled. The disappointment in it, the barely controlled anger, makes my stomach twist with a sick sense of shame, as if I’ve done something wrong. "What are you doing?"
"Let me go." My voice is shaking, my whole body trembling. "Please, Ilya, just let me go."
His face is impassive. "You know I can't do that."
"You can,” I plead, my voice rising. “You can just let me walk away. You can pretend you never saw me. You can?—"
"No." He reaches out and catches my wrist, his grip firm but not painful. Just inescapable. "I can't."
He pulls me out of the elevator, back into the hallway, and I try to resist but it's useless. He's stronger than me, and we both know it. He pulls me back through the service door, back down the hall into into the penthouse, and with each step, I feel the walls of my cage closing in around me more and more tightly.
"I'm disappointed in you," he says quietly as we walk, the sound more frightening than any screaming could have been. "I thought you understood. I thought you might start to accept?—"
"Accept what?" I try to pull my wrist free, but his grip doesn't loosen. "That you're keeping me prisoner? That you think you own me?"
"I do own you." He stops walking and turns to face me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. "You’re mine, Mara. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
"I'll never accept it,” I hiss, the urge to do just that vanishing with the frustration and building rage over being so thoroughly trapped. “I'll never?—"
"You will." He starts walking again, pulling me with him. "But since you seem to need a reminder of who's in control here, I think it's time we established some consequences for defiance."
Fear spikes through me, sharp and icy. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm not going to hurt you, if that's what you're worried about." We've reached his office now, and he opens the door, pulling me inside. "But I am going to teach you obedience."
I haven’t been in his office before. I’ve caught glimpses from walking past, but when I step in, I’m overwhelmed by the spaciousness of it, the sheer masculinity. There’s a large desk in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, a hardwood floor with an expensive rug stretched across it, leather chairs in front of the desk. It’s as big as my bedroom in my apartment; bigger, maybe.
Ilya closes the door behind us and flips the lock. Something in my stomach drops. And then he releases my wrist and walks to his desk, settling into the leather chair behind it. He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and the silence stretches between us like a living thing. I stand there, uncertain, wondering if I should try to run again. I’m so confused by him suddenly letting me go and sitting down that I can’t quite make my mind move ahead to what I should do next. All I can feel is the pressure of his icy blue gaze resting on me, cold and disappointed and adamant.
"Kneel," he says finally.
The word hangs in the air between us, and I stare at him, utterly confused.
"What?”
"You heard me. Kneel. Right there." He gestures to a spot on the floor in front of his desk. "You'll stay there while I work. And you'll stay there until you learn that defiance has consequences."
My mouth falls open. "I'm not going to?—"
"You are." He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "You will do it, Mara. The only question is how long you want to make this difficult for yourself."
"Go to hell,” I snarl, rage bubbling up into my throat, but he doesn’t react. He just turns to his computer and begins typing, as if I'm not even there, as if my defiance means nothing to him.
I stand there, my fists clenched at my sides, my whole body shaking with rage. He can't be serious. He can't actually expect me to kneel on the floor like some kind of?—
