“Submit to you? Never,” I hiss, my hands clenching into fists. I meet his gaze, and I see the patience there, the certainty. He knows I won't crawl. He knows I've found my limit.
And he's content to wait.
"I'll kneel," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll stay here on my knees. But I won't crawl. I won't?—"
"Then you'll kneel until you do."
He returns to his work, and I kneel there on the hard floor, my body aching, my pride in tatters. The choker glitters on the floor across the room, both a promise and a threat, pleasure and captivity showcased in a beautiful collar.
Ilya sits at his desk, patient and implacable, waiting for me to surrender completely.
Waiting for me to crawl.
22
ILYA
Ican feel her across the room.
Every breath she takes, every shift of her weight, every tremor of exhaustion that runs through her body—I'm aware of it all. She's kneeling on the floor of my office, her head bowed, her hands clenched in her lap, and the sight of her there is doing things to me that I didn't anticipate.
I force myself to focus on the contract in front of me, on the words that blur together because all I can think about is her. The way she finally sank to her knees, the way her body gave out even as her spirit fights to remain unbroken, the way she looks now—defeated but not destroyed, bent but not broken.
Perfect.
This is a battle of wills, and I'm determined to win. Not to break her—I've never wanted to break her—but to make her understand. To make her see the depth of my claim on her, the inevitability of what's happening between us, the truth that she's been mine since the moment I saw her.
She needs to understand that resistance is futile. That fighting me only prolongs her suffering. That surrender is the only path forward.
But more than that, she needs towantto surrender. She needs to choose it, even if I've engineered every circumstance to get her to this point. The feeling that she's giving herself to me rather than being taken matters.
I don't want a prisoner. I want a willing participant in her own captivity.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, careful not to let her see me looking. Her shoulders are trembling slightly; from exhaustion or emotion, I'm not sure. Her dark hair falls forward, obscuring her face, but I can see the tension in her neck, the way she's holding herself so rigidly despite the obvious discomfort.
She's been kneeling for a long time now. Her knees must be aching, her back screaming in protest. But she hasn't moved or complained.
She’s stubborn. She’s magnificent. She’smine.
I return my attention to the computer screen, to the email from Kazimir about Sergei's latest movements. He's been quiet—too quiet—and that concerns me more than overt aggression would. Sergei is planning something, waiting for the right moment to strike, and I need to be ready.
But it's hard to focus on strategy when Mara is kneeling ten feet away from me, her presence filling the room like a physical thing.
I take a call from Moscow, speaking in rapid Russian about a shipment that's been delayed at customs. I make decisions, give orders, handle the endless stream of problems that come with running an empire. But part of my mind is always on her, aware of her breathing, her movements, her state of being.
I'm hyperaware of her in a way that should concern me. This level of obsession, this complete focus on another person—it's a vulnerability I've never allowed myself before. In my world, caring about someone is a weakness that can be exploited, a liability that can get you killed.
But I can't help it. She's become the center of my universe, the axis around which everything else revolves. Business, power, money—none of it means anything compared to the woman kneeling in my office, slowly learning what it means to be mine.
Another hour passes. Then another. The light shifts across the floor, marking the passage of time in increments. I work methodically, giving no indication that I'm aware of her suffering.
But I am.Fuck, I am. And I wish she’d just give in, because I don’t want her in pain. I don’t want her to suffer. I want to pleasure her, spoil her, show her how comfortable it can be to be mine.
I can’t do any of that until she accepts that she is, though.
I can hear the slight hitch in her breathing when the pain becomes too much. I can see the way her hands clench and unclench in her lap, trying to find some relief from the discomfort. I can sense the war happening inside her, the stubborn refusal to give me what I want versus the desperate need for this to be over.
I want her to surrender, but I also want to gather her in my arms and tell her it's okay, that she's safe, that I'll take care of her.
