All of it beautiful. All of it my prison.
Throughout, he stayed close. Not touching, but present—his body heat a constant awareness at my shoulder, his gaze a weight I couldn't shake. When we passed through a narrow doorway, his hand found my lower back again. When I paused to look at a painting, he moved to stand behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck.
Each contact was brief, barely there, easily deniable. And each one left my nerve endings singing with something I refused to name.
By the time we returned to the main house, I was exhausted—not from the walking, but from the constant effort of maintaining my walls. Of pretending I didn't notice him. Of hiding the confused tangle of fear and anger and unwanted attraction that knotted tighter with every passing hour.
"Dinner will be at eight," he said as we reached the foyer. "I'd like you to join me."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll have Yelena bring a tray to your room." He turned to face me, and something in his expression had shifted—something serious, weighted. "But I hope you won't refuse. There's something I need to discuss with you."
"What?"
"Tonight." He reached out, and before I could flinch away, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was gentle, almost tender, and it terrified me more than anything else he'd done. "Wear something nice."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me alone in the marble foyer with my pounding heart and my racing thoughts.
***
I didn't wear something nice. I wore the most shapeless, unflattering thing I could find in that cursed closet—a loose linen dress that hung on me like a sack, paired with flat sandals and absolutely no jewelry.
If he was disappointed when I arrived on the terrace for dinner, he didn't show it. He rose from his seat, pulled out my chair, poured my wine, and made pleasant conversation about the island's history as the sun sank into the sea.
I answered in monosyllables, waiting for the trap to spring.
It came between the main course and dessert.
"I've been thinking about your situation," he said, setting down his fork. "About how to ensure your safety in a more permanent way."
My stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"
"Pankratov knows you've disappeared. He's angry—he'd intended to use you against me, and I stole that opportunity. As long as you remain simply a guest in my home, you're vulnerable. An asset to be reclaimed, a weakness to be exploited."
"I'm not a guest. I'm a prisoner."
"Semantics." He waved a hand. "The point is, your status needs to change. You need protection that goes beyond walls and guards. You need my name."
The words took a moment to penetrate. When they did, ice flooded my veins.
"Your name?"
"We'll be married by the end of the week."
I stared at him. The terrace, the ocean, the entire island seemed to tilt around me.
"No."
"It's not a request, Gabrielle."
"I don't care what it is." I shoved back from the table, my chair scraping against the stone. "I'm not marrying you. I don't even know you. You kidnapped me, you—you stalked me for weeks, and now you expect me to be your wife?"
He remained seated, maddeningly calm. "I expect you to survive. Marriage offers you protections that nothing else can. As my wife, you become untouchable. No one—not Pankratov, not the authorities, not anyone—will dare to harm you."
"I'd rather take my chances!"
"That's not an option." He rose slowly, and even from across the table, I could feel the force of his presence—the controlled power, the implacable will. "The ceremony will happen. Your consent is preferred, but it's not required."
