She stared at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright with tears she was fighting not to shed. I could see the war playing out behind her gaze—the resistance, the denial, and underneath it, the terrifying pull of something she didn't want to feel.
"You're insane," she said, but there was no conviction in it.
"Probably."
"This can't work. We can't work."
"Maybe not."
"I should go to bed."
"You should."
Neither of us moved.
The moment stretched, elastic with possibility. I could kiss her now—close the distance, claim her mouth, finally taste the sweetness I'd been dreaming about for months. She might even let me. Might even kiss me back.
But it would be wrong. She wasn't ready. And I'd meant what I said—I wanted her willing. Wanted her to choose me.
I dropped my hand and stepped back.
"Goodnight, Gabrielle."
She blinked, clearly surprised by the retreat. "That's it?"
"That's it." I moved toward the door, pausing when I reached it. "For tonight. But I meant what I said—every word. And tomorrow, when you wake up, I'll still be here. Still waiting. For as long as it takes."
I left her standing in the library, her expression unreadable, her hands trembling at her sides.
***
I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house settling around me. Somewhere on the other side of the wall, Gabrielle was probably doing the same—lying awake, replaying the evening, trying to make sense of what was happening between us.
I'd told her too much.
The realization kept hitting me in waves, each one more disorienting than the last. I hadn't planned to bare myself like that. Hadn't intended to let her see how deep this ran, how thoroughly she'd burrowed under my skin. I'd spoken of earning her, of waiting forever, of dying a fool if she never chose me. Words I'd never said to anyone. Words I hadn't known I was capable of meaning.
This was supposed to be about protection. About keeping her safe from Pankratov, from the violence of my world. Somewhere along the way, it had become something else—something I couldn't name, couldn't control, couldn't cut out of myself no matter how hard I tried.
She was changing me. This woman I'd stalked and kidnapped and forced into marriage. This prisoner who fought me at every turn, who had every right to hate me, who should have been nothing but a complication in my carefully constructed life.
She was changing me, and I didn't know how to stop it. Didn't know if I wanted to.
The lines were blurring—captor and captive, husband and wife, enemies becoming something else entirely. I didn't know what we were becoming. Didn't know if either of us could survive the transformation.
But as dawn broke over the Mediterranean, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold, I knew one thing for certain.
I wasn't letting her go.
Whatever happened next, whatever it cost me, she was mine.
And I was becoming hers—whether I wanted it or not.
Chapter 11 - Gaby
I woke to the memory of his hands on my waist.
