A fortress. Just a prettier one than the penthouse.
When Salomé leaves us in the master bedroom, I turn to face Nathan. "You can't keep me here."
"I already am." He crosses to me slowly, and despite my anger, my body responds. Heat pooling low. My pulse quickening.
I hate that he still has this effect on me.
"This is kidnapping," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"This is protection." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You agreed to be mine, Eve. This is what that means."
"I agreed under duress—"
"You agreed because part of you wants this." His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "Wants to be taken care of. Wants to stop fighting for just one moment."
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hate the way my breath catches.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know." He leans closer, his lips almost touching mine. "But you want me anyway."
He's right. God help me, he's right.
His mouth claims mine, and I kiss him back with all the anger and terrible, aching need inside me. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as I want to push him away.
He backs me toward the bed, his hands sliding down my body, and I let him. Because his touch sets me on fire in ways I can't control.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire. "Get settled. I have some calls to make. We'll have dinner at seven."
Then he leaves me there, trembling and furious and aching.
***
I spend the afternoon exploring my prison. Multiple bedrooms, a chef's kitchen, a library filled with books I've mentioned loving. A studio with natural light and drafting tables, and every supply a fashion designer could want.
He's thought of everything. Every detail designed to make me comfortable. To make me forget I'm a captive.
This is what he promised me, isn't it? The freedom to create without pressure. The space to be an artist instead of a CEO.
All I had to do was give up my freedom.
Dinner is a quiet affair on a terrace overlooking the water. Salomé serves exquisite courses, and Nathan watches me with that intense focus that makes my skin prickle.
"You're quiet," he observes.
"Just thinking." I take a sip of wine. "About how thoroughly you've won."
His expression doesn't change. "This isn't about winning."
"No?" I gesture at the villa, the ocean, the isolation. "Then what is it about?"
"It's about keeping you safe. Giving you space to breathe."
"A place where no one can find me," I counter.
"Yes. Because the people who would look for you would use you. Hurt you."
"Like you're using me?" The words come out sharp. "Like you hurt me by destroying everything I built?"
