She’s pressed against the door, as far from me as the leather seats allow. Like those few inches might magically transport her to another continent. As if a measurable distance could save her from a man who just tracked her down through Los Angeles traffic—which might actually be my most impressive feat to date.
I sit back, relaxed. Patient. One arm stretched along the back of the seat. Claiming the space between us. Probably looking like every cliché movie villain who’s just captured the heroine. All I need is a cat to stroke and a maniacal laugh.
Her bare feet catch my attention. Small. Defenseless. Red nail polish chipped at the edges. Vulnerable in a way that makes my jaw clench.
I think about discipline. Real discipline.
Not the weak corrections most men offer, but the kind that breaks and rebuilds. The kind that leaves marks. Memories. Lessons that don’t fade.
I want to put her over my knee. Want to feel her fight against my grip before she yields. Want to watch her skin bloom red under my hand. Want to hear her try to swallow her sounds, to maintain that defiance even as she surrenders.
She thinks running to a taco stand was rebellion? She has no idea what she’s awakened.
My knuckles crack as my fist tightens.
She flinches. Glances over.
“What?” Her voice is barely audible. Good. She’s learning caution.
“I’m thinking about what happens to people who run from me.”
Her eyes widen. Just slightly.
“I didn’t break our contract.” A thread of steel remains in her voice. I’ll enjoy dismantling it.
“No?” I shift toward her. Just enough to trap her in the corner of the seat. “Then explain why my bride was barefoot in the street while I waited.”
“The ceremony hasn’t started—”
“The moment you signed that paper, you were mine.” The words scrape through my teeth. “Every inch. Every breath. Every fucking impulse.”
Her pulse jumps at her throat. Visible. Betraying her.
“You don’t own me.” Her chin lifts.
So much to learn. So many ways to teach her.
“Tonight,” I say, the word a promise, “after the ceremony. After the cameras and the guests. When it’s just you and me. We’ll discuss exactly what I own.”
Fear flickers in her eyes. But beneath it—something else. Something hungry.
She knows. Some primal part of her understands what’s coming.
I reach out. Drag one finger along her jawline. Feel her tremble.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispers.
My thumb presses against her bottom lip. Just enough pressure to remind her how easily I could take more.
“You will be.”
She tries to swallow. Chokes slightly. A small, panicked sound escapes her throat as she pulls back.
Fear. Real fear, finally cracking through that defiance.
Good.
We pull up to the estate, and I don’t wait for the driver to open the door. The second my feet hit the pavement, Timur and the others are waiting. Natasha stands near the entrance, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. She’s stiff, but it’s not defiance—it’s tension. Anticipation. She already knows what’s coming.
