“Yes,” he says, knowing exactly what I’m asking. “It tracks everything. Calls, texts, location, browsing history. Everything.”
The casual way he admits to complete surveillance should terrify me. Instead, it sends a strange thrill through my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely.
He looks at me then—really looks—and his eyes drag down my body in a way that makes me suddenly, acutely aware of what I’m wearing.
The blouse that fits perfectly, the skirt that hugs my curves. Professional, but somehow the way he’s looking at me makes it feel intimate. Dangerous.
“Ready?” he asks, and there’s something rough in his voice.
I nod, clutching the phone, and head toward the elevator with him.
It’s only as we wait for the doors to open, standing close in the confined space, that I realize the truth I’ve been trying to ignore.
My panties are wet.
From looking at him. From the way he looked at me. From the dark promise in his voice.
I’m attracted to my captor.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
24
Anton
Islept maybe two hours. The rest of the night, I stared at the ceiling; smooth, white plaster without a single crack. Expensive. Perfect. I memorized every shift in shadow from the recessed lighting. Counted them. Recounted them. From just past three until dawn, when sleep finally stopped pretending it might show up.
My eyes burn. Not from fatigue, but from the kind of stillness that comes when your body won’t move but your mind won’t stop.
She’s directly above me.
One floor up.
Close enough that every soft creak in the ceiling is her. Every shift of weight, every muffled exhale. I could reach her in thirty seconds if I let myself.
And that’s the problem.
I think about her lying in that bed Boris stocked, smooth sheets, warm skin. I think about what she might wear to sleep. If she wears anything. If she touches herself when she thinks no one will hear. If she says my name without meaning to.
I shouldn’t. But I do.
And I don’t stop there.
I think about how she’d sound if I were inside her. If I fucked her so deep she forgot her own name. If she begged me not to stop. If she came so hard, the whole building heard.
My grip tightens on the mug.
The coffee scalds my throat, but I finish it anyway. Let the heat burn straight through the images I can’t shake.
There’s something crawling just under my skin. Tight. Violent. Like I need to split something open just to let it out.
I don’t need to drive her to work.
Boris could’ve done it. Lev would’ve volunteered, just to irritate me. Hell, I could’ve sent a courier with instructions not to speak, not to look, not to breathe in her direction.
But I’m the one gripping the keys.
Because I don’t want anyone else near her.
