“Do you understand?” he asked, ignoring my sarcastic retort.
“No, I don’t. What now?”
His jaw flexed. “Rule number two. You stay within sight of the guards at all times.”
“You are holding me prisoner! Is this a joke or what?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
No. He never did.
“And rule three.” He continued, voice dipping lower. “You stop running.”
“I wasn’t running,” I said, even though we both knew it was a lie.
“You ran from me.”
“You kidnapped me.”
He exhaled, slowly, the way men do when they’re trying not to yell. “Ilana.”
“What?”
“You’re on lockdown.”
My mouth fell open. “On what?”
“Lockdown. You don’t leave the property. You don’t wander. You don’t go near the woods. You don’t open the doors or talk to strangers. You don’t—”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You are alive, and I would like to keep it that way.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to lock me in!”
He stepped closer and instinct quickly make me step back.
A mistake. He followed immediately.
“I get to do whatever keeps you breathing,” he said, voice dropping into something dark enough to vibrate through my bones. “If that means restricting you until I know the threat is gone, then yes, you’re locked down.”
I swallowed hard. “You don’t own me.”
He stopped just a foot away.
His voice was a low, quiet blade. “I do. Legally.”
Heat shot up my neck. “That marriage license was—”
“Binding.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he murmured, eyes dropping to my lips. “You hate that I’m right.”
My breath hitched.
This pull between us was impossibly dangerous. Yet very, very real.
