“It matters to me.”
“Why?”
“I need to know—” Her voice cracks slightly. “I need to understand if there was ever a chance this ended differently. If I’d done something else, been someone else, would you have let me go?”
The vulnerability in the question makes something tighten in my chest.
“No,” I say honestly. “There was no version of this where you walked away free. The moment you entered my facility, your fate was decided.”
She nods slowly, absorbing that. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“I’m always honest with you, Elena. Even when the truth is cruel.”
“Especially then,” she mutters.
She moves to the windows, looking out at the grounds below. The view is similar to her guest room but higher, more expansive. From here, she can see the full perimeter, all the security measures keeping her contained.
I should give her space. Should let her process, adjust, come to terms with her new reality.
Instead, I move closer.
She tenses when I stop behind her, close enough that she can feel the heat of me. Close enough that my presence presses into her awareness.
“The necklace,” I say quietly. “Turn around.”
She hesitates, then complies. Faces me with that defiant tilt to her chin I’m starting to recognize as her default defense.
I reach for the delicate chain at her throat—the one piece of jewelry that isn’t the wedding ring. My fingers brush her skin as I work the clasp, deliberately slow. Her pulse jumps under my touch, visible and rapid.
“I can do it myself,” she says.
“I know.”
I don’t stop. Just continue working the clasp with careful precision, my fingers lingering against her neck longer than necessary. Feeling her pulse race, her breath hitch, her body react despite her mind’s resistance.
The necklace comes free. I pocket it, then let my hand rest briefly at her throat. Thumb pressing gently against her racing pulse.
“Your body betrays you,” I murmur.
“That’s fear—”
“No.” I lean closer, not touching her anywhere else, just my hand at her throat and the heat between us. “Fear looks different. This is something else.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?” My thumb strokes once over her pulse point. “Then why is your breathing uneven? Why are you leaning toward me instead of pulling away?”
She is. Barely perceptible, but her body has shifted forward, closing the distance between us by millimeters.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“I know.” I release her throat but don’t step back. Just stand there, breathing her in—the scent of her skin, the perfume she wore for the wedding, the underlying warmth that’s uniquely hers. “Hate me all you want. It changes nothing.”
The tension between us stretches taut, electric. I could kiss her right now. Could claim her mouth the way I claimed it at the altar, prove my point about her body’s betrayal.
Control,I remind myself. Patience.
I step back, creating space that feels like both relief and loss.
