He's still holding me when I finally stop shaking.
My face is pressed against his chest, his arms locked around me like restraints. I can hear his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. Steady and calm, like he didn't just tell me I'm becoming his wife whether I want to or not, like forcing someone into marriage is just another Tuesday for him.
Maybe it is.
I pull back and he lets me. His hands slide from my back to my waist, still keeping me close. I look up at him and try to find words that make sense of any of this.
"You can't just decide we're getting married."
"I can." His voice is flat. Final. "I am."
"That's not how it works. Marriage is supposed to be a choice. A partnership. Two people who love each other deciding to build a life together."
"We're building a life. I've decided. That's enough."
The casual certainty in his voice makes me want to scream—or hit him, or both.
"I don't have a choice?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. Good. I want it sharp. I want it to cut.
"You have the choice to survive." He cups my face with both hands, forcing me to look at him.
"It keeps you in control," I shoot back. "This isn't about protecting me. This is about owning me."
"Both things can be true."
I try to pull away but his grip tightens—not painful, but I can't move.
"You're insane," I say. The words come out shaky. Desperate. "This whole thing is insane. You kidnapped me. You've been watching me for months. You killed a man in your living room while I was sitting on the couch. And now you want to marry me like any of this is normal."
"I never said it was normal." His thumbs brush across my cheekbones. The gesture is almost tender if you ignore the fact that I can't move. "I said it was necessary."
"For you."
"For both of us." He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching mine. "You think you can go back to your apartment and pretend none of this happened? You think the Bratva will just forget about you? They know who you are. They know what you mean to me. And they will use that."
"What I mean to you," I repeat. The words taste bitter. "I'm a possession. A weakness you're trying to turn into a strength."
"You're mine." His voice drops lower. Darker. "You've been mine since the moment in that ER when you didn't report the gunshot wound. You saved me. Now I'm saving you. That's how this works."
"That's not love. That's obsession."
Something flashes in his eyes—not anger, but something else, something that makes my breath catch.
"I'm in love with you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I go completely still.
He's never said that before, never even hinted at it. He's talked about possession, about ownership, about keeping me and protecting me and making me his, but never love.
I don't know what to say, don't know how to process this. The man who kidnapped me, who stalked me for months, who's forcing me into marriage at gunpoint is standing here telling me he loves me like it's a fact, like it explains everything.
"Luca, I?—"
The elevator dings.
The doors open, the sound of feet pounding and something flies into the room—a canister, spinning across the floor. Then it detonates.
The blast throws me backward. I hit the floor hard, my ears ringing, my vision filled with white light and chemical haze. I can't see, can't hear anything except a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else.
