Page 65 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

The staff had prepared seared duck breast in a cherry reduction, roasted root vegetables glazed with honey and thyme, and a fresh loaf still warm enough that steam curled faintly from beneath its crust when it was set down.

The aroma filled the room—rich and sweet, the kind of smell that should have made the evening feel like hospitality rather than what it was.

I’d had her brought downstairs personally, instructing the staff to leave a dress laid out for her—pale champagne, fitted through the bodice and flaring softly at the waist.

I wanted her to feel comfortable. I wanted, perhaps more honestly, to see her in something I had chosen, in a room I controlled completely.

I heard her before I saw her—the soft, uncertain rhythm of bare feet against marble, escorted by one of the household staff. As expected, she hesitated at the threshold of the dining room like she was being led into a slaughterhouse.

Then she stepped into the light, and every measured, disciplined thought I’d prepared for this dinner scattered in the span of a single breath.

My breath caught at the sight of her, and my brows almost arched in something I was yet to name. Almost.

The dress fit her exactly as I’d imagined. The champagne fabric draped over the curve of her waist and fell in a slow flare that moved with her.

Her blond hair had been left loose, falling in effortless waves over one shoulder. And even with the wariness clearly written across her face, even with her arms half-crossed in front of her like armor, she still looked, simply, breathtaking. Amazing.

I let my eyes move over her, slow and unhurried, as I drank in the beauty in front of me.

“Didn’t I tell you?” she said, crossing to the table and lowering herself into the chair across from me. “It’s rude to stare.” Defiance flashed in her eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you?” I began, my voice calm and collected. “I only stare at beautiful women.”

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “That line’s getting old.”

“Old doesn’t mean false.”

Aria glared at me like if she had the chance, she’d stab me with a fork.

Feisty. I liked it.

She unfolded the napkin in her lap with sharp, jerky movements, refusing to look at the food in front of her despite the way her eyes had already flicked toward it twice.

“What’re you waiting for?” I asked. “Eat. Or do you need permission for that?” I meant it as a joke, but judging by the scowl on her face, I’d say it didn’t land as that.

“I’m not hungry,” she blurted.

I reached for my half-empty glass of red wine. “I’m told you haven’t eaten since yesterday.” I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a sip. “Your body disagrees with you.”

A pause.

“Clearly, my body isn’t the one making decisions in this house.”

“On that, we agree,” I said, pouring wine into her glass without asking whether she wanted it. “This is my place, and I make the decisions around here. I call the shots.”

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Why did you ask for me?”

“I want us to discuss.” I slid the half-filled glass gently over to her side of the table.

“Discuss what?” Her tone was sharp and defiant. “You’ve made it pretty clear that I’m your prisoner.”

“Exactly,” I said without softening my tone. “And that’s why I wanna discuss some ground rules with you.”

Her brows arched slowly, rage evident in her gaze.

“Here’s how this is going to work.” I met her gaze directly, keeping my voice level and unhurried. “You’ll have full access to the east wing—your room, the library, the gardens during daylight hours. The kitchen, the sitting rooms, the gallery upstairs.” I let the words sink in. “You are not confined to a cell, Aria. I’d like that distinction to be clear from the start.”

“How generous.” Her voice was flat, edged. “And the rest of the house?”