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Ari may hate me tonight.

But eventually, he will love me. And I will finally have exactly what I desire.

6

ARI

My wrist aches with a dull, throbbing rhythm. I flex my fingers, staring at the raw skin stretched across my knuckles. The door mechanism remains unyielding, a biometric lock I cannot crack without tools. The window frames are reinforced steel, set deep into the estate’s stone. Every potential weakness I analyzed in the dim pre-dawn light proved a dead end. I walked straight into a trap designed for my specific skill set. My pride sits in shattered fragments at my feet.

I shift my gaze to the bed. Liv breathes in a slow, measured cadence. She might be asleep. She might be faking it. Even at rest, she maintains a careful stillness, limbs tucked tight, her body positioned as if expecting an incoming strike. She looks nothing like the woman I was seeing before the masquerade. I knew how to read her expression then. Last night, I kept looking for something I recognized. The livid bruises on her shoulder and the sharp, violent bite mark near her collarbone tell a story of complete possession. The look in her eyes last night haunts me. That broken, hollow acceptance terrifies me far more than Jax King’s threats.

She warned me. She sat right there and told me there is no physical escape, that Jax builds the cage inside your mind until you lock the door yourself. I dismissed it as trauma. Classic Stockholm. A psychological defense mechanism I could untangle once I dragged her out of here. Standing in the heavy silence of this fortified suite, the crushing reality settles over me. She might be right.

The heavy lock clicks.

I spring into motion, planting my feet between the entrance and Liv’s bed. My training floods my system. Assess the threat. Locate the center of gravity. Prepare to disarm.

The door swings open, and Jax King strolls inside.

He wears dark, tailored slacks and a crisp white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to expose thick forearms. He balances a silver breakfast tray in one hand. The casual, domestic presentation jars my senses. He looks like a wealthy husband bringing his wife breakfast in bed, not a psychotic cartel leader holding two people hostage. He sets the tray on the glass table. A chilling smile stretches across his face, never reaching the dead, dark void of his eyes.

“You’re moving, Ari.” Jax wipes his hands on a linen napkin. “Separate accommodations.”

Relief sparks in my chest. Getting Liv away from my presence means I can fight without risking her.

“Don’t look so hopeful.” Jax tosses the napkin onto the tray. “You’ll spend your days in here. Together. But you need to understand the hierarchy of my home. Olivia earned her comforts through obedience.” His dark gaze sweeps over my bruised knuckles. “You haven’t earned a damn thing.”

Heavy footsteps echo in the hall. Two massive guards step into the doorframe. Ex-military. Strict posture, hands hovering near holstered weapons. I calculate the odds. Three against one. I’m running on zero sleep and fading adrenaline. I shift my weight, preparing to rush the closest guard anyway.

Jax steps toward the bed. He rests his large hand on Liv’s shoulder. His fingers curl, pressing into her soft flesh. The implicit threat hangs heavy in the air. Resist, and she pays the price.

I drop my hands. The compliance tastes like battery acid on my tongue. I let the guards bracket me and march me out into the hallway.

The short walk down the hall gives me another look at the concrete walls, overlapping camera feeds, and biometric locks. I study them, searching for a weakness. The estate is a fortress. Massive. Isolated. Designed for absolute, inescapable control.

My new cell sits at the end of the hall. It lacks any of the luxury Jax affords Liv. A narrow cot presses against the wall. A small, doorless bathroom occupies the corner. Bare, gray walls close in.

The heavy steel door slams shut behind me. The lock engages with a solid clank.

I press my hands against the plaster wall to my right. A chair scrapes through the material. The clatter of silverware.

My stomach drops into a bottomless pit. I share a wall with Liv’s suite. It’s not separation. It’s a front-row seat to her captivity.

I tear through the small space. I yank on the door handle. Unyielding. I pound my fists against the reinforced window glass. It doesn’t even vibrate. I run my hands along the bed’s edges, searching for a loose screw, a sharp edge, anything. Nothing. Jax stripped the room of every potential weapon. I am caged just as completely as Liv, left with the psychological torment of listening to her existence on the other side of the drywall.

Hours bleed together. Exhaustion drags at my limbs. Fear clouds my strategic thinking. I pace the narrow floor, tracing the same path until my boots scuff the concrete.

The electronic lock clicks, its sound echoing through the wall. Jax is back.

I press my ear against the cold plaster. Their muffled voices drift through. Jax speaks in a low, civilized tone. Liv murmurs soft responses. It sounds domestic. It sounds like a couple lingering over morning coffee. Its horrifying normalcy makes my skin crawl.

A sharp gasp pierces the quiet murmur.

The sound is jarring—part pain, part something darker. I slap my palms flat against the wall.

Liv’s breathing quickens, escalating into ragged pants. She whimpers. It’s a helpless, conflicted sound blurring the line between protest and intense pleasure. Jax’s voice drops lower, vibrating with possessive command. The words are indistinguishable, but the tone is unmistakable. He owns her.

I slam my fist into the plaster.