“Blame your father,” he says calmly. “He failed to protect you. Instead, he placed you directly in harm’s way.”
The words shatter something fragile inside me.
I sob harder, the sound ripping out of my chest before I can stop it.
He turns slightly. “Nik.”
The man beside him steps forward. Pale hair. Sharp blue eyes. A soldier’s build that radiates discipline and danger.
“Take her to the guest room,” Konstantin says. “See that she has everything she needs to freshen up.”
“No,” I choke, scrambling to my feet. I lunge toward him—toward the only person who seems to matter in this nightmare—but I don’t even make it a step.
Hands catch me instantly. Iron grip. Unmovable.
I struggle, wild and desperate, but it’s useless.
Konstantin looks back at me, that same infuriating calm settling over his features.
“Get some rest, Raelyn,” he says softly.
Then he turns.
And walks away.
Leaving me restrained, shaking, and trapped in a house that has already made it clear—this is his world now.
And I’m not leaving it.
Chapter 4 – Konstantin
I lean back in my office chair, letting it sway slightly as I stare at the screen in front of me.
Raelyn hasn’t slept.
Neither have I.
It’s morning now, and the compound is quiet, but the surveillance feeds glow softly in the darkened room, painting her movements in muted shades of gray. I haven’t left this chair. Not once since last night. As if standing would give the universe an opening—some microscopic chance she might vanish if I look away.
She paces.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Anger radiates off her even through a screen. I recognize it instantly. The sharp movements. The clenched jaw. The way her hands curl into fists at her sides.
Feisty.
I exhale slowly.
Raelyn Hart has fight in her. I knew that long before tonight—years of observation confirmed it—but seeing it unleashed in confinement does something unpleasant to my focus. Every scream earlier. Every pound of her fists against the walls. Every flash of defiance in her eyes.
My body reacts before my mind approves, tightening my cock in my pants.
I hate that.
This isn’t desire. It isn’t indulgence. It isn’t weakness.
It’s biology misfiring under pressure.