“I can,” he says with a smile that makes my skin crawl. “I’m willing to handcuff you to the altar or drag you there while you’re kicking and screaming. You’ll say those vows even if you’re cursing my name while you do it.” He shifts his weight, pinningme into the mattress. “I’m going to have my way, Zoya. That’s not a threat; it’s a fact.”
I open my mouth to argue, desperate to find a way to fight back instead of just lying there and accepting this. But he keeps talking.
“I won’t take you against your will. Not tonight or any night.”
His thumb strokes my jawline with surprising softness, even as his eyes burn with dark hunger. “I’m ruthless, baby, but I’m not a rapist. When I finally bury my cock in that dripping pussy again, you’ll be begging for it like a desperate little slut - spread wide, soaked, and aching for me to ruin you. I won’t force a single inch. You’ll be the one whimpering and grinding back, pleading for me to fuck you senseless.”
“That will never happen.”
“We’ll see.”
“I hate you.”
“You’ll learn to love me.” He replies unbothered. “But that doesn’t change anything. You’re still staying in this room. In this bed. With me.”
“I won’t…”
“You will, and it’s not negotiable.” His voice turns hard. “Look I can't protect you when you aren't here. Dato might have a contingency plan, or someone else could take a shot the exact second I look away. I won't risk it.”
He refuses the idea. “That’s not viable. I’m completely useless out there if I'm spending every waking second paralyzed by the thought of losing you again.”
Fear, that’s what I’m hearing, and it shocks me. This terrifying, powerful, brutal man is afraid of losing me.
“So you’re keeping me prisoner,” I say quietly. “Just like Dato did.”
“Wrong.” His shoulders ease slightly. “You’re wrong about me, Zoya. I’m not imprisoning you… I’m protecting you.”
“You are TRAPPING ME.”
“Dato kept you in a cage because he wanted to use you. I’m keeping you close because I can’t stand the thought of you anywhere else.” He leans down again, his forehead nearly touching mine. "You have no idea how long I’ve waited to put my name on you. When you’re my wife, your doorstep becomes holy ground. My men will see to that. I don't want to just fund your dreams; I want to consume them. I want to be the reason you never have to feel afraid again. Accept me, belong to me, and you will never have to want for a single thing in this life. I am yours to use, and you are mine to worship."
"You want to give me all this without giving me the option to leave."
"That's right," he answers without trying to soften the blow. "It's me and you until death, Zoya."
He shifts closer to press his heavy weight against my body. The physical pressure doesn't hurt me, yet the trap makes it impossible to ignore the man in charge of the room.
"If luck stays on our side," he whispers with dark desire and deep possession pooling in his eyes, "we'll fill this big house with children who share your face."
My breath catches in my throat.
“Fuck you are so beautiful, I can’t still believe you’re real.” He brushes his lips across my forehead. “You’re stuck with me for life. Okay?”
I can’t look away from him. He’s shattered my entire reality. My trap was more complete than I imagined. I was caught years before I knew the hunt had started. The smart thing is screaming. Struggling. Ensuring he knows my answer is no. Instead, I hear myself ask: “Why me?”
His eyebrows rise. “What do you mean?”
“You could have any woman. Dozens of them, apparently.” I pause. “Why go to all this trouble for one journalist with a bad attitude and a side job that embarrasses you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Light and shadow play across his expression.
“Your father was supposed to send you to Moscow when you turned twenty-one. The arrangement was clear. But twenty-one came, and you never arrived.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “So four years ago, I went to Ukraine to collect you myself. Found your father sweating in his office, trying to explain that his daughter had run away a year prior.”
“Truth is, I didn’t give a shit who I married. My focus was the Bratva. Building power. Securing territory.” He shrugs. “My father kept your pictures hidden. I never asked to see one. It didn’t matter to me what you looked like.”
“Your room had one picture, though. Post-twentieth birthday.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “You looked angry in it. Frowning at whoever held the camera. Not trying to look pretty or pleasant.” He pauses. “That’s when I became obsessed. I had to find you.”
“I asked your father what your real name was, what else he knew.” His lips twitch. “He said you probably had aliases by now. That finding you wouldn’t be simple because you were intelligent.”