5. Katarina
KATARINA
I stretch lazily on the couch, making sure to arch my back just enough to draw Erik's attention.
His rigid posture hasn't changed in hours, but the bulge in his tactical pants tells a different story.
Every slight movement I make has him shifting uncomfortably, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The door opens, and the chef enters with my dinner tray. For the first time in two hours, Erik's dark gaze locks onto mine. The intensity in those eyes sends a shiver down my spine that I can't fully suppress.
“Your dinner, Miss Lebedev.” The chef places the covered tray on the table.
I rise slowly. “Thank you.” My voice comes out huskier than intended.
Erik's jaw clenches as I bend over the table to lift the silver cover, purposefully giving him a view down my shirt.
The sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.
I'm playing with fire, and I know it—this dangerous man could snap my neck in seconds.
But there's something intoxicating about having this level of power over someone so lethal.
I settle back onto the couch with my plate, crossing my legs slowly.
Erik adjusts himself again, probably thinking I don't notice.
But I notice everything about him: the way his pupils dilate when I lick my fork, how his breathing gets shallow when I stretch, the subtle tremor in his hands when I get too close.
The attraction crackles between us like a live wire.
Part of me wants to see what would happen if I pushed him over the edge.
But I remind myself this is just a game—he's my captor, nothing more.
I'm only trying to break his iron control to prove I can affect him, and perhaps then I can find a way out.
I take another bite, letting out a small moan of appreciation. His knuckles go white where they grip his belt.
“Care to join me?” I pat the space next to me on the couch. “Dinner's much better with company.”
Erik's dark eyes narrow. “No.”
“Not even a little conversation?” I take another bite, letting the fork slide between my lips. “It must be boring standing there watching me eat.”
“I'm not here to entertain you.” His voice comes out rough.
I shift on the couch, tucking my legs under me. “Then what are you here for, Erik? To keep me in line?” I lean forward. “Or is there another reason you got this assignment?”
His fingers twitch near his weapon. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” I tilt my head, studying the tension in his jaw. “I'm just making conversation. Isn't that what normal people do?”
“We're not normal people.”
“No?” I stand, plate in hand, and take a step toward him. “Then what are we?”
Erik's hand shoots up, palm out. “Stay where you are.”
“Or what?” Another step. “You'll hurt me? We both know that's not what you want to do.”
His chest rises and falls rapidly. “Last warning.”
I set my plate down on the side table, never breaking eye contact. “You're not as in control as you pretend to be. I see right through you, Erik Ivanov.”
“You see nothing.” The words come out as a growl.
“I see everything.” I take one more deliberate step. “Every reaction. Every breath. Every time you adjust yourself when you think I'm not looking.”
His eyes flash dangerously. “You're playing games you don't understand.”
“Then teach me the rules.”
The world spins as Erik's hands grab me, and my dinner plate drops to the ground, smashing. One moment, I'm taunting him; the next, I'm slammed face-first against the wall, my breath knocked out. His body pins me, all hard muscle and controlled violence.
“What—”
He yanks me around and marches me toward the bed. My heart pounds against my ribs, fear finally breaking through my cocky facade. His fingers dig into my bicep as he shoves me onto the mattress.
The mattress dips under Erik's weight as he straddles me, his massive frame blocking out the ceiling lights. My breath catches as he pulls zip ties from his tactical vest. The plastic crackles as he secures my right wrist to the bedpost, and I can't help but test the restraint—it doesn't budge.
“Is this what gets you off?” I challenge, but my voice wavers as he captures my left wrist. His calloused fingers brush my skin, sending unwanted shivers through me.
Erik works in silence, methodically binding each ankle. Up close, I truly grasp how enormous he is—his shoulders span twice my width, biceps are as thick as my thighs. One of those hands could wrap entirely around my throat.
He shifts his weight, and I feel the raw power in his muscles. The realization hits me hard: if he wanted to hurt me, there would be nothing I could do to stop him. This man has killed people with his bare hands. I know exactly what he's capable of.
“You pushed too far,” he growls, checking the final restraint. His face hovers inches from mine, dark eyes burning with something that makes my heart race. “You'll stay tied for the rest of my shift.”
I pull against the zip ties again, testing each one to see if they are secure. The plastic bites into my skin, holding firm. Erik's body heat radiates through my thin clothes as he looms over me, and I'm acutely aware of every point where we almost touch.
My chest rises and falls rapidly as he pulls back, and I notice his hands are trembling slightly. Whether from restraint or desire, I'm not sure. But the way he's looking at me—like a predator sizing up prey—makes me wonder if I've finally pushed him too far.
I search his expression for any crack in his mask. There's nothing. No desire. No struggle. Just empty darkness in those eyes.
“You can't?—”
“I can do whatever I need to maintain order.” He towers over me, shoulders blocking the light. “You pushed. I pushed back. That's how this works.”
My stomach drops as I realize my mistake. I thought I was winning, thought I had him wrapped around my finger. But this man isn't some weak-willed guard I can manipulate. He's letting me see exactly what he wants me to see.
“Now.” He steps back, resuming his position by the door. “Be quiet and behave, or the ties get tighter.”
I test the zip tie. It's snug but not cutting off circulation. Even in punishment, he's calculating. I've severely underestimated Erik Ivanov, and that realization terrifies me more than the restraints.