Chapter 7 - Gaby #2
I could feel the heat of him through my dress, the controlled strength in his grip. His breath stirred my hair. His cologne wrapped around me—expensive, masculine, the same scent I'd noticed in the coffee shop before everything went wrong.
My heart was racing. Not just from the near-fall.
"Careful." His voice was low, close to my ear. "The terrain can be treacherous."
"Let go of me."
He didn't. Not immediately. His thumb traced a small circle against my stomach, almost unconscious, and I felt the touch in places I didn't want to think about.
Then he released me, stepping back with an expression I couldn't read.
"We should continue," he said. "There's more to see."
I followed him on shaking legs, furious at my body's betrayal. He was my kidnapper. A criminal. A man who'd torn me from my life and imprisoned me in his island fortress. I should feel nothing but hatred and fear when he touched me.
Instead, I felt heat. Awareness. A dark, shameful curiosity about what those hands might do if I stopped fighting.
I shoved the thoughts down and focused on memorizing the guard rotations.
The tour continued for another hour. He showed me the greenhouse, the tennis courts, the infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the sea.
A library that rivaled some I'd seen in movies—two stories of leather-bound books, rolling ladders, a fireplace large enough to stand in.
An art collection that probably costs more than I'd earn in ten lifetimes.
All of it beautiful. All of it my prison.
Throughout, he stayed close. Not touching, but present—his body heat a constant awareness at my shoulder, his gaze a weight I couldn't shake.
When we passed through a narrow doorway, his hand found my lower back again.
When I paused to look at a painting, he moved to stand behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck.
Each contact was brief, barely there, easily deniable. And each one left my nerve endings singing with something I refused to name.
By the time we returned to the main house, I was exhausted—not from the walking, but from the constant effort of maintaining my walls. Of pretending I didn't notice him. Of hiding the confused tangle of fear and anger and unwanted attraction that knotted tighter with every passing hour.
"Dinner will be at eight," he said as we reached the foyer. "I'd like you to join me."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll have Yelena bring a tray to your room." He turned to face me, and something in his expression had shifted—something serious, weighted. "But I hope you won't refuse. There's something I need to discuss with you."
"What?"
"Tonight." He reached out, and before I could flinch away, his fingers brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was gentle, almost tender, and it terrified me more than anything else he'd done. "Wear something nice."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me alone in the marble foyer with my pounding heart and my racing thoughts.
***
I didn't wear something nice. I wore the most shapeless, unflattering thing I could find in that cursed closet—a loose linen dress that hung on me like a sack, paired with flat sandals and absolutely no jewelry.
If he was disappointed when I arrived on the terrace for dinner, he didn't show it. He rose from his seat, pulled out my chair, poured my wine, and made pleasant conversation about the island's history as the sun sank into the sea.
I answered in monosyllables, waiting for the trap to spring.
It came between the main course and dessert.
"I've been thinking about your situation," he said, setting down his fork. "About how to ensure your safety in a more permanent way."
My stomach clenched. "What do you mean?"
"Pankratov knows you've disappeared. He's angry—he'd intended to use you against me, and I stole that opportunity. As long as you remain simply a guest in my home, you're vulnerable. An asset to be reclaimed, a weakness to be exploited."
"I'm not a guest. I'm a prisoner."
"Semantics." He waved a hand. "The point is, your status needs to change. You need protection that goes beyond walls and guards. You need my name."
The words took a moment to penetrate. When they did, ice flooded my veins.
"Your name?"
"We'll be married by the end of the week."
I stared at him. The terrace, the ocean, the entire island seemed to tilt around me.
"No."
"It's not a request, Gabrielle."
"I don't care what it is." I shoved back from the table, my chair scraping against the stone. "I'm not marrying you. I don't even know you. You kidnapped me, you—you stalked me for weeks, and now you expect me to be your wife?"
He remained seated, maddeningly calm. "I expect you to survive. Marriage offers you protections that nothing else can. As my wife, you become untouchable. No one—not Pankratov, not the authorities, not anyone—will dare to harm you."
"I'd rather take my chances!"
"That's not an option." He rose slowly, and even from across the table, I could feel the force of his presence—the controlled power, the implacable will. "The ceremony will happen. Your consent is preferred, but it's not required."
"You can't force me to say vows."
"I can say them for you." His voice was soft, almost gentle. "I'd rather not. I'd rather have you willing, or at least accepting. But make no mistake, Gabrielle—by the end of this week, you will be my wife. How that happens is up to you."
I was shaking. With rage, with fear, with a helplessness so profound it threatened to swallow me whole.
"I'll never forgive you for this."
"I know." Something flickered in his expression—regret, perhaps, or its shadow. "But you'll be alive. And one day, you might understand why that matters more to me than your forgiveness."
He walked past me toward the house, pausing at my shoulder. I felt his breath against my ear, felt the heat of him seeping into my skin.
"Sleep well, little dove. Tomorrow, we'll discuss the details."
Then he was gone, and I was alone on the terrace with the crashing waves and the wheeling stars and the shattered remains of my life.
***
I didn't sleep.
I paced my beautiful prison until my legs ached, then sank onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Every option I considered led to the same dead end. Escape was impossible. Fighting was futile. I had no allies, no weapons, no leverage of any kind.
By the end of the week, I would be married to a man I feared and hated and—
I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't acknowledge the traitorous heat that still lingered where he'd touched me, the dark curiosity that whispered underneath my terror.
I buried my face in the pillow and cried until there was nothing left. And when the tears finally stopped, I lay in the darkness and tried to imagine what my life would look like as Mrs. Vasily Chernov.
I couldn't.
But it was coming anyway—a future I hadn't chosen, bearing down on me like a train I couldn't stop.
All I could do was brace for impact.