Chapter 12 Ilya #2
As I put distance between myself and him, the man’s blood drying on my knuckles, I feel apprehension rising in my chest.
I’m moving fast. Too fast, maybe. But I can’t allow someone else to touch her. A kiss was bad enough, if he’d taken it further… if she’d let him take it further…
His cock would have joined the trash littering the alleyway tonight. I’d have done so much fucking worse than just beaten him to a bloody pulp.
I have to claim her before this escalates further. She clearly doesn’t understand yet, and it’s time that she does.
—
When I finally make it back to the penthouse, I can’t sleep.
Mara’s bedroom is dark, and I feel a stab of disappointment. I pour myself a glass of vodka and pace, wondering if I should wait until the morning to send her the photo. But I need her to see.
I need her to see that she’s mine.
I pull out my phone and send it before I can stop myself. I wait, standing at the window that faces her bedroom, and I see the faint glint of light that’s her opening her phone.
It’s impossible to see her reaction, and that only frustrates me further.
Is she horrified? Elated? Sickened? I want to know…
need to know, but I don’t. It takes everything in me not to go down there and force my way into her apartment and bring her back here now.
She should be here, in my penthouse. She should know that she’s mine.
I can feel my thoughts spinning out of control, and I know I’m losing my grip on the most important thing, the ability to manage my own reactions, my own emotions.
By losing that, I could lose everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve built. But none of it feels like it matters any longer, compared to having her.
Will I feel the same way after I’ve been inside her? After I’ve claimed her? Will I lose interest when she’s no longer something forbidden, when the prey has been captured and the chase is over?
It’s possible. But as I drain the rest of my vodka from the glass, wishing I could see into her room right now, I don’t think I will.
I think I’ll want her forever, long after she’s already become mine.
I go and pour myself another glass of vodka, considering what to do next.
I had a plan—a good plan. A plan that would have worked if I'd been able to stick to it. I was going to seduce her slowly. Meet her again as Alexander Volkov, successful businessman and art enthusiast, at some gallery opening or charity event in Manhattan, making up an excuse for why I’d followed her here.
I’d planned to remind her of Boston, of that connection we had, but keep it light, friendly, non-threatening.
I was going to build trust—take her to dinner, show her the man I can be when I'm not consumed by obsession. Make her laugh, make her comfortable, make her want me even more than I know she already did.
I’d planned to wait until she was mine of her own volition before I let her see the darkness underneath, before I slowly unveiled to her the truth of the man she’d fallen for. I was going to wait until she was too far gone to run before I let her know who I truly am.
But my jealousy has destroyed all of that, and I’m well aware of it.
Seeing Richard Maxwell's hands on her made me send her his severed hand. Seeing that man tonight kiss her made me beat him nearly to death and send her the photo. I told myself I was protecting her, claiming her, showing her what she means to me.
I know, deep down, that I’m losing control. And I need to get it back. So I have two choices.
I can back off. Stop the gifts, stop the surveillance, stop the violence. Let her think whoever was stalking her has moved on. Wait three months, six, then "coincidentally" run into her again and start fresh with my original plan.
Or I can accelerate everything. Confront her as I.S. directly. I can go to her apartment, or show up at her work, tell her everything, make her understand that I'm not going away, that she belongs to me, that she can either accept it willingly or I'll make her accept it.
The first option is smarter—safer. But I already know I can’t do it.
I can’t stand to stop watching her for a night, let alone months. I’ll go insane if I have to wait for her, if I have to endure knowing that other men might touch her, have her, while I’m biding my time.
I need to see her, to make her understand what this is, what we are, what we're going to be.
Tomorrow. I toss back the vodka. Tomorrow night I’ll go to her and reveal myself, and I’ll make her understand that this was inevitable. We were always going to end up here, from the moment our eyes met in Boston.
Either she'll accept it, or I'll have to make her accept it.
The thought troubles me, my jaw clenching as I think over my options.
"Make her accept it" could mean a lot of things, most of them dark.
Taking her somewhere she can't run. Keeping her until she understands.
Using fear or leverage or whatever tools I have to bind her to me.
Is that what I really want? Do I want her to come to me out of fear rather than desire?
No. I want her to want me. I want her to choose me, even knowing what I am. I want her to look at me with that same intensity she had in Boston, but with full knowledge of the monster underneath.
I want her willing. I want her eager. I want her to be mine because she can't imagine being anyone else's.
But if I can't have that right now, I'll start with whatever I can get.
I’ll watch her tomorrow. I’ll choose the right time. And after tonight, no other man will ever get close enough to touch what’s mine ever again.
The apprehension, mingled with a slow relief at the idea of finally revealing myself to her, makes me consider pouring another drink. Before I can decide, my phone rings, and I reach for it, wondering if it’s Kazimir.
My jaw clenches, my teeth grinding, when I see Svetlana’s name on the screen.
I could ignore her, but I know it’ll only lead to more problems later on. Instead, I answer, my voice cold.
"Svetlana."
"Ilya." Her voice is cool as well. "You've been avoiding my calls."
"I've been busy."
She sighs on the other end. “I understand you’re always busy, Ilya. But my father is a busy man, too. I am a busy woman. And the matters between us can’t keep being pushed down the line. It’s insulting to our family and to me…”
“I told you, we’ll discuss it when I’m back in Boston.
” My gut clenches. The last thing I want to think about right now is the wedding that’s never going to happen.
I could tell her now that I’m ending things, that we’re never really going to get married, but that will be an explosion I’m not prepared to deal with at the moment.
Not when all of my focus needs to be on ensuring that meeting Mara tomorrow goes as well as it possibly can.
“My father doesn’t like that answer. Neither do I. You can’t keep—”
"I can do whatever I want." My voice is harsh, my patience thin and quickly vanishing.
There’s a pause. When she speaks again, her voice is harder. "There's someone else."
It's not a question. Svetlana is many things, but she's not stupid. She's been watching me pull away for weeks now, making excuses, avoiding her before I left, now spending all my time in New York.
My jaw clenches. "That's none of your concern."
"It is if it affects our arrangement. Who is she?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me." Her voice drops, becomes almost dangerous. "You're making a mistake, Ilya. You need this. You know you do. What my father is offering you… you understand what you’d be giving up if you embarrass me? If this wedding doesn’t happen?”
There’s a thread of something in her voice, I think…
genuine hurt, it sounds like. I’ve long been aware that for Svetlana, this hasn’t been entirely only an arrangement.
She genuinely wants this marriage—or at least, she did.
I have no idea if that has changed, given what has happened between us recently.
"I understand perfectly."
Svetlana laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're insane. You're throwing away everything, and for what? Some new woman you're obsessed with?"
Anger curdles in my stomach. "I'm not discussing this with you."
"You don't have to discuss it. I can see it clearly enough." She pauses, and I can hear her thinking. "Does she even know what you are? Or are you playing at being normal for her?"
"Goodbye, Svetlana."
"This won't end well, Ilya. And when your little obsession runs away or when you get tired of her, you'll have destroyed everything for nothing."
I hang up before she can say anything else.
The silence is heavy as I toss my phone onto the couch cushions.
This is a bigger problem than I’m allowing myself to think about right now, and deep down, I know that’s a symptom of the deeper issue of what this obsession with Mara is doing to me.
I should be more worried about what I’ll lose by breaking my engagement.
I should be more concerned with the consequences…
I should be going back to Boston and pacifying Svetlana, ensuring that she’s happy and making concrete plans for a wedding.
But tomorrow I'll have Mara. Tomorrow I'll make her understand what she is to me, what we are to each other. Tomorrow I'll finally step out of the shadows and show her who has been watching her since the moment I locked eyes with her in Boston.
That feels like it’s worth anything… even burning down alliances I could use, even need, for a woman who doesn’t even know my real name yet.
But tomorrow she will. And everything will change.