Chapter 21 Mara #3
"You are." He leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "You will do it, Mara. The only question is how long you want to make this difficult for yourself."
"Go to hell,” I snarl, rage bubbling up into my throat, but he doesn’t react. He just turns to his computer and begins typing, as if I'm not even there, as if my defiance means nothing to him.
I stand there, my fists clenched at my sides, my whole body shaking with rage. He can't be serious. He can't actually expect me to kneel on the floor like some kind of—
But he does. And he's making it clear that he has infinite patience.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. He works steadily, making phone calls in Russian, typing on his computer, reviewing documents spread across his desk.
He doesn't look at me, doesn't give any indication that he cares whether I obey or not.
It feels as if this is, like me coming here, simply inevitable to him.
I could try to turn around and unlock the door, go back out into the penthouse…
but then what? I won’t be able to try to escape again, at least not this soon, if I can find a way at all.
I can go to my room, lock the door… but I don’t think that lock will really keep him out if he doesn’t want to be.
One way or another, he’s going to teach me this lesson. It can be now or later, but I don’t think he’s going to forget about this or relent.
My stomach twists with shame at the thought of obeying, but there’s something else, too. A warmth seeping through my blood, a low pulse between my thighs, a feeling of…
No. I am not turned on by this man demanding that I kneel in his office, then ignoring me when I refuse to do so. This kind of degradation cannot be a kink I didn’t know I had.
My legs start to ache from standing. Not badly at first—just a dull discomfort in my calves, a slight tension in my lower back. But as the minutes stretch out, the discomfort builds. My feet hurt. My knees feel stiff. My back is starting to spasm from holding myself so rigidly upright.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, trying to find relief, but there is none.
Standing still for this long is harder than I thought it would be.
But I don’t think leaving is going to help, and I don’t think sitting down is going to earn me any points.
Although, if I just flopped down in one of his chairs, I wonder what he would do…
I feel vaguely dizzy. Ilya looks up as he finishes a call, his expression still implacable.
“Kneel, Mara. If you do anything else, if you try to sit, if you try to leave, the consequences will be much more unpleasant.”
I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. But there’s a growing heat between my thighs, a throb of arousal at the thought of what else he might do. Would he spank me? Would he…
I lock my knees, trying to stay upright, but that just makes the pain worse. My muscles are cramping now, sharp spasms that shoot up my legs and into my back. Tears are pricking at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously.
I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction. I'll stand here until I collapse, but I won't cry.
"You're only hurting yourself," Ilya says without looking up from his computer. "Your pride isn't worth this much pain, Mara. Just do what I've asked, and this can be over."
I close my eyes, trying to block him out, trying to find some reserve of strength to keep fighting. But there's nothing left. I'm empty, exhausted, broken down by the relentless pressure of his will against mine.
I tried to run and I failed. Now, I can try to avoid the punishment that’s coming to me, or I can…
I can accept it.
And then what?
The possibilities of what my reward might be sends another bloom of heat through me, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying not to give in to that, either… the arousal that’s slowly building at the thought of submitting to this powerful man.
Without consciously meaning to, my knees buckle, and I feel myself sinking down to the rug.
I kneel.
The rug does very little to offer a cushion beneath my knees, and the position is immediately uncomfortable.
But it's also relief from the agony of standing.
I kneel in front of his desk, glaring at him, my hands clenched in my lap, and I've never hated anyone or anything as much as I hate him in this moment.
"Good girl," he says softly, and the words make my skin crawl… and a flush of heat rush over my skin, my thighs unconsciously squeezing together as I drop my gaze to my lap.
He returns to his work, and I kneel there, my knees already starting to ache against the hard floor.
The relief of not standing is quickly replaced by a different kind of discomfort—the pressure on my kneecaps, the strain in my thighs from holding the position, the ache in my back from keeping my spine straight.
Minutes pass. Then an hour. The discomfort builds slowly, insidiously, until it's all I can think about. My knees hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts from keeping my head bowed.
But I don't move. I don't speak. I just kneel there, hating him and hating myself, while he works above me like I'm nothing more than a piece of furniture.
This is what he wants. This is what he's been working toward since the moment he brought me here. He wants to break me, to reshape me, to turn me into something that belongs to him.
And I'm letting him do it.
The thought makes tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction.
Late morning turns into early afternoon, and Ilya hasn’t said a word to me or paid me any more attention since I knelt down. At one point, he walks past me and out of the office, leaving me there as I hear him lock the door behind him.
I could get up, I think as I stay there. I could take a break and sit. I’ll hear his footsteps when he comes back; there’s no reason for me not to give myself some reprieve.
But out of stubbornness, or pride, or some other reason that I can’t explain even to myself, I don’t. I stay there, my mind drifting, my body screaming, wondering how I got here—to this place, this moment, where I’m kneeling in a man’s office waiting for him to give me permission to stand again.
After what feels like an uncertain amount of time, I hear the door open and the soft thud of his feet on the wood. He walks around me, and then stops, just in front of me, so close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to.
Which I don't. I never want to touch him again.
"Look at me," he says.
I keep my head bowed, my eyes fixed on the floor.
"Mara. Look at me." His voice is a soft command, almost gentle, but firm all the same. I know if I don’t obey, I’ll never be allowed up.
And some part of me, something deep within those dark recesses that seem to respond to him, wants to obey him—wants his approval, his pleasure, his forgiveness, even.
Slowly, reluctantly, I raise my head. He's looking down at me with an implacable expression. In his hand, he's holding a strip of glittering, sparkling diamonds.
The choker.
"Put it on." He holds it out to me, and I know what obeying would mean.
I stare at the sparkling jewels, and that same dark part of me wants to reach for it, to hold it to my throat, bend my head for him to clasp it at the back of my neck.
I know what would come next… his hands on me, bending me over his desk, his body thrusting into mine, claiming me. Pleasure… so much pleasure.
My jaw tightens. "No."
A muscle ticks in the side of his cheek. "Put it on, Mara. Accept who you belong to."
My eyes widen, anger flaring. "I don't belong to you. I'll never—"
"You do. You know you do. That's why you're on your knees right now. That's why you kissed me that first night. Why you came for me."
The words hit too close to home. I snatch the choker from his hand and throw it across the room with all the strength I have left. It hits the wall and falls to the floor, spilling onto the wood in a glitter of diamonds and platinum.
"I will never wear that," I say, my voice shaking with rage. "I will never accept this. I will never—"
"You will." He crouches down in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. "You'll learn, Mara. You'll learn who you belong to. You'll learn what it means to be mine."
"I'm not yours."
"You are. And I'm going to prove it to you." He stands, looking down at me with those cold, certain eyes as he backs up to the desk, putting a foot of space between us, at least. "Crawl to me."
The words don't make sense at first. Then they do, and the humiliation is so intense it's almost physical.
"What?" The word sounds thick in my mouth.
His face is hard, his jaw tight. "You heard me. Crawl across the room and retrieve the choker. Bring it back to me. On your knees."
I glare at him, shaking all over with exhaustion and anger. "I won't—"
"You will. Or you'll stay on your knees until you do. I have all the time in the world, Mara."
He walks back to his desk and sits down, returning to his work as if he hasn't just asked me to debase myself in the most humiliating way possible.
I stare at him, my whole body trembling with rage and exhaustion. He can't be serious. He can't actually expect me to crawl across the floor like an animal, retrieve the symbol of my own captivity, and bring it back to him like an offering.
But he does. And he's making it clear that he'll wait as long as it takes.
My knees are screaming now, the pain building with each passing second. My back aches, my neck aches, everything aches. I don't know how much longer I can hold this position, don't know how much more my body can take.
But I won't crawl. I won't give him that. I won't—
"You're only hurting yourself," he says without looking up from his computer. "Your pride isn't worth this much pain, Mara. Just do what I've asked, and this can be over.” He glances up, briefly. “I’ll even reward you. Imagine, pleasure instead of pain. You’re suffering for nothing. I’ll give you everything, if you’ll only—”
“Submit to you? Never,” I hiss, my hands clenching into fists. I meet his gaze, and I see the patience there, the certainty. He knows I won't crawl. He knows I've found my limit.
And he's content to wait.
"I'll kneel," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll stay here on my knees. But I won't crawl. I won't—"
"Then you'll kneel until you do."
He returns to his work, and I kneel there on the hard floor, my body aching, my pride in tatters. The choker glitters on the floor across the room, both a promise and a threat, pleasure and captivity showcased in a beautiful collar.
Ilya sits at his desk, patient and implacable, waiting for me to surrender completely.
Waiting for me to crawl.