Chapter 22 Ilya
ILYA
Ican feel her across the room.
Every breath she takes, every shift of her weight, every tremor of exhaustion that runs through her body—I'm aware of it all. She's kneeling on the floor of my office, her head bowed, her hands clenched in her lap, and the sight of her there is doing things to me that I didn't anticipate.
I force myself to focus on the contract in front of me, on the words that blur together because all I can think about is her.
The way she finally sank to her knees, the way her body gave out even as her spirit fights to remain unbroken, the way she looks now—defeated but not destroyed, bent but not broken.
Perfect.
This is a battle of wills, and I'm determined to win. Not to break her—I've never wanted to break her—but to make her understand. To make her see the depth of my claim on her, the inevitability of what's happening between us, the truth that she's been mine since the moment I saw her.
She needs to understand that resistance is futile. That fighting me only prolongs her suffering. That surrender is the only path forward.
But more than that, she needs to want to surrender. She needs to choose it, even if I've engineered every circumstance to get her to this point. The feeling that she's giving herself to me rather than being taken matters.
I don't want a prisoner. I want a willing participant in her own captivity.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, careful not to let her see me looking.
Her shoulders are trembling slightly; from exhaustion or emotion, I'm not sure.
Her dark hair falls forward, obscuring her face, but I can see the tension in her neck, the way she's holding herself so rigidly despite the obvious discomfort.
She's been kneeling for a long time now. Her knees must be aching, her back screaming in protest. But she hasn't moved or complained.
She’s stubborn. She’s magnificent. She’s mine.
I return my attention to the computer screen, to the email from Kazimir about Sergei's latest movements. He's been quiet—too quiet—and that concerns me more than overt aggression would. Sergei is planning something, waiting for the right moment to strike, and I need to be ready.
But it's hard to focus on strategy when Mara is kneeling ten feet away from me, her presence filling the room like a physical thing.
I take a call from Moscow, speaking in rapid Russian about a shipment that's been delayed at customs. I make decisions, give orders, handle the endless stream of problems that come with running an empire.
But part of my mind is always on her, aware of her breathing, her movements, her state of being.
I'm hyperaware of her in a way that should concern me. This level of obsession, this complete focus on another person—it's a vulnerability I've never allowed myself before. In my world, caring about someone is a weakness that can be exploited, a liability that can get you killed.
But I can't help it. She's become the center of my universe, the axis around which everything else revolves. Business, power, money—none of it means anything compared to the woman kneeling in my office, slowly learning what it means to be mine.
Another hour passes. Then another. The light shifts across the floor, marking the passage of time in increments. I work methodically, giving no indication that I'm aware of her suffering.
But I am. Fuck, I am. And I wish she’d just give in, because I don’t want her in pain. I don’t want her to suffer. I want to pleasure her, spoil her, show her how comfortable it can be to be mine.
I can’t do any of that until she accepts that she is, though.
I can hear the slight hitch in her breathing when the pain becomes too much.
I can see the way her hands clench and unclench in her lap, trying to find some relief from the discomfort.
I can sense the war happening inside her, the stubborn refusal to give me what I want versus the desperate need for this to be over.
I want her to surrender, but I also want to gather her in my arms and tell her it's okay, that she's safe, that I'll take care of her.
But I can't. Not yet. She needs to learn this lesson first.
I'm reviewing a proposal for an investment in one of my businesses in Boston when I hear a soft sound, barely audible, that makes my entire body go still.
I don't look up. I don't give any indication that I've noticed. But every nerve in my body is suddenly alert, focused entirely on her.
She's moving. Slowly, hesitantly, but she's moving.
I hear the soft brush of fabric against hardwood, the quiet sound of her breathing, the almost imperceptible shift of weight.
My hands tighten on the arms of my chair, my pulse quickening, but I force myself to remain still, to keep my eyes on the computer screen even though I'm not seeing anything anymore.
She's crawling.
The realization sends a jolt of arousal through me, my cock stiffening just at the thought. After hours of kneeling, after all her defiance and resistance and stubborn pride, she's crawling across my office floor to me.
She's obeying.
I lift my head to look at her, and the sight nearly destroys my control.
Mara, on her hands knees, moving stiffly toward me as she crawls toward the desk, her long dark hair hanging around her face.
My cock throbs, my control fraying as I resist the urge to get up and go to her, to pin her to the floor, yank her leggings down, and thrust myself inside of her.
This has to be finished the way I planned it.
She has to learn her lesson, or she’ll try to run again.
I drink up every moment of her submission, the sight of it more intoxicating than any alcohol or drug. I watch her, silent, not wanting to shatter this moment. If something breaks it, she might retreat back into defiance, and I'll have to start this entire process over again.
This feels like the victory I've been working toward since the moment I brought her here.
She isn’t going toward the choker, I realize. She’s crawling around the desk, toward me. I turn to face the side of it, relaxed in my chair, a king on my throne, letting my queen crawl to me. Letting her prove her loyalty.
I hear the hitch in her breathing as she gets closer, see the flush on her cheeks and neck, and a smile crawls across my lips.
She won’t admit it, but she’s turned on by this.
She wants this. This humiliation, this degradation, is turning her on.
Part of her is aroused by the power dynamic, the surrender, the act of crawling across the floor to please me.
Maybe she doesn't even recognize it herself. But I can see it in the flush of her skin, in the way her breathing changes, in the subtle tells that give away her body's betrayal of her mind's resistance.
She wants this.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it. My hand is gripping the desk so tightly my knuckles are white. Every muscle in my body is tense with the effort of maintaining control.
She disobeyed me by not going for the choker. But she crawled, as I ordered her to. Maybe there’s a compromise here. One that ends with both my pleasure and hers.
The thought surprises me. Compromise isn’t something that exists in my world; it’s not a part of the way someone like me operates. But maybe there’s a way to ensure she’s learned her lesson without throwing away the progress we’ve made because she didn’t follow my instructions to the letter.
A way that ends with my pleasure and hers.
She stops just in front of me, still on her hands and knees, eyes downcast at the floor, her raven hair hanging around her cheeks. "Good girl," I say softly, and I see her flinch at the words.
I lean forward and reach down, wrapping a hand in her hair.
It’s as thick and soft as I thought it would be, when I first saw her, a luxurious sensation as it runs across my fingers.
I tighten my fist in it, tugging her head up and her forward, and I see a flash of anger in her eyes before she gives in and lets me tug her between my opened legs.
“Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson, kotenok,” I murmur. “Unzip my pants and take out my cock. It’s time I claim your sweet mouth. If you do as your told, and do it well, I’ll pleasure you in return.”
Her gaze is dark and resentful, but I can see the glimmer of arousal there. Her eyes flick to my groin, and I can see the way her pupils widen as she takes in the sight of my erection straining against my zipper. She wants me as much as I want her, only she’s fighting it, and I’m not.
I’ll break down her resistance a little more, today.
I reach down and cup her face, tilting it up toward me. "When you obey me, I take care of you."
I can see her processing this. She wants to refuse, wants to maintain her defiance, but she's also curious. She wants to know what I mean, what I'm offering, what it would feel like to surrender completely.
“I want you to suck my cock and swallow my cum,” I murmur, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. "And when you do, I'll give you pleasure in return. Do you understand?"
She nods. It’s a small, brief movement, but victory surges through me, hot and intoxicating. "Unzip my pants."
My hand is still fisted in her hair as she rises up on her knees, reaching for my belt. She fumbles with the buckle, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion, but eventually she gets it open. Then the button of my pants, then the zipper, each movement slow and deliberate.
I watch her face the entire time, cataloging every expression, every emotion that flickers across her features.
There’s humiliation, yes. Resentment, absolutely.
But there’s also arousal—I can see it in the flush spreading down her neck, in the way her breathing has changed, in the dilation of her pupils.
She wants this. She hates that she wants it, but she does.
Her long fingers spread open the front of my pants, and I look down at her, unwavering as I give a short tug against her hair. “Take out my cock, Mara.”