Chapter 24 Mara
MARA
The next morning, Ilya comes into my room as I’m getting dressed, not bothering to knock. I realize with a start that I forgot to lock the door last night after he left. I was so exhausted, so depleted from everything that happened, that it slipped my mind.
Now he’s standing in the doorway, his gaze hard, looking at me as I stand there in jeans and a soft plum-colored lace bralette.
“I see you’re enjoying more of what I purchased for you,” he says idly, and my jaw clenches. I can see his gaze sliding over me, heating as he takes in my half-naked torso, his gaze lingering where there’s a hint of nipple peeking through the lace of the bralette.
“I ran out of leggings,” I say shortly. “You ruined the ones I was wearing yesterday.”
“You ruined them.” He smirks. “You’d soaked through them before I even took them off of you.”
I glare at him, grabbing the soft blue, oversized sweater I took out of the drawer. He stands there a moment longer, and I jerk the sweater down over my breasts, turning to face him.
“Are you here for a reason?”
“You want to leave.” He says it flatly, a statement, not a question.
Something flutters uncomfortably in my chest—a flicker of hope, but also a pang of what feels like disappointment.
As long as he’s keeping me here against my will, I can chafe against my captivity without admitting that a part of me wants to love my chains.
“Yes,” I say defiantly, ignoring the part of me that doesn’t, in fact, want to leave. “I want to go outside, go for a walk, go anywhere that isn't this penthouse. I want to go home."
Ilya pauses. “And if I say no again?”
Something inside me sparks with anger. If this is a game, it isn’t one I feel like playing. Suddenly, more than anything, I do want to leave.
"You can't keep me here forever," I snap, my hands clenched into fists. "You can't just lock me away and expect me to be grateful for it. I'm not your possession, Ilya. I'm not your pet. I'm a person, and I have rights, and I'm telling you that I want to leave."
“And if I say I’m the one keeping you alive, that I make that choice?”
"Then I'll never be safe, will I? Because you'll always find a reason to keep me here. There will always be another threat, another danger, another excuse to keep control of me."
Ilya’s jaw tightens, and I see the muscle there flex.
He’s angry, but he also looks… hurt. Like last night I hurt him in some way, and he’s here to…
what? Get retribution for it? Break up with me?
The last thought almost makes me laugh, but I bite it back before it can slip out and make him angrier than he already is.
This isn’t an equal relationship; there’s no ‘breaking up.’
"You want to run?" he asks quietly.
I swallow hard, wondering if this is a test. "Yes,” I say finally. It’s what I want, isn’t it? To get back to my life, my friends, my gallery…
"You want your freedom?"
I tilt my chin up, sticking to my guns and refusing to waver. "Yes."
"Fine." His voice is sharp and final. "I'll give you a chance."
I blink, not sure I heard him correctly. "What?"
"You want to run? I'll let you run. Come with me. We're going out."
I stare at him, utterly confused now. "Where?"
"You'll see."
I follow him, because I know deep down, there’s no other choice.
If Ilya has decided on something, it’s going to happen, a fact that I can’t help but chafe at.
If we were together, that would have to change, I think, and then balk at how ridiculous that thought is.
He’s a mob boss. He’s my stalker. We’re never going to be together, no matter how hard he makes me come.
He takes me down to the parking garage, to a black Maserati, opening the door for me.
My stomach twists with fear as I slide inside, but I do, my hands brushing over the buttery leather of the seat as Ilya joins me in the driver’s side.
The car smells like fresh, clean leather, and I swallow hard as he starts to engine, unsure of what’s happening. If I should be afraid, or excited, or…
Thirty minutes later, we end up in an industrial area I've never seen before, full of warehouses and factories, most of them looking abandoned. He pulls up to a large building with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls.
I look around, even more nervous now. This doesn’t look like somewhere that anything good happens. "What is this place?"
“It belongs to me.” He gets out of the car and comes around to open my door. "I own this warehouse. And several others in this area."
It’s clear he expects me to follow him, into this place that looks like where men like him torture and kill people.
He wouldn’t do that to me, I think, sitting there frozen.
He went to too much trouble to get me in the first place.
But he’s had me. He’s fucked me. And maybe I went too far. Maybe my refusal…
Maybe I’ve caused him too much trouble. Maybe he’s decided to wash his hands of me after all.
“Out, Mara.” His voice hardens. “Don’t make me ask you twice.”
My stomach feels sick with dread, but I slide out of the car. I know instinctively that if I fight him, I’m only going to make this worse for myself. If he is going to kill me, maybe my obedience will make it quick.
The thought makes me want to burst into tears as Ilya puts a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the ugly, forbidding structure.
He unlocks a side door and leads me inside. It's dark, the only light coming from the broken windows high above. The space is enormous—probably the size of a football field—filled with old machinery and crates and shadows.
"What are we doing here?" My voice echoes in the empty space, shaking despite my desire to keep it steady.
He turns to face me, and in the dim light, his expression is unreadable. "You want to run? Here's your chance."
"What?" I stare at him, confused. I have no idea what’s going on.
"I'm going to give you what you want. A chance at freedom." He gestures to the warehouse. "You have this entire building to hide in. All these rooms, all these shadows, all these places to disappear. And I'm going to chase you."
My heart starts pounding. Fear rushes through my veins, but there’s something else, too. A sick sense of anticipation follows it, twisting my stomach as my adrenaline starts to build, a prickling sensation running over my palms. "What are you talking about?"
"A game." His voice is soft, dangerous. "If you can evade me, if you can escape this warehouse without me catching you, you're free. I'll let you go. You can go back to your life. Your apartment. Your job. Everything. I’ll find a way to ensure your safety."
So you could have done that all along? I want to say it, but I bite the words back, trying to focus on what’s happening now. On the rules of this new game he wants to play.
"And if you catch me?" I ask shakily.
He moves closer, and I can see the hunger in his eyes, the barely controlled desire. "If I catch you, I get to do whatever I want with you."
Those words, uttered in his thick, accented voice, hard and rough and so full of promising, threatening lust that it makes my knees weak, are both terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
"Do we have an agreement?" he asks, his voice low and intense.
I stare at him. What happens if I say no? I think I know the answer. He takes me back to the penthouse, and we go back to the way things were. We fight. He breaks me down. I give in. I hate myself for it, and we start all over again.
And a part of me wants to play his game. To find out if he’ll really let me go if I win.
Or what happens if he catches me.
"Yes," I whisper.
A slow, predatory smile creeps across his face, turning it sharply handsome in the shadowed light. "Then run, Mara. Run as fast as you can. Because if I catch you—" he pauses, letting the words sink in, "—I get to do whatever I want with you."
I don’t want to find out if he’s going to say anything else.
I run.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up.
I turn and sprint into the darkness of the warehouse, my footsteps echoing off concrete and metal, my breath already coming in gasps.
The space is enormous, filled with shadows and obstacles.
Old machinery looms out of the darkness like sleeping dragons hoarding stacks of junk.
Crates are stacked in haphazard towers that create a maze of passages and dead ends.
Broken windows high above let in just enough light to see shapes without details, making the maze dangerous for anyone not walking carefully and stepping lightly.
I don’t care and I don't have a plan. I just run.
Behind me, I hear nothing. No footsteps, no breathing, no sound of pursuit. The silence is somehow worse than if I could hear him chasing me. I have no way of knowing where he might be, what direction he might be coming from.
He’s confident he’ll win.
If he wasn’t, he never would have offered in the first place.
No. I push the thought away and run faster, weaving between crates, ducking under low-hanging pipes, trying to put as much distance as possible between us. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in every pulse point of my body.
I can do this. I can escape. I just need to find a way out, find a door or a window or anything that will let me get away from him.
The warehouse seems to go on forever. I turn a corner and find myself in a room that looks like it was used as an officer once—there’s an old desk and chairs, filing cabinets and boxes everywhere. I duck behind the desk and press my back against it, trying to catch my breath and listen.
Still nothing. Just the sound of my own breathing, harsh and loud in the silence.
Where is he?
I peek around the edge of the desk, scanning the darkness. I can't see him anywhere. Maybe he's giving me a head start. Maybe he's playing with me, letting me think I have a chance before he closes in.
Or maybe he's already closer than I think.