Chapter 25 Mara #2
I can’t live a life of powerlessness. No matter how much pleasure he gives me, no matter how much he spoils me, how luxurious and blissful the temptations he’s offering me could be… I can’t live a life that I have no say in.
If I’m going to be his, he also has to be mine. And there’s only one language that I know Ilya speaks fluently.
The steak knives are top of the line, sharp enough to cut with a touch.
I palm one when he goes to the kitchen to get more wine, sliding it into the pocket of the cardigan I’m wearing, hoping he doesn’t see me.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just continues eating, making small talk about the wine and some restaurant he wants to take me to when it’s safe for us to go out in public together.
“I’m still tired,” I tell him when dinner is finished, my heart beating an uneven patter in my chest. “I think I’m going to go back to bed.”
Ilya watches me for a moment with those sharp, icy eyes, and I think he’s going to see through me. But instead, he just nods.
“Alright,” he says after a moment. "Sleep well, Mara."
I go to my room and pace, the knife heavy in my pocket, my mind racing with what I'm about to do. I should feel guilty. Should feel horror at the thought of taking a life, even his life, even after everything he's done.
But I don't feel guilty. I feel determined.
This is the only way. The only way to reclaim my life, my freedom, my self. The only way to escape this darkness that's consuming me piece by piece.
I’ll give him the same choice he gave me. Speak the language of violence that he understands, that he lives and breathes. He can surrender to me in the same way I’ve surrendered to him, or he can die.
The thought should make me sick. Should make me question my sanity, my morality—my humanity, even.
But it doesn't. It just feels inevitable. Like this is what everything has been building toward since the moment I met him in Boston.
I wait until the penthouse is quiet, until I'm sure he's in his room. Then I retrieve the diamond choker from the box in the nightstand, where I put it after he left it here when he brought it back to me.
I hold it in one hand, the knife in the other, and I step out of my room and into the silent, dark penthouse.
I move through the penthouse quietly, my bare feet making no sound on the hardwood. My heart is pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins, but my hands are steady. My resolve is firm.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I can’t let him win without taking something in return. I’ll never be happy if I’m nothing but a pet.
He has to belong to me, too.
His bedroom door is unlocked. Ilya doesn't fear anything, doesn't think anyone would dare to hurt him in his own home. He certainly isn’t afraid of me.
He's wrong.
I slip inside, closing the door behind me with barely a sound. The room is dark except for the faint glow of city lights through the windows. I can see the shape of him in the bed, hear his breathing, deep and even.
He's asleep. Vulnerable. Human, for once, instead of the larger than life thing that kidnapped me, brought me here, and bent me to his will.
I move closer, the knife gripped tightly in my right hand, the choker dangling from my left.
I could just kill him, I think. Kill him and leave the choker.
Run. If the police find me as a suspect, I’ll say it was self-defense.
I’ll point to his criminal history, to the fact I’ve been absent from work, my sudden disappearance.
Claire will back me up; she has no idea where I’ve vanished to.
They'll believe me. They have to believe me. I'm the victim here.
I could just… be free.
I stand at the edge of the bed, looking down at him. In sleep, he looks younger, less dangerous. Almost peaceful. I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the vulnerability of his exposed throat.
All I have to do is cut. One quick motion, and it's over. He's dead, I'm free, and this nightmare finally ends.
The dream ends, too. Torment and pleasure, all gone in one smooth slice.
I lean in, over him, bringing the knife close to his throat. My hand trembles slightly and I take a breath to steady myself.
"Do it."
His voice makes me jump and nearly drop the knife. His eyes are open, watching me in the darkness, and there's no fear in them. No surprise. His expression is smoothly blank, except for something that looks like curiosity in his gaze.
Curiosity as to how the fuck I could think I’d pull this off, probably.
"You're awake," I whisper stupidly.
"I've been awake since you entered the room." He doesn't move or try to defend himself. He just lies there, watching me. "I wondered how long it would take you to work up the courage."
“I thought about killing you,” I whisper. “I—”
"I know. The question is whether you actually can."
Faster than I can move or think, his hands are on my arms, flipping me over his body and into the bed.
He looms over me, grabbing my wrist, fast as a snake, and suddenly we're fighting.
He's stronger than me, but I'm desperate, fueled by fear and adrenaline and the need to survive. I kick and squirm, suddenly thinking that I will kill him, that if he gives me a chance I’ll do it, because it’s the only way to end this, to feel normal again, to…
I heave myself against him, lurching up to sink my teeth into the side of his throat, and the action seems to startle him so much that he freezes for a split second. Just long enough for me to throw my weight into him and knock him to one side.
He rolls, pulling me with him, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m astride him on the bed, my nightgown pushed up around my thighs.
He’s wearing nothing at all, I realize suddenly, my mouth going dry.
He’s naked, his cock pressing against my core, and he’s stiff as iron against my tender flesh.
My hand tightens around the knife and I bring it down, close to his throat. His hand is still on my wrist, but he lets me—lets me bring that razor’s edge against his flesh. I see a drop of blood bead against the steel, and a shiver runs down my spine.
He looks up at me with those icy eyes in the darkness, and there's something in them that makes me freeze. It’s not fear or anger. It’s almost soft. He’s looking at me as if he loves me… if love could exist in something so toxic, so fucked up.
What I see in his eyes though… it looks like love. It does, and I feel myself hesitating.
Ilya reaches for the dropped choker and brings his hand up to my throat, pressing the cool chain against it as his other hand wraps around my wrist, pushing the blade firmly to his skin. More blood pools against the blade, dripping down his throat, and I feel his cock throb beneath me.
"Do it," he murmurs, his voice soft. "If you want to be free, if you want to escape me, this is the only way. Kill me, Mara. It's the only way I'll ever let you go."