Chapter 8 – Adrian
The morning sun pours through the high windows of the estate, but it doesn’t warm me. Nothing does lately. I’ve been in my study all night, nursing a bottle of scotch and wrestling with the one thought that won’t leave my mind—her.
My knuckles still ache, a dull throb that matches the steady simmer of rage in my chest. She tried to escape last night. I should be furious—I am furious—but more than that, I’m disappointed. I’m offering her safety. Power. My fucking name. And she still doesn’t get it.
I leave the study and head down the long hall toward the stairs, each step heavy with the weight of restraint. When I reach our bedroom door, I knock—sharp and short.
A beat later, it opens.
She’s in a robe, hair mussed from sleep, eyes still soft with grogginess. But when she sees it’s me, they go wide. Alarmed.
“Come down for breakfast,” I say flatly.
Her mouth opens, probably to argue. But then I narrow my eyes, pinning her with a look that’s burned into every man who’s ever crossed me. Her lips snap shut.
Good girl.
I turn without waiting for a reply and descend the stairs, jaw clenched. She’ll follow. She had better. I’m not in the mood for silly games.
I don’t know what the hell else she wants from me.
I’ve kept my distance. I’ve given her time.
Hell, I’ve been sleeping in the damn guest room every night since we got married just so she doesn’t feel crowded.
I haven’t touched her once —well, since that first night— even though I want to every damn minute.
I’m trying. More than I’ve ever tried with anyone.
And it’s still not enough for her.
What does she think this is? A phase? A bluff?
She needs to understand—I don’t let go. I don’t walk away.
She’s mine.
And I’m done playing nice.
A moment later, Jennie steps into the dining room like she’s walking into a lion’s den, her spine straight, chin high, but I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She thinks she’s brave—thinks her silence and scowl are armor.
I watch her as she walks toward the long mahogany table and moves to sit across from me.
No.
Not this morning.
Not ever again.
I rise slowly, pushing back my chair. Then I walk to her.
Before she can sit, I take her wrist—not hard, just firm enough to remind her who she belongs to. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away. I guide her down the length of the table, then let go only to pull out the chair next to mine. She hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking to mine.
With one hand on the back of her shoulder, I press her gently but deliberately into the seat. She goes down stiffly, like every part of her is screaming to bolt.
I take my seat beside her and pour her a glass of water.
As the maid enters quietly and begins serving breakfast, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out her phone. I set it on the table between us.
Jennie’s eyes widen, her fingers twitch like she’s about to grab it—but I take it back just as quickly.
“Not so fast, kroshka,” I murmur, slipping it back into my pocket. “You can have this when you’ve learned how to behave. And don’t forget—it’s still being monitored. Every call. Every message.”
She lets out a sharp breath and rolls her eyes, pushing her plate away.
I lean in, lowering my voice just enough to make her spine straighten. “Roll those eyes at me again.”
Her eyes challenge me like she’s about to do just that, and I smile, nodding slowly. “Do it again, please, zaya, and watch me put you over this table and fuck you while the maid and every other person watch. Try me.”
Her breath hitches.
I lean back in my chair, satisfied with her silence, and begin cutting into my eggs.
“Eat,” I say without looking at her. “You’ll need your strength.”
She crosses her arms stubbornly. “I want my phone.”
I pause, setting my fork down with slow, deliberate calm. Her eyes don’t leave mine.
After a long moment, I reach into my pocket and place the phone on the table, screen down. Her gaze darts to it, and she reaches for it immediately.
A single shake of my head stops her cold.
“You can only have it after you finish your food,” I say, my tone calm but iron-clad.
Her jaw tightens, her glare sharp enough to cut glass.
I lean back slightly, watching her.
She exhales sharply, picks up her fork, and starts to eat—each bite filled with quiet fury.
But she eats.
Good girl.
Just then, her phone starts to ring.
She freezes, staring down at the screen—an unknown number.
I tilt my head. “Pick it up,” I say smoothly, nodding toward the device. “Speaker.”
I already know who it is. I made the arrangement last night.
Her brows knit in confusion, but she obeys, her fingers trembling slightly as she answers and presses speaker.
“Jennie?”
Her breath catches. “Logan?”
“It’s me.” His voice is rough, but alive. “I’m okay. They let me go. I’m safe now, I swear.”
I watch her face shift—shock, then disbelief, then something fragile and raw. Relief floods her, breaking like sunlight across her expression. She presses a hand to her mouth.
“Oh my God, Logan…” she breathes.
“I don’t know how—” he starts, but she cuts him off, voice shaking.
“Don’t say anything. Just…just stay safe. Please.”
“I will,” he promises, and then the line clicks dead.
She stares at the phone for a moment, unmoving. I see the truth sink in: Her brother is free.
And I’m the reason why. I hope she remembers this the next time she tries to pull some shit like she did last night.
“Finish your food,” I say as I continue mine.
She tilts her chin stubbornly. “I’m done.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Eat.”
“I want to leave,” she snaps, voice trembling but laced with defiance.
I lean in, slowly, until my mouth brushes her ear.
“Keep this up,” I murmur, “and I’ll feed you myself. On my lap. Like the little pet you are now.”
Her body stills. Her breath hitches. I laugh softly, watching her eyes fly wide in alarm.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s trying not to fall apart.
Without a word, she picks up her fork and begins to eat—one reluctant bite at a time. I’ve noticed she doesn’t eat a lot, and it’s my duty to remedy that. I have plenty of food, and she’s going to eat without worrying where the next meal will come from.
Her phone rings again. This time, it’s Violet. The name flashes across the screen like a flare in the dark, and Jennie’s whole face lights up with hope.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, reaching for it. “It’s—”
But I snatch it up before her fingers can touch it.
“Adrian—”
I answer the call.
“She’s safe,” I say, my voice cold and final. “She’s mine. And she’s not coming back.”
Then I end the call without another word.
When I turn back to her, her face is pale. Horrified.
Her lips part. “You had no right—”
“I have every right. The sooner you remember that, the easier this will be.”
She lunges across the table, fingers curling around her phone just as I tighten my grip.
“Give it to me!” she snaps.
I don’t let go.
Her eyes blaze, jaw clenched, fury radiating from her in waves. She pushes at my chest, hard. Then again. Her fists land on me, small and angry, and I feel the hot burn of her frustration rise like a storm—her rage, her fire, her resistance.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s furious.
I don’t move. I don’t flinch.
I feel.
Every strike of her fists is like a jolt to my bloodstream, stoking something deeper, darker inside me.
“You can’t control me like this!” she screams. “You can’t own me. I’m still my own person!”
She tries again to rip the phone from my hand.
I catch her wrist mid-swing, grip firm but careful. Our eyes lock.
“No, kroshka,” I murmur, voice low. “You were your own person…until you became mine.”
“You are a joke!” She spits in my face. “I’m not yours. Not even your ring can change that.”
My jaw clenches, his voice dropping to a guttural growl. “Your past life is over, Jennie. You’re making things very difficult for yourself by trying to fight it.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to scream, but I don’t give her the chance. My eyes darken, colder than steel.
“You belong to me now. Every breath. Every move. Every inch of you.”
I turn, sharp and final, my heavy boots echoing against the polished floor as I stride away without a backward glance, leaving the phone on the table.