Chapter Eleven - Jessa
It’s been days, but the memory refuses to leave me. Every morning I wake tangled in those expensive sheets, sheets that still smell like him, my thighs sore in a way I can’t admit, my skin hypersensitive as if his hands have left invisible fingerprints.
I remember the way he moved inside me—slow at first, then hungry, unrelenting—claiming my body until I could barely breathe, until pleasure and fear had melted into the same overwhelming tide. I hated him for what he did. I hate myself for wanting him again.
Markian hasn’t come to me since that night. Not a word, not a touch. Sometimes I hear his footsteps in the halls, his voice barking orders behind closed doors, always in Russian. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him from a window, standing on the drive with men in dark suits.
The door to my room stays shut and untouched, the world narrowing to the rooms I’m allowed to roam, the servants’ careful silence, the pounding of my own heart.
Maybe he’s caught up in Bratva business, or maybe he’s simply done with me. That thought makes my chest hurt in a way I wish I could ignore.
Part of me wants him gone forever, wants to reclaim whatever part of myself he took that night. Another part aches for the sound of his voice, for the heat of his hands.
I keep telling myself it’s only trauma, only loneliness, only the aftershock of being so completely possessed. I try to hate him, I try to hate what he made me feel… but I still wake at midnight, hands pressed between my thighs, chasing the ghost of a release that only he’s managed to give me.
It’s raining outside, soft and persistent, drumming against the windows of my room.
I sit curled in the velvet chair, reading the same page of a borrowed book over and over.
I haven’t seen another soul all morning.
Just when I convince myself I’ll never see him again, a soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
The maid—Alina, I think—is waiting in the hall, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Miss Whitaker, lunch is ready. Mr. Sharov is waiting for you in the dining room.”
I freeze, heart leaping. Dread, excitement, shame, all tangled up inside me. My hands go clammy as I brush down my skirt and try to school my features into something neutral. “Thank you,” I murmur, my voice small.
I follow her down the grand, winding staircase, my feet silent on the carpet.
Each step feels heavier than the last. The house is quiet except for the hush of rain and the distant chime of a clock.
When I reach the landing, I catch my reflection in the gilded mirror: hair pulled back, face pale but composed, lips pressed into a stubborn line.
I don’t look like the girl he undressed and ruined. I try to hold on to that.
The dining room is enormous, designed for parties and power.
There’s a chandelier overhead, throwing light onto a table that could seat twenty, but only two places are set.
Markian sits at the far end, back straight, hands resting lightly on the linen.
His suit is black today, his hair immaculate, expression utterly unreadable.
I take the seat across from him, spine rigid. My palms sweat against the napkin as I lay it on my lap. Silverware gleams between us. The table feels as wide as the Atlantic. The tension is thick enough to taste.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me, eyes flicking over my face, searching for something I can’t name.
My pulse races, a rabbit in a snare. I force myself to meet his gaze, trying to match his cold calm, but my heart is tripping all over itself, desperate for a clue about what he wants from me now.
Finally, he speaks, his voice even. “Eat, Jessa. You need your strength.” His tone is gentle, almost. A flicker of something passes over his face before it vanishes.
Lunch is served by silent, practiced hands: soup, fresh bread, roast chicken. The maid pours wine, then disappears, leaving us alone with the click of the closing door.
I force myself to take a spoonful of soup, swallowing around the tightness in my throat. The food is delicious, but every bite feels strange, like accepting something from the devil.
He watches me in silence, his gaze heavy. After a while, he cuts into his own meal, movements precise. For a time, the only sounds are the scrape of cutlery and the rain against the window.
We eat in silence. Every time I risk a glance up, Markian’s eyes are already on me, cool and assessing, watching each move I make. I try not to look at him. I focus on my soup, on my trembling hands, on anything but the heat of his gaze.
It’s impossible to ignore. It settles over my skin like a velvet noose, reminding me with every heartbeat that I’m not free, not safe, not anything but his captive.
The food has no taste. I chew, swallow, set my fork down, and pick it up again. Across the vast expanse of the table, he eats with precise, careful motions.
The quiet is oppressive, filled only by the scrape of cutlery and the slow, persistent tapping of rain against the windowpanes. It’s almost a relief when I hear the distant sound of the maids cleaning in the next room. Almost.
I can’t stand the silence any longer. The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice tight. “What are you going to do with me?”
He looks up, his gaze unreadable. “I plan to keep you.”
It’s so matter-of-fact, so cool and unapologetic, that I can only stare at him, stunned. “Keep me?” I echo, anger flaring. “I’m not a possession. I don’t belong to anyone. Least of all you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. His face is calm, but I see something darker flicker behind his eyes. He lifts a hand and makes a sharp gesture; the maids, attentive as ever, slip from the room and close the door behind them. We’re alone.
He rises, moving around the table, each step slow, measured, deliberate.
I grip the edge of my chair, a bolt of panic mixing with something that feels too much like anticipation.
My pulse races as he comes to stand at my side, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Markian, don’t—” I manage, voice strangled, but he ignores me.
Without warning, his hand slides up my thigh, beneath the hem of my skirt. His touch is bold, unforgiving, fingers pressing firmly against my bare flesh. I jerk, breath catching, the shock of it making me clutch the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turn white.
He leans down, his lips at my ear, voice a whisper just for me. “No one else can make you feel like this, Jessa. No one else will ever get the chance.”
A sound escapes me—part protest, part need.
I hate myself for it, hate the way my body responds before my mind can catch up.
Heat spirals out from where he touches me, my legs parting involuntarily, my back arching ever so slightly toward his hand.
My heart hammers against my ribs, so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“Stop,” I whisper, but it comes out weak, unconvincing. I want to push him away, to slap him, to remind him that I am not his plaything. But all I can do is grip the table, lips parting, thighs trembling as he strokes me with maddening skill. My body betrays me again.
He drags his fingers along my slick heat, slow and possessive, as if he has all the time in the world. “You want me to stop?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek. “Then tell me you don’t want this.”
I can’t. The words die on my tongue. My hips roll helplessly into his palm, chasing the pressure, desperate for more. I despise myself for how quickly I surrender, for the way I crave his touch even as my mind screams at me to fight.
He laughs softly, a dark, satisfied sound. “That’s what I thought. You can’t. You won’t. Because you’re mine, Jessa. Only mine.”
I want to hate him. I want to hate the way he makes me burn, the way my body opens for him, the way my fear twists into aching want. I’m lost. All I can do is clutch the table and try to breathe as he teases me, working me with steady, relentless strokes until I’m trembling, every nerve on fire.
He moves back at last, withdrawing his hand, leaving me flushed and desperate, thighs pressed tight together beneath the table. I gasp, trying to catch my breath, trying to find some shred of dignity in the mess he’s made of me.
Markian straightens, his eyes heavy with promise and possession. He wipes his hand on his napkin, utterly casual. “Remember that, the next time you think of trying to escape.”
I glare at him, defiance warring with desire, shame a hot flush up my throat. “You can’t keep me forever,” I manage, though my voice shakes.
He only smiles, cold and knowing. “We’ll see.”
I want to scream, to hurl my glass at him, to make him feel some fraction of the helplessness he’s forced on me.
All I can do is sit there, hands trembling, body aching, and hate how much I want him to do it again. The rain beats harder against the windows, and I close my eyes, fighting tears—of anger, of shame, of need. I’m his prisoner.
We finish lunch in silence, but it’s nothing like the silence before.
Now, every nerve in my body is raw, every sense trained on the space he fills beside me.
I can feel where his hand touched me, the echo of his fingers thrumming in my skin.
Shame curls low in my belly, hot and relentless.
I keep my gaze on my plate, forcing myself to eat, but every swallow is thick and difficult.
I can’t let him see how undone I am, how easily I’ve surrendered again.
He doesn’t bother to fill the silence. He eats like nothing happened, eyes occasionally flicking to me with a cool satisfaction that makes me want to scream.
When I finally set my fork down, appetite ruined, I can’t stand another minute in his presence. I slide my chair back and stand, pressing my palms to the linen to keep them from shaking.
“I’d like to go to my room now,” I say, voice clipped, barely above a whisper.
He glances up, eyes bright with something dark. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you from your beauty sleep, angel.” The Russian endearment rolls off his tongue, mocking and intimate. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Heat flashes up my neck, equal parts anger and humiliation. I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. I turn on my heel, head held high, and stride out of the dining room, heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
The walk back to my bedroom is a blur. The halls are empty, the only sound the soft scuff of my footsteps and the distant rumble of thunder outside.
I want to scream, to cry, to break something, anything, just to feel like I still have a shred of control.
I hate him. I hate him for what he’s done, for how he touches me, for how he looks at me like I’m already his.
Mostly, I hate myself more for wanting him back.
The bedroom is warm, golden afternoon light painting patterns across the floor. I close the door quietly behind me, sinking onto the edge of the bed. I press my hands to my face, willing the tears to come, but nothing happens. I’m too tangled up, too lost.
I try to read, but the words blur and melt.
I try to focus on the world outside the window, on the birds flitting through the garden, but all I see is Markian.
The way he looked at me, hungry and sure.
The way his hands claimed me beneath the table, bold and unyielding.
My thighs press together, heat spiraling through me despite everything.
I tell myself to stop, to think of anything else, but I can’t.
My fingers drift over my skirt, the fabric rough beneath my palms. I remember the way he touched me, the sure press of his fingers, the rough drag of his voice in my ear.
I let myself imagine it again: his hand under my skirt, his mouth at my neck, the weight of his body pinning me to the bed.
My breath comes faster, lips parting as I slide my hand beneath my underwear, seeking the heat he left behind.
It’s wrong. Every inch of it is wrong. I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t need the roughness, the dominance, the feeling of being utterly consumed.
My body doesn’t care. My body aches for him, for the way he made me feel. Helpless and wanted, terrified and alive.
I move my fingers the way he did, slow at first, circling, pressing, teasing myself the way he would. My hips rock against my hand, breath catching in my throat as pleasure builds, tight and relentless. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, the taste of shame and longing sharp on my tongue.
I imagine him watching me, those pale eyes glittering with approval, a slow smile curving his mouth as he sees how easily I fall apart for him. The image pushes me closer, my body tightening, my mind spinning. I want to hate him. I want to hate myself.
All I can do is chase the high he left in me, desperate for release.
When it comes, it crashes over me, fierce and blinding. My toes curl, my back arches, and I gasp his name—silent, desperate, a secret I’ll never admit. I shudder, collapsing back onto the sheets, body limp and sated, mind swirling with guilt and need.
For a long time, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat. The shame comes slowly, settling into my bones. I wipe my hand on the sheet and roll over, pulling the covers up to my chin, wishing I could bury myself and never have to face him again.
Even now, with my body satisfied and my mind numb, I know the truth: Markian Sharov owns me in ways I can’t escape.