Chapter 5
five
Emilia
I wake to sunlight warming my face and an unfamiliar ache between my thighs. For one blissful moment, I exist in the limbo between dreams and reality, floating in the lingering sensation of strong hands and whispered promises. Then memory crashes over me like a wave—Clark, his bedroom, my decision, his body moving above mine, inside me, claiming me in ways I never imagined possible. I'm alone in his bed, the sheets tangled around my naked body, bearing the scent of him and sex and things I didn't know existed twenty-four hours ago. I press my face into his pillow, breathing in his essence, confused by how much I want him to be here beside me.
I sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness—a physical reminder of what I've given away. Given to him. My virginity, held close for nineteen years, surrendered in a single night to a dangerous man who took me hostage. What was I thinking?
But I know exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking about freedom. About his eyes, the way they burn when they look at me. About his hands, gentle despite their strength. About the way he made me feel—desirable, powerful, alive in a way I've never been before.
The room looks different in daylight—larger, less intimate. It's sparsely furnished but high-quality, nothing like the concrete cell where I spent my first night. A king-sized bed dominates the space, flanked by simple nightstands. A dresser stands against one wall, a leather jacket thrown carelessly across its top. There's a desk in the corner, papers neatly stacked, a laptop closed beside them. Everything orderly, controlled—just like Clark himself.
My clothes are folded at the foot of the bed, a consideration I didn't expect. I dress quickly, feeling strangely vulnerable despite being alone. My body feels different—marked, changed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the closet door and barely recognize the woman staring back. My hair is a mess of tangled waves, my lips swollen from his kisses, a small bruise forming at the junction of my neck and shoulder where his mouth claimed me. I look...used. Claimed. And underneath the shock, there's something else in my expression—a satisfaction I've never seen before.
I should be free now. That was our deal. One night for my freedom. I should be walking out of here, returning to my life, my responsibilities. To normalcy.
But there's no one here to release me. No open door. No sign of Clark.
The realization sends a chill through me. Did he lie? Was this all just a way to get what he wanted? The thought brings a flush of anger, hot and unexpected. I've never been one for confrontation, always the peacemaker, the one who accommodates. But something about Clark—about last night—has shifted something fundamental inside me.
I find the bathroom attached to his bedroom, wincing again as I use the facilities. There's a new toothbrush still in its packaging beside the sink, another unexpected consideration. I use it, then splash water on my face, trying to gather my thoughts. My reflection shows someone caught between who she was and who she's becoming—someone I don't quite recognize yet.
The bedroom door isn't locked. I open it cautiously, peering into a hallway similar to the one that led to my cell. But this must be a different part of the compound—the private quarters, perhaps. I follow the sound of voices, padding barefoot down the corridor until I reach what appears to be a kitchen.
Clark is there, his back to me, talking in low tones to the bearded man from the heist—Mick, I think his name is. They fall silent when I enter, both turning to look at me. Clark's eyes darken when they land on me, something possessive flashing in their depths. Heat crawls up my neck under his scrutiny.
"You're up," he says, as if this is a normal morning, as if I'm not his prisoner who just fulfilled her end of a devil's bargain.
"Yes," I reply, voice steadier than I expected. "I'm ready to go home now."
Mick snorts, shaking his head as he pushes past me, leaving the kitchen. The look he gives me is a mixture of pity and amusement that makes my stomach clench.
Clark sips from a coffee mug, watching me over its rim. "Are you hungry? There's coffee. Toast."
"Did you hear what I said? I fulfilled my part of our deal. I want to go home now."
He sets his mug down carefully, approaching me with that predatory grace that simultaneously frightens and thrills me. "The deal has changed."
My heart drops. "What do you mean, 'changed'? You promised?—"
"I know what I promised," he interrupts, standing close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. "But circumstances have evolved. You're still a liability, Emilia."
Anger flares hot in my chest. "You lied to me."
He has the audacity to look offended. "I didn't lie. I merely...reassessed the situation."
"After you got what you wanted." The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
His expression hardens. "If you think last night was only about sex, you weren't paying attention."
I wasn't. That's the problem. Last night was about more than physical pleasure—it was connection, vulnerability, something I never expected to find with someone like him. And that makes his betrayal cut even deeper.
"My mother needs me," I say, trying a different approach. "My sister?—"
"Are fine," he cuts me off. "The text has been updated. You're staying with your friend for a week now. Her recovery is taking longer than expected."
Fresh anger surges through me. "You can't just decide these things! You can't control my life!"
"I can," he says simply. "And I am."
I stare at him, this man who took my virginity, who made me feel things I never thought possible, who's now calmly informing me that I remain his prisoner. I should hate him. I want to hate him. But beneath the anger and fear is something else—a pull toward him that defies logic.
"Why?" I ask, hating the tremor in my voice. "Why keep me here if you've already had what you wanted?"
Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, quickly masked. "Who says I've had all I want?"
The words send a shiver down my spine, memories of last night flashing unbidden—his hands on my skin, his mouth marking me, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. My body responds traitorously, heat pooling low in my stomach.
He notices, of course he does. His eyes darken further, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "You feel it too. Don't deny it, Emilia."
I take a step back, needing distance. "That doesn't give you the right to keep me prisoner."
"Not a prisoner," he corrects, as he did before. "A guest with?—"
"Limited options. Yes, I remember." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm kitchen. "How long? How long are you going to keep me here?"
He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. "Until I'm sure you won't run to the cops the moment you're free."
"I promised I wouldn't!"
"And I believe you mean that," he says, surprisingly gentle. "But you're not a liar, Emilia. If questioned directly, you'll break. You're too honest for your own good."
He's right, and we both know it. I've never been able to lie effectively—not to my mother, not to my teachers, certainly not to law enforcement. I would try to keep his secret, but if directly confronted...
"So I'm just supposed to stay here indefinitely? What about my life? My job? My family?"
"All taken care of." He steps closer again, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture achingly intimate after everything we've shared. "You'll want for nothing while you're here."
Except freedom. Except normalcy. Except a life that makes sense.
But even as I think it, I wonder if I could go back to that life now, after experiencing Clark. After feeling, for the first time, what it's like to be truly wanted, truly seen. After having passion instead of just responsibility.
"I need to think," I say, pulling away from his touch. "I need space."
He nods, surprising me with his easy acquiescence. "Your original room is still available, if you prefer. Or you can stay in mine."
The choice hangs between us, weighted with significance. Return to the cell, assert my status as prisoner? Or accept his bed, acknowledge whatever this is growing between us?
"My room," I say finally. "Please."
Something like disappointment flashes across his face, but he nods again. "As you wish. You're not locked in, Emilia. You can move freely within the compound. Just don't try to leave."
"Or what?" I challenge, finding a spark of defiance I didn't know I possessed.
His smile is cold, warning. "Or I'll have to show you why they call me The Wolf."
I shiver involuntarily, remembering the tattoo I traced last night, the power coiled in his muscles, the barely leashed violence I sense beneath his control.
"I understand," I say quietly.
"Good." He gestures to the coffee pot. "Help yourself. I have business to attend to. I'll see you tonight."
Not a question. An expectation.
He leaves me standing in the kitchen, conflicted emotions warring within me. I'm angry—at him for his betrayal, at myself for my weakness. I'm afraid—of him, of this situation, of my own confusing feelings. But most disturbing of all, I'm already anticipating tonight, already wondering if he'll touch me again, if he'll make me feel that strange, wild freedom I found in his arms.
I pour myself coffee with shaking hands, trying to think clearly. I need to focus on escape, on getting back to my family, my responsibilities. Not on the way Clark looked at me just now, like I'm something precious he's determined to keep. Not on the heat that flared between us, as potent in the light of day as it was in the darkness.
But as I wander the compound, coffee growing cold in my hands, I find myself looking for him. Drawn to him despite everything, like a moth to flame, knowing I'll be burned but unable to resist the heat.
The compound is bigger than I realized—a sprawling building that must have been a warehouse once, now converted into the MC's headquarters. There's the main room I glimpsed when I first arrived, a kitchen, several hallways leading to private rooms. I find a library of sorts—a small room with shelves of books, worn leather chairs, a single window looking out onto the fenced yard. I run my fingers along the spines, finding an eclectic mix—motorcycle manuals, business manuals, business books, and surprisingly, a shelf of classics—Dickens, Austen, Hemingway. I pull one down, inhaling the familiar scent of old paper. Books, at least, are something I understand.
I settle into one of the chairs, opening to the first page, but the words blur before my eyes. All I can think about is Clark—his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me this morning like I belong to him. The way part of me wanted to belong to him.
What's happening to me? I've spent my entire life being sensible, responsible, the one who takes care of others. Now I'm caught in something I don't understand, torn between fear and desire, between the safety of my old life and the dangerous allure of this new one.
I close the book, restless. I need to see him again. Need to understand what this is between us. Need to know if what I felt last night was real or just a product of fear and manipulation.
I wander the compound searching for him, drawn by a pull I can't explain or resist. When I finally spot him through a doorway, talking with his men, my heart leaps traitorously in my chest. He looks up, as if sensing my presence, those ice-blue eyes finding mine immediately.
A jolt of recognition passes between us, an awareness that transcends our brief acquaintance. Something electric and undeniable.
I back away, suddenly afraid—not of him, but of myself. Of how much I want to go to him, to feel his arms around me again, to lose myself in his dangerous world.
The consequences of one night stretch before me, endless and terrifying. I've given more than my body to Clark—I've given him power over me, a hold I'm not sure I want to break.
And the most frightening part is how much I'm already craving more.