Chapter 7 – Eleanor
The door slammed shut behind Maxim, and I was left staring at the empty space where he’d been standing moments before. My lips still burned from our kiss, and my body hummed with the memory of his hands on my waist, the way he’d pressed me against that wall like he wanted to consume me whole.
Marry him. The bastard wanted me to marry him.
I touched my mouth, fingers tracing where his lips had been, and hated myself for the way my pulse quickened at the memory. This was Stockholm syndrome, had to be. Some kind of psychological break that made me crave the attention of my captor.
Except it didn’t feel like sickness. It felt like fire.
I paced the elegant prison he’d built for me, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Twenty-four hours. That was what he’d given me to decide whether I’d rather marry a monster or watch my father die.
Some choice.
The camera in the corner followed my movements with mechanical precision, and I found myself wondering if he was watching right now. If he was sitting in some control room somewhere, studying my every gesture for signs of weakness.
“Enjoying the show?” I asked the lens, my voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Silence. Of course.
I collapsed onto the bed, pulling one of the throw pillows against my chest. The fabric smelled like expensive detergent and something else. Something that reminded me of Maxim’s cologne, woodsy and dark and completely masculine.
Everything in this room was a reminder that I belonged to him now, whether I’d agreed to it or not. The clothes Anya had brought me, all in my exact size. The books on the nightstand, all authors I’d mentioned loving in interviews. The coffee, prepared exactly how I liked it.
He’d been watching me long before he’d grabbed me off that street. Studying me, learning my habits, my preferences, my weaknesses.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my belly.
God, I was so fucked up.
I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. The way his gray eyes had darkened when I’d told him I was a virgin. The careful control in his voice when he’d stepped back, when he’d respected my boundaries even though he could have taken whatever he wanted.
A kidnapper with a conscience. A monster who asked for consent.
I didn’t know what to do with that contradiction.
The hours crawled by. I read three chapters of a book without absorbing a single word. I did yoga stretches that did nothing to ease the tension coiled in my muscles. I stared at the ceiling and tried to make sense of a situation that defied all logic.
At some point, exhaustion should have claimed me. Should have dragged me under into dreamless sleep. Instead, I lay awake in the darkness, hyperaware of every sensation. The silk of the sheets against my skin. The whisper of my own breathing. The steady thrum of blood through my veins.
My body felt like a live wire, crackling with unspent energy and frustrated desire.
I kicked off the covers, suddenly too warm, and stared up at the camera. Its red recording light blinked steadily in the darkness, a digital eye that never closed.
Was he watching? Was he lying in his own bed somewhere in this house, unable to sleep, thinking about the kiss we’d shared? About the way I’d melted against him before I’d remembered who and what he was?
The thought of him watching me, wanting me, made something bold and reckless unfurl in my chest. I’d spent my whole life being the good daughter, the responsible business owner, the woman who never took risks or made waves.
Look where being good had gotten me. Disowned by my father and held captive by the Bratva.
Maybe it was time to try being bad.
I sat up slowly, never taking my eyes off the camera. My pulse thundered in my ears as I reached for the hem of my tank top, then stopped. This was insane. This was beyond reckless.
This was exactly what he’d want me to do.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe I was tired of pretending I didn’t want him too. Maybe I was ready to own the desire that had been eating me alive since the moment he’d pressed his mouth to mine.
I pulled the tank top over my head in one smooth motion and dropped it on the floor beside the bed, leaving me only in my bra. The cool air hit my bare skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest.
The camera watched. Silent. Unblinking.
I leaned back against the headboard, my eyes locked on the lens. “Is this what you want to see?” I whispered into the darkness.
My hand moved to my collarbone, fingers tracing the line of my throat down to the hollow between my breasts. My breathing was already turning shallow, ragged with want and defiance.
I was playing with fire, and I knew it. But God help me, I wanted to burn.
My other hand slipped lower, past the waistband of my shorts, and I bit back a moan as I touched myself. Heat and slickness and the kind of need that made smart women do stupid things.
I’d never done anything like this before. Never put on a show, never let anyone watch me in my most vulnerable moments. But there was something intoxicating about the camera’s unwavering attention, about knowing he was probably on the other side of it, watching me fall apart.
“Maxim,” I breathed his name into the darkness, and the sound seemed to echo off the walls.
My movements grew more urgent, more desperate. I was close, so close, teetering on the edge of something that would shatter me into a thousand pieces.
The door exploded open.
Maxim stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, his chest rising and falling with controlled fury. His eyes blazed in the dim light, taking in my position on the bed, my state of undress, the way my hand had frozen between my legs.
“Jesus Christ, Eleanor.”
His voice was raw, wrecked, and I saw his hands clench into fists at his sides. He was fighting for control, and losing.
I should have been embarrassed. Should have scrambled to cover myself, to salvage some shred of dignity from this moment. Instead, I felt powerful. Dangerous.
“Did I interrupt something?” I asked, my voice honey-sweet and dripping with false innocence.
He moved into the room like a predator stalking prey, and I saw him reach up to turn off the camera with sharp, violent movements.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
He was beside the bed now, close enough that I could see the war being fought behind his eyes. Want and restraint. Hunger and honor. His chest rose and fell faster, his hands flexing at his sides like he needed them anchored somewhere before they ended up on me.
“You’re trying to manipulate me.”
“Is it working?”
His jaw tightened so hard I thought the sound might crack through the air. His gaze drifted down my face, pausing on my mouth, then sweeping over my chest before dragging back up to my eyes.
“Get dressed,” he said, voice low and tight.
“Make me.”
That was it. Two syllables that cut the last string holding back the flood. His control snapped, and I saw the careful mask disintegrate, revealing the man beneath it—dangerous, desperate, mine.
He moved before I could take another breath, one hand at the back of my neck, the other fisting in my hair as his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss was hard and claiming, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with raw hunger.
There was nothing polite or careful in the way he kissed me; it was as if he wanted to consume every gasp, every sound I made.
I kissed him back with everything in me, my hands gripping his shirt and shoving it upward. Heat radiated from his skin, muscle shifting under my touch. He tasted of whiskey and something darker, something that made my stomach twist and my thighs press together.
His hands roamed over me with an almost frantic thoroughness—over my shoulders, down my sides, cupping my hips and pulling me into the hard line of his body. The solid press of him against me made my breath stutter.
We fell back onto the bed, the mattress dipping and sheets twisting beneath us. His mouth left mine to trail down my neck, teeth grazing until he found the spot that made me gasp.
His gaze devoured me as I lay there in my bra, the heat in his eyes enough to make me shiver. When his mouth closed around my nipple through the thin fabric, a jolt of pleasure shot through me. My back arched into him, my hands threading into his hair to hold him there.
His other hand trailed down my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my shorts. The moment his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, my body tensed.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmured against my skin.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath came out slowly, like he was steadying himself.
Then he kissed me again, softer this time, his fingers stroking me gently through the thin barrier of my panties.
My hips twitched at the touch, heat pooling low in my belly.
He explored me with careful precision, coaxing my body to relax, to open to him.
When he slid my shorts and panties down together, I felt the cool air on my skin and his gaze, dark and possessive, taking me in. He stripped his own shirt away, then shed his pants, the sight of him stealing my breath.
He settled between my thighs, bracing himself on his elbows, his weight heavy and warm above me. “It might hurt,” he said, searching my face.
“I know,” I whispered.
He kissed me as he guided himself to me, pressing slowly forward. The first stretch was sharp enough to make my nails bite into his back. He stopped instantly, his forehead resting against mine.
“Look at me,” he said, voice low.
I did, and in that gaze was something grounding, something that made the tension ease just enough. He pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully inside me. I felt impossibly full, the ache deep and unfamiliar.
He stayed still, letting me adjust, his thumb brushing my cheek.
Then he began to move, slow at first, the friction making the ache fade into heat.
Each thrust came a little deeper, a little faster, the pleasure building in place of the pain.
My legs wrapped around his waist without thought, pulling him closer, my body urging him on.
His hips moved in a rhythm that made me gasp, the sound of our bodies filling the air. His mouth found mine again, messy and desperate, his breath mixing with mine. My hands roamed over the hard lines of his back, memorizing every inch.
The tension coiled tighter and tighter, my body clenching around him as I reached for something I couldn’t name.
It broke in a rush, my cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure rolled over me in waves.
He groaned low in my ear, his thrusts growing erratic until he stilled, shuddering as he spilled inside me.
When it was over, we lay in the wreckage of my careful control, breathing hard in the darkness. My body felt like it had been struck by lightning, every nerve ending alive and singing.
Maxim rolled away from me, reaching for his clothes with mechanical precision. The careful mask was sliding back into place, brick by brick, until I could barely see the man who’d just shattered me into pieces.
“That changes nothing,” he said without looking at me. “Have you made your decision about the wedding?”
I should have been hurt by his coldness. Should have felt used, discarded, reduced to nothing more than a means to an end.
Instead, I smiled into the darkness. There was no other decision to make.
“You’d better be ready,” I told him, stretching like a cat in the rumpled sheets. “Because I’m going to make your life hell.”
He finished getting dressed and moved toward the door, but not before I caught the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, and winked. “The wedding’s in three days.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was alone again. But this time, the solitude felt different. Charged with possibility instead of despair.
I’d made my choice the moment I’d pulled off my tank top. The moment I’d looked that camera in the eye and dared him to want me back.
I was going to marry Maxim Voronov. I was going to become the wife of a Bratva facilitator, stepping into a world of violence and secrets and borrowed time.
But I wasn’t going quietly. I wasn’t going to be the meek, grateful victim he probably expected.
If he wanted a wife, he was going to get one. But he was also going to get Eleanor Beaumont in all her chaotic, stubborn, passionate glory.
And something told me he had no idea what he was signing up for.
I pulled the sheets up to my chin and closed my eyes, finally ready for sleep. In seventy-two hours, my old life would be over.
I couldn’t wait to see what came next.