Chapter 19 Mara
MARA
Iwake in an unfamiliar bed.
For a moment—one blessed, disorienting moment—I think I'm somewhere else. A hotel, maybe. Or a friend's guest room. Annie’s, maybe. Somewhere safe and normal.
Then I remember.
The break-in. The blood. The crunch of bone against brass. Ilya in my gallery, me in his penthouse, clothes he bought for me on my skin and then not. His hands on me, his mouth, his cock inside me. Me kissing him. Him fucking me.
The reality settles over me with a crushing weight, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
I'm not in a hotel. I'm not at a friend's place.
I'm in a guest room in the penthouse of the man who's been stalking me for months, the man who fucked me last night like he had every right to, the man who told me I belong to him.
I'm a prisoner.
Everything from last night feels surreal, like it happened to someone else. The violence in my apartment, the way Ilya appeared like some twisted savior, the kiss that I can still feel on my lips, the imprint of his cock inside me.
I kissed him.
That's the part I can't reconcile, the part that makes my stomach twist with shame. I kissed him back. I moaned for his mouth. I came when he fucked me. I felt his mouth on mine and I wanted it, wanted him, wanted to surrender to whatever this thing is between us.
What does that make me?
I sit up slowly, taking in the room in the morning light.
It's beautiful, of course. Everything about this place is beautiful in that carefully curated way that’s thanks to unlimited resources and someone else’s professional taste.
The bed I'm lying in is enormous, the sheets so soft I could cry if I’d actually chosen to be here.
The duvet feels like a cloud. The furniture is mid-century modern, all clean lines and rich wood tones.
There's original art on the walls—actual original art, not prints—and I recognize at least two of the artists.
Despite everything, despite the fear and anger and confusion, I can't help but appreciate it… professionally. The composition of the room, the way the morning light falls across the abstract painting above the dresser, the subtle color palette.
I hate that I notice these things. I hate that even now, trapped here, part of my brain is analyzing and appreciating all of it.
I throw back the covers and stand, feeling shaky. I’m naked, and I glance nervously toward the door, but it still appears to be locked. My only options for clothing are what Ilya bought me, and I go to the dresser and then to the closet, pulling out items.
A pale pink set of underwear, silk panties again and a lace bralette.
Soft cashmere lounge pants in a pale blue, a loose cashmere sweater in a soft cream that slides off one shoulder, exposing the strap of the bralette.
Soft socks. The dresser and closet are filled with a wardrobe’s worth of clothing, all exactly my size and matching the style of clothes I have at home.
This is a gilded cage, and he’s been preparing it for me, ensuring my every luxury while getting ready to turn the key and trap me inside.
My stomach twists, and I feel dizzy. I shove the closet door shut, needing to focus on the next task. The next thing, before my sanity snaps altogether.
My hair is tangled and frizzy, and when I go into the bathroom, I find the hair products I use lined up on a shelf. My stomach twists as I spritz detangler into my hair and run a brush through it… the same brand of hairbrush I have at home.
He remembered everything. Purchased everything that I use for myself. It’s horrifyingly intrusive and stunningly thoughtful. I’ve never felt so cherished while at the same time being so bone-chillingly afraid.
And underneath that, there’s an ember of simmering desire. A reminder that last night, he ate my pussy like no man has ever done before. That he fucked me like no one else ever has, making me come three times on his mouth and his cock.
That no one else is ever going to fuck me like he did.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into clarity. 'm trapped in a penthouse with a man who's been stalking me, a man who claims I belong to him. And the worst part, the part that makes me want to scream or cry or both, is that I don't know how I feel about it.
I head downstairs after that, stepping out into the hall and looking around. The penthouse is enormous, sprawling across what must be the entire top floor of the building. I pass a formal dining room, a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, what looks like a home office with the door closed.
And then I smell coffee.
The kitchen is at the end of the hallway, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. Standing at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs, is Ilya.
He’s dressed casually, in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, clinging to him in a way that makes my mouth go dry and reminds me all over again that he made me come three times last night.
His hair is slightly damp, like he's recently showered.
He looks up when I enter, and the smile that crosses his face softens it, changing it from the beauty of a marble statue to something more human.
Like this is normal. Like I'm his girlfriend coming down for breakfast, not his prisoner waking up in captivity.
"Good morning," he says, his accent slightly thicker than usual, a rough hint to his voice, as if just looking at me turns him on. That feeling of intoxication pricks at my senses again, the overwhelming idea that I could have this effect on him. "I hope you slept well."
I stare at him, trying to find words through the rage that's suddenly flooding my system. He’s acting as if all of this is normal, but it’s not. And anger is better than desire. Anger won’t make me do something stupid. "You can't keep me here."
He sets down the coffee pot, his movements unhurried. "I made coffee. Do you still take it black, or would you like cream and sugar?"
"Did you hear me? You can't keep me here. This is kidnapping. This is—"
He picks up one of the mugs and walks toward me, holding it out. "Please. Drink your coffee. We should talk about the rules."
"Rules?" I don't take the coffee. I just stare at him in utter disbelief. "What rules?"
He sets the mug on the counter beside me, close enough that I could reach for it if I wanted to.
Which I don't. "You can go anywhere in the penthouse except my office.
You can have anything you want—food, books, entertainment.
There's a gym, a screening room, a hot tub on the roof where the pool is.
You're not a prisoner, Mara. You're a guest."
"A guest who can't leave."
"A guest who shouldn't leave. Not until the situation with Sergei is resolved." He makes it sound as if I’ll be able to leave when it is, but I don’t believe that for a second.
He's quiet for a moment, and something flickers across his face. "I don't know. But until then, you're safer here."
"With my stalker." The word hangs in the air between us, sharp and accusatory. "With the man who's been watching me, following me, sending me gifts I never asked for. With the man who broke into my apartment and left a rose on my pillow."
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks almost uncertain. " Mara, everything I've done, I've done because—"
"Because you're obsessed with me. Because you think you own me. Because you're—" I stop, trying to find the right word. Crazy? Dangerous? Sick?
“Because you were meant to be mine.”
The words strike me harder than they should. The way he says it, with such absolute certainty, once again shakes the foundation of anger that I’m standing on. He believes it; why shouldn’t I?
And besides his horrifying lack of understanding of boundaries or normal courtship, what exactly is wrong here?
He hasn’t hurt me. He’s protected me. He’s shown his devotion in some uncomfortable ways, but he’s also paid attention to me. Learned me. Understood me.
Made me come harder than I ever have in my life.
"I know you felt it too, in Boston. That connection between us. I know you've been thinking about me, wondering about me, wanting—"
"Stop!" The word comes out louder than I intended, echoing in the pristine kitchen. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to stalk me and trap me and then tell me it's meant to be. That's not love. That's—"
"What is it, then?" He moves closer to me, prowling. “What is this, Mara?”
"It's obsession. It's control. It's—"
"It's inevitable." His voice drops, his accent thick and rasping, his voice echoing with utter certainty. "You felt it the moment we met. I saw it in your eyes, the way you looked at me. Like you recognized something. Like you'd been waiting for me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were. You are. You're just too afraid to admit it."
I want to argue, want to tell him he's wrong, want to scream that he's delusional and dangerous and everything about this is wrong. But the words stick in my throat because part of me—that traitorous, self-destructive part—knows he's not entirely wrong.
I did feel something in Boston. I have been thinking about him. And last night, I kissed him first.
"What's your real name?" I ask instead, changing the subject because I can't handle this conversation. "Is it really Ilya Sorokov?"
He studies me for a moment, then nods slowly.
The name means nothing to me. "Should I know who you are?"
"Probably not. I’m not a part of your world, or at least, I am only when I need to be." He picks up his coffee mug, takes a sip. "But you’re a part of mine now. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if you hate me for it."
"I do hate you." It sounds unconvincing even to me.
"No, you don't. You hate that you want me."
He's right, and I hate him for that too.
Hate him for seeing through me, for understanding me in ways I don't understand myself.
I hate him for being right about the connection between us, about the way I felt in Boston, about the fact that some sick, twisted part of me is drawn to him despite everything.
"I want to leave," I say, trying to sound firm. "I want to go home."
"You can't. Not yet."
"You can't keep me here against my will. That's illegal. That's—"
He laughs, a dark, deep, rasping sound. “Mara, I’ve done so many illegal things I couldn’t count them if we stood here for hours. That doesn’t matter to me.”
"I'll never understand this. I'll never accept—"
"You will." He sets down his coffee and moves closer, and I back up until I hit the counter. "You'll come to understand that this is where you belong. With me. Under my protection. In my home."
"This isn't my home."
"It will be."
The certainty in his voice terrifies me. Not because I think he's wrong, but because I'm afraid he might be right. Part of me can almost imagine it. Can almost see a version of reality where this makes sense, where I belong here, where this is home.
That terrifies me more than anything.
“I’m not doing this,” I snap desperately. “I’m not wearing these clothes, I won't accept your generosity or your protection or whatever you want to call this. I won't—"
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and I flinch as his fingers brush against the side of my cheek. "Eventually, you'll stop fighting. You'll realize that I'm not your enemy, Mara. I'm the only person in the world who truly sees you."
I shove him away, putting distance between us as I stagger backward, trembling all over again. "Stay away from me."
"I can't do that. You're in my home now."
"Then I'll stay in the guest room. I'll lock the door. I'll—"
"The lock won't keep me out if I want to come in." He says it casually, as if that doesn’t matter at all. "But I won't. Not unless you ask me to."
"I'll never ask you to."
"We'll see."
The confidence in his voice makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, I turn and walk away, leaving the coffee untouched, leaving him standing in his perfect kitchen with his perfect view and his perfect certainty that I'll eventually break.
I won't break. I won't give him the satisfaction.
Not again.
I spend the rest of the morning exploring the penthouse while trying to avoid Ilya, looking for a way out.
The front door is locked with some kind of electronic system I don't understand.
The windows don't open—at least, not the ones I can access.
There's the pool and hot tub he mentioned, but it's on the roof of a high-rise. My only option there is to jump off to my death, and I’m not there yet.
I'm trapped. Completely, utterly trapped.
The realization should send me into a panic, but instead, I feel a strange numbness settling over me. This is my reality now. This penthouse, this man, this impossible situation. I can fight it, can rage against it, but it won't change the facts.
I'm here, and I can't leave.
And part of me—that sick, twisted part that kissed him last night—wants to know what it would be like to stop fighting. To surrender to this thing between us, to let him take care of me the way he promises.
Part of me wants to be kept.
Like I'm not his prisoner.
Like he's not my stalker.
Like this isn't the most fucked up situation I've ever been in.
And I hate myself for it.