Chapter 13 – Elara
It’s only been a day since I married Roman, and already it’s suffocating. Everywhere I go, the staff reminds me who I am now—his wife, the lady of the house. They bow when I pass, murmur “Mrs. Rusnak,” and wait, heads lowered, until I disappear from sight.
I hate it.
I tried to correct them, told them to just call me Elara, but it’s like speaking to ghosts; they don’t hear me, or maybe they’re too afraid to.
When I mentioned it to Roman, he only shrugged. “Get used to it,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
How could I?
Every polished marble corridor, every expensive chandelier, every obedient nod, it all feels like stepping into a gilded cage, one that gleams beautifully from the outside but reeks of control inside.
I truly hate it.
Like that’s not enough, Roman’s protection has gotten worse. Whenever he’s near, he insists I stay close to him, like some fragile thing that might break if I breathe wrong. And when he’s not around, there are guards. Dozens of them. Trailing my every step. Watching. Waiting.
I feel like I’m suffocating.
I want distance. Space. Air. But he doesn’t get that.
He lets me stay in my room during the day, on one condition: that his guards remain stationed outside my door like prison sentinels.
And every night, he insists I sleep in his bed.
He hasn’t touched me again. Not even once. Not even by accident.
I don’t know which is more infuriating—his restraint or the fact that I notice it.
I hate him. Yes.
Right now, I’m storming downstairs because he sent a staff member to come and call me down for breakfast. I refused twice, and he sent her again, telling me he “won’t ask a third time.” Like I’m some child he can bend with a warning.
Why would I want breakfast with him?
I reach the landing and stride toward the dining hall, my steps echoing through the long corridor.
The smell of freshly baked bread and coffee hits me, but it doesn’t soften my mood.
When I enter, there’s a massive spread on the table—eggs, fruit, pastries, food that makes my stomach growl with hunger—and, of course, Roman sitting there like a king. Alone.
Good. That means I can lash out without worrying that anyone else will see.
He hears me coming, I know he does, but he doesn’t even bother to look up. The scrape of his knife against the plate grates on my nerves. I stop right in front of him, fists clenched at my sides.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap. “Why are you forcing me to have breakfast? I’m not your toy.”
Roman finally looks up, calm as ever, his expression unreadable. “You’re my wife,” he says simply, like that explains everything. “And wives have breakfast with their husbands.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You’re unbelievable. You think a ring gives you the right to summon me like a damn servant?”
He doesn’t flinch. “I think,” he says, cutting into his eggs with maddening patience, “that refusing to eat for two days is self-destructive. And since you won’t take care of yourself, I will.”
My jaw drops. “Oh, you will? You’ll make me eat now? That’s your new thing, deciding what’s good for me?”
He lifts his gaze again, eyes cold and steady. “If I wanted to make you do anything, Elara, you wouldn’t still be standing there arguing.”
That shuts me up for a second. The quiet hums between us, charged and dangerous.
Then I find my voice again. “You can keep your food, Roman. I’m not hungry.”
“You only ate fruit yesterday after I had the cook bring it up,” he says, voice low, even. “That’s not enough. You’re starving.”
“Then look inward,” I fire back, heat rising in my chest. “Happy wives don’t starve. If your wife is starving, what sort of husband does that make you?”
I turn to leave.
“Sit,” he says quietly.
It’s not loud, but it cuts through the room like a blade.
“I’m not—”
“Sit. I’m not asking.”
And damn it, my body goes still before my mind can catch up. My muscles lock, breath catching in my throat. Against every shred of pride I have left, I lower myself into the chair.
Roman doesn’t gloat, doesn’t even smirk. He simply reaches for a plate, piles it with food, and slides it in front of me. “You’re not leaving this table until you clear your plate,” he says. “I suggest you start now.”
There’s that tone again, steady, commanding, threaded with quiet danger. It makes me furious…and something else. Something I can’t dwell on and don’t want to. My pulse trips, betraying me. Why do I hate and love that voice at the same time? It does strange, unwelcome things to my body.
I stab at a piece of egg and chew like I’m biting into him. The silence between us hums, thick and alive.
After a few forced bites, I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “I plan to see Sasha and Vivian soon,” I say, daring him. “You’re not going to stop me.”
Roman doesn’t even blink at my words. He leans back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable calm that makes me want to throw something.
“You can see them,” he says finally. “But you’re never walking alone again. Four security men will be with you at all times.”
My fork clatters against the plate. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Roman, I don’t need your protection! I never took my father’s, and I won’t start now.”
That gets a reaction. His mouth curves into something sharp, almost amused. A low, dark laugh rolls out of him, and it makes my pulse kick up again.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on mine. “Then you’re lucky I’m not your father.”
The way he says it—calm, deliberate, almost dangerous—sends a shiver down my spine.
I poke him again. “You can never be him.”
Something flashes in Roman’s eyes, sharp and dangerous. He rises to his feet, his presence suddenly overwhelming. He walks toward me, slowly, and his voice drops, low and edged with steel.
“How would you feel,” he asks, stepping closer, “if one of those foreign buyers your father brought forward caught you?”
My blood runs cold. I remember them all too well—the way they looked at me during that dinner, their greedy eyes, their lewd smiles. My stomach twists, and I shiver involuntarily.
“Why would you even say that?” I manage, my voice trembling. “Why would you bring that up?”
Something in him snaps. Roman’s jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is low and sharp, every word like a blade.
“Because those men feel cheated, Elara. Those buyers your father entertained, they think you’re part of the scam. They’ve been searching for you.” He leans closer, his tone darkening. “So has your father. He wants to repay his debts, and you are the easiest way to do it.”
My heart stutters. “What—what—what are you saying?”
He exhales harshly, frustration bleeding into his voice. “If they catch you, they won’t be as gentle as I am. They’ll torture you. They’ll touch you in ways that’ll make you wish you were dead. They’ll hit you. They’ll make you suffer.”
“Stop,” I gasp, voice breaking. “Please stop.”
Roman straightens, chest rising and falling as he reins himself in.
Then, quieter but no less dangerous, he says, “If that’s the kind of web you want to walk into, then by all means, go ahead.
Walk out alone. Refuse my guards. But if you don’t…
.” His eyes narrow, locking on mine. “Then you’ll take my protection, whether you like it or not. ”
The air between us feels thick, suffocating. He’s right—I know he’s right—but admitting it would mean surrendering to his control, and I can’t do that. Not to him.
So I push back my chair and stand, ignoring the tremor in my hands.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” I whisper, then turn and walk away before he can see the fear in my eyes, or the anger burning just beneath it. Not at him, but at my father.
I lock myself in my room all day. Roman sends the cook to bring up my breakfast, which I’m secretly grateful for because I’m starving. I eat every bite, and somehow, that gives me just enough fuel to keep being angry, to keep feeding the storm inside me.
I’m furious with my father. A fury that burns from the inside out. But since he isn’t here, Roman becomes the easiest target. He’s here. He’s present. He’s always watching.
By evening, I can’t take it anymore. I’ve spent hours pacing, stewing, and replaying every word he said at breakfast until the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.
So I storm out of my room, my pulse hammering with determination and rage, and head straight for his office.
I push his door open without knocking and storm inside. He’s at his desk, sleeves rolled up, head bent over some papers. Luka’s standing beside him, mid-sentence, but they both look up when I barge in.
“We need to talk.”
Roman’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns to Luka.
Luka hesitates for a second, eyes flicking between us, then gives a small nod and leaves. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click that somehow makes the air heavier.
Roman leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing on me. “Elara, this is starting to get out of hand.”
“Yes!” I snap, voice cracking with fury. “Things are getting out of hand. You’re getting out of hand.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing like I’ve lost my mind. “What are you talking about?”
“You!” The word tears out of me before I can stop it. “You know too much about me, Roman. My habits. My past. Even things you shouldn’t know.” I take a step closer, trembling with rage. “You knew I was a virgin. You knew every damn thing about me before I even met you. Why?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with that unreadable calm that twists my stomach.
“I studied you,” he says finally, his voice even, almost casual. “I needed to know exactly how to break your father. And you….” He lets out a humorless laugh. “You seemed like the perfect mark.”
His honesty hits me like a slap, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. Then the fury comes, hot and consuming.
“You’re disgusting,” I spit. “You used me.”
He rises slowly from his chair, the movement measured, dangerous. “Don’t act like you didn’t use me too, Elara. You wanted protection, power—someone to keep you safe from the same men your father sold you to.”
I take a step back, shaking my head. “You don’t get to twist this. You don’t get to make yourself the hero.”
“I’m not the hero,” he growls, closing the distance between us. “But I’m the one keeping you alive.”
The tension between us crackles like electricity. We circle each other—him with his calm, deadly composure, me with my trembling rage. Every word feels like a blade drawn across the skin.
“I don’t need your protection!” I shout.
“Yes, you do,” he fires back. “Because whether you like it or not, you’re mine now. And if they come for you, they’ll have to go through me first.”
“Maybe I’d rather they did.”
His eyes darken. “Careful, Elara.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my heart pounding. “You’ll remind me again that you ‘own’ me?”
“I do own you.”
In one swift move, Roman pins me against his massive mahogany desk, his body pressing me back against the hard, cool wood. My breath hitches, the air squeezed from my lungs. I glare up at him, defiant even as my body betrays me with a tell-tale flush of heat.
“My touch unravels you. You crave it,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
“That’s a lie,” I snap, the words weak. “Get your hands off me.”
Instead, he wraps a large hand around my throat, not choking me, but cupping the delicate curve of my neck, holding me still. He trails devastatingly slow kisses down my throat. I swallow a gasp, desperate to maintain my resistance, and continue to fight him, shoving at the solid wall of his chest.
He nips my jaw with his teeth, and I gasp. The shock of the sharp pressure, the sudden, tiny pain, rips a desperate sound from my throat.
“Roman.” It’s a plea, a broken syllable.
“Shut up.” He nips harder, then drags his lips across the tender skin beneath my ear. “As of today, you’ll bear my mark on your skin. Because you need to realize you’re my property.”
The words are brutal, the intent utterly possessive.
Yet even as the cold, hard reality of his claim settles, my body betrays me, responding to every intimate touch, every low-spoken threat.
The friction of his trousers against my legs is a silent, searing promise.
My shame is complete. The hatred is still there, sharp and burning, but it’s hopelessly tangled with the heat of his control.
“Say it!” His hand on my throat tightens deliciously. My body floods with a primal response, and I can barely breathe. “Roman….”
“Say that you’re mine.” He licks the shell of my ear, sending a shudder of pleasure through my core.
“Yours,” I cry, the word torn from my lungs, a total, devastating surrender.
“Good.” He steps away from me and walks back to his desk, leaving me desperate and panting against the hardwood. “Remember that the next time you want to act coy, Elara.”
I gasp against the cool surface of the desk, caught between fury and unbearable need, the raw realization hitting me: No matter how much I resist, Roman has already invaded every part of my life.
The man who just laid down the rules of my imprisonment is the same man who holds the key to my physical pleasure. I’m irrevocably trapped.