17. The Trap
The Trap
Nathan
The walls have eyes.
I've always known this—known that my father watches me, that Gabriel watches me, that Monika watches me with those steady brown eyes that see too much and say too little. I've always known that every move I make is observed, catalogued, judged.
But knowing something and feeling it are different things.
Tonight, I feel it.
I feel it in the way Viktor looks at me when I pass him in the hallway. I feel it in the way Ashlynn's hands pause over the laundry when I enter the kitchen. I feel it in the way the house itself seems to hold its breath when I walk through it—waiting, watching, judging.
They know.
They know about the warehouse. They know about the children. They know about the things I've done and the things I'm going to do.
And they're waiting for me to fall.
I won't fall. I've never fallen. Well, I've been falling my whole life, but I've never hit the ground. I've learned to live in the space between—the space where gravity doesn't apply, where the rules are different, where the only thing that matters is power.
But Monika.
Monika is different.
She's the one thing I can't control. The one variable I can't predict. She's supposed to be afraid of me—she should be afraid of me—but she isn't. She looks at me like I'm something to be saved, not something to be feared.
I don't know how to handle that.
I find her in the hallway outside my father's office.
She's been avoiding me. I've noticed. She's been spending more time in the greenhouse, more time in the library, more time anywhere that isn't wherever I am. She's been pulling away, piece by piece, and I don't know how to stop her.
But tonight, I'm not going to let her run.
I've been watching her for hours. I've been waiting for the right moment—the moment when she's alone, when she's vulnerable, when she can't escape. I've been patient. I've been calculating. I've been everything my father taught me to be.
And now, the moment is here.
She's standing outside Aleksander's office, her hand on the door, her body tense. She's about to go in—about to tell him something, about to betray me again—and I can't let that happen.
I step out of the shadows.
"Monika."
She freezes. Her hand drops from the door. She turns to face me, and I see something in her eyes—fear, maybe, or guilt, or something else entirely.
"Nathan." Her voice is steady. It's always steady. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing." I walk toward her, my footsteps slow, deliberate. "What are you doing outside my father's office at midnight?"
"I was going to talk to him."
"About what?"
She doesn't answer.
"About me?" I stop in front of her, close enough to touch. "About the warehouse? About the children? About the girl you helped escape?"
Her face pales. Just slightly—just enough for me to see.
"You helped her," I say. "You helped Tasha escape. You're working against me."
"I'm trying to save you."
The words hit me like a slap. Save me. She's trying to save me.
"You can't save me," I say. "No one can save me."
"Then let me try."
"No." I step closer, my body pressing against hers, pinning her against the door. "Don't save me. Just be mine."
"I can't be yours. Not like this."
"Then I'll take what I can get."
I kiss her.
It's not gentle. It's not kind. It's the kiss of a man who has been holding himself back for too long, who is tired of pretending he's something he's not. My mouth crashes down on hers, a brutal, bruising thing. It’s a punishment and a plea all at once.
She makes a sound against my mouth—surprise, or maybe fear—and I feel it go through me like a live wire, setting every nerve ending alight.
She kisses me back.
It’s not a surrender. It’s a challenge. Her tongue meets mine, fierce and demanding, and her fingers tangle in my hair, yanking hard enough to make my scalp sting.
A low growl rumbles in my chest. Good. I don’t want her soft.
I want her sharp edges. I want her to fight me.
I want my father to hear every gasp and thud and be as tormented as I am by the walls listening.
I push her against the door. The expensive mahogany wood groans under the impact, the sound swallowed by our ragged breathing.
The cold surface bites into her back, but she doesn't flinch. She just looks at me with those steady brown eyes, her pupils blown wide with a dark, mirroring hunger and fear, and I feel something inside me crack. A fissure straight through the stone I’d built around myself.
"You're working against me," I say, my voice a shredded whisper against her lips. "You're trying to stop me."
"I'm trying to save you." Her voice is steady, but her chest is heaving, pressing against mine. A liar. A beautiful, infuriating liar.
"I don't want to be saved."
"Then what do you want?"
I don't answer. I can't. Because I don't know what I want anymore.
I don't know anything except the feel of her beneath my hands, the taste of her on my lips—rain and something sweet, like honey—the way she says my name like it's a prayer and a curse and a death sentence and the only thing that matters.
I reach for her throat.
My hand wraps around her neck. Her breath hitches, a sharp, sudden intake of air. Her eyes widen, a flicker of something—fear? excitement?—before it’s swallowed by that defiant fire. But she doesn't pull away. She leans into it.
"You're mine," I say, the words a gravelly rasp. "You've been mine since the moment I saw you."
I kiss her again—rougher this time, more demanding.
It’s a maelstrom of teeth and tongue, a frantic, messy devouring.
She bites my lip, hard enough to draw blood, and a metallic tang floods my mouth.
I groan, the pain a sharp, welcome spike in the fog of my desperation.
The taste of copper fills my mouth, and I know she can taste it too.
"Fuck," I breathe against her lips.
"Say it," I say, my thumb stroking the frantic pulse in her throat. "Say you're mine."
Her chin lifts, a spark of pure defiance in her eyes. "I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm yours, Nathan." She says it like a vow, like a battle cry.
I don’t bother with finesse. I don’t have the patience to be gentle, I don't have the control to be careful.
My hands fist in the fabric of her dress, yanking it up around her waist. The sound of tearing fabric is loud in the quiet hall.
I feel nothing but satisfaction knowing my father could definitely hear now.
I tear at her underwear, the delicate lace ripping away like paper.
She gasps when I touch her, her body arching against mine, a raw, needy sound escaping her throat.
Her hands are just as frantic, fisting in my shirt, popping buttons, her nails raking down my chest.
"You want this," I say, my fingers finding her slick and ready. "You want me."
"Yes." The word is a sob. "God, yes."
"Then take it."
I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist, her ankles locking behind my back.
I fumble with my belt—cursing under my breath, my hands shaking with a need so violent it's almost blinding—and then I'm free, and I'm pushing inside her, and she's crying out against my shoulder, her teeth sinking into my skin.
It's not gentle.
It's not kind.
It's the kind of sex that comes from desperation—the kind that comes from fear and anger and the desperate need to feel something other than the emptiness.
I fuck her against the door, my hand still around her throat, my hips slamming into hers with a force that makes the wood groan in protest. Each thrust is a brutal, claiming stroke.
"You're mine," I say, the words punctuated by the rhythm of my hips. "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine."
She claws at my back. Her nails dig into my skin, leaving hot, stinging trails that will still be there tomorrow. I feel the pain and I welcome it. I need it. I need to feel something other than the numbness that's been eating me alive. I need her to mark me, to prove this is real.
"Beg for it," I grunt, my lips against her ear. "Beg me to fuck you."
"Please," she whimpers, her head thrashing against the door. "Please, Nathan, fuck me harder. I need it. I need you."
I give her what she wants. I give her everything I have. I fuck her like I'm trying to bury myself in her, like I'm trying to forget, like I'm trying to prove that I'm still human. My fingers tighten on her throat, enough to make her breath a series of sharp, desperate rasps.
"You feel that?" I rasp, my forehead pressed to hers. "That's me. That's what you do to me. You make me fucking crazy. I can't breath without you."
"I know," she chokes out, her eyes wild. "I know."
"This pussy is mine," I snarl, driving into her. "Say it."
"It's yours," she sobs. "It's yours, Nathan."
She comes with a sob. Her body convulses around mine, a vice-like grip, her nails raking down my back, her teeth sinking into my shoulder.
The sharp, exquisite pain pushes me over the edge, and I follow a moment later, burying myself to the hilt, filling her, claiming her from the inside out.
My release is a violent shudder, a guttural roar torn from my chest.
"You're the only thing that makes sense," I gasp, the words muffled against her skin, my body still trembling with the aftershocks. My blood is on her lips. Her marks are on my skin. We are a perfect, brutal mess.
She doesn't answer.
She can't.
We stay there for a long moment.
My forehead is pressed to hers. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest—steady, slow, the same rhythm that's been keeping me alive for the past year.
"I love you," I say.
She doesn't say it back. She just holds me tighter.
And I let her.
I pull out of her slowly.
She slides down the door, her legs shaking, her dress still bunched around her waist. I watch her for a moment—the way she catches her breath, the way she smooths her hair, the way she avoids my eyes.
She's embarrassed.
But there's something else in her expression tonight. Something that looks almost like determination.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
She looks at me. Her eyes are brown, steady, unreadable.
"I'm thinking about what comes next," she says.
"What comes next?"
"The end." She pulls her dress down, smoothing the fabric. "The end of all of this."
I don't know what she means. I don't know if I want to know.
"I'm going to stop you," she says. "I'm going to stop all of it."
"You can't."
"Watch me."
She turns and walks away. I stand in the hallway, my body still trembling, my heart still pounding, and I watch her go.
She's going to try to stop me.
She's going to fail.
But I'm going to let her try.
Because she's the only thing that makes sense.
And I don't know how to let her go.
I go back to my office.
The map is still on my desk. The pins and lines and careful notations. I stare at it for a long time, thinking about the future. About the empire. About everything I'm going to build.
I think about the children in the cages. About the ones I've already sold. About the ones I'm going to sell.
I think about what I've become.
I'm a monster. I've always been a monster. But Monika makes me want to be something else.
I don't know how to be something else.
I don't know if I want to.