Sleep didn't come easily.
Not when every shadow in the room reminded me of Derek's voice.
Not when my skin still burned from where he'd touched me—barely.
I hated him for the power he held over me. I hated how my body reacted to his presence, how my thoughts drifted toward him even when I tried to resist.
But most of all, I hated how some twisted part of me… wanted him to come back.
The door creaked open again the next night.
This time, I was ready.
I sat by the window, dressed in one of the silk nightgowns his staff insisted I wear, my knees pulled to my chest and eyes fixed on the stars. I didn't turn when I heard his footsteps.
"Elena," Derek's voice was quieter than usual—calculated. Like he wasn't here to argue.
I kept my eyes forward. "Didn't know you made house calls two nights in a row."
"I could say the same for you. Hiding again?"
I turned slowly to face him. "It's not hiding when I'm trying to survive."
He stepped into the moonlight, the planes of his face sharp and flawless. "No one's hurting you here."
"You are," I said simply. "Not with chains. But with this… game. This silence. The way you act like you don't want me when I know you do."
He studied me, his jaw tightening. "And if I do? What then?"
"Then stop pretending."
The room crackled with tension.
He crossed it in three strides, grabbing my chin between his fingers—firm, but not rough. "You think this is me pretending? You think I don't want to throw you on that bed and ruin you for any man who'll ever look at you again?"
My breath caught.
"But I won't," he continued darkly. "Because the moment I do, you'll think you've won. That you have some control over me."
"Maybe I already do," I whispered.
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then—he laughed. A low, dangerous sound that made heat curl in my stomach.
"You're playing with fire, Elena."
"Maybe I want to get burned."
His lips crashed into mine.
Not soft. Not gentle. But desperate—hungry.
I responded with equal force, my fingers tangled in his shirt, yanking him closer. His hands roamed down my back, gripping my hips as if he could fuse us together. I moaned against him, part from pleasure, part from confusion.
How did we get here?
How had hatred turned to heat?
He lifted me effortlessly, laying me down on the bed like I was fragile crystal. Then, hovering above me, he stared down with something that looked far too much like longing.
"This shouldn't happen," he murmured. "But I can't stop."
His mouth descended again, trailing fire across my collarbone, down to where silk met skin. I arched into him, surrendering—for a moment—to the chaos we'd created.
But just as quickly as it started, he pulled back.
Chest heaving. Eyes wild.
"Not yet," he said hoarsely. "Not until you admit what we both know."
"And what's that?" I breathed.
"That you want to be mine."
I blinked, heart thudding so hard it hurt. "And if I do?"
"Then I'll stop holding back."
He stood, leaving me trembling on the sheets.
And I knew, in that moment, Derek Moretti hadn't just captured my body.
He was holding my soul hostage.
---
The next morning, everything changed.
He didn't show up at breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner.
I wandered the estate like a ghost, lost without his tormenting presence. Every corner felt colder, every room quieter.
And when I asked one of the guards where he was, they just said, "He's handling business."
Business.
The word felt like a slap. As if everything we shared the night before meant nothing to him. Just another trick. Another way to twist the knife.
But the worst part?
I still missed him.
That night, I stormed into his office, only to find it empty. His scent lingered in the air—cologne and danger.
On the desk, a file sat open. My name was on the first page.
My breath hitched as I read line after line of information. Details about my family. My life. My secrets.
He knew everything.
And suddenly, the attraction, the obsession—it all felt like a trap.
I wasn't just falling for Derek Moretti.
I was being hunted by him.
And the real question was:
Would I escape before it was too late?