“We’ll talk later,” he says, finally lowering the weapon. “Right now, you’re going to come home with me. You’re going to do exactly as I say.”
He tucks the pistol away, as if this is just another night, another ride. Everything has changed. He has made sure of it.
I press myself back into the seat, struggling to slow my breath. Outside, the city races by, blurred and unreachable. Inside, I am caught, no longer sure if I am captive or conspirator, prey or accomplice.
Adrian leans back, silent and implacable. The game is over. A new one has begun.
The car glides through the dark streets, every streetlight sliding over us like a spotlight, but inside it’s all shadow. I can barely move. Adrian’s words echo in my skull, heavy as the weight of his hand, the threat of that gun.
He says nothing more, just sits beside me, his presence filling every inch of the car. I keep my eyes fixed on the window, hands twisted together in my lap, trying to keep my breathing steady.
I want to scream, to demand answers, to claw back some shred of control, but I am trapped—by the memory of cold metal against my jaw, by the realization that I never understood how far he would go.
I risk a glance at him. His face is unreadable, the predator at rest, all power and patience. My skin still tingles where the barrel touched me, a memory that won’t fade.
We ride in silence, every second stretching, tightening. I don’t know what he will ask of me, or what I’ll have to give. Only that the rules have changed.
I force myself to sit tall, to keep my chin up. If this is the new game, I will not be the first to break.
Chapter Fourteen - Adrian
The drive back from the Bratva event is shrouded in heavy silence. Talia sits beside me, hands tight in her lap, jaw set and eyes on the blurred lights beyond the window.
I don’t speak. I like it this way. Her tension, her uncertainty, her mind racing to catch up with what just happened. Let her feel the weight of what I have done, of the rules I have rewritten in a single, public move.
When we reach the estate—my true home, the place where no one’s watching but me and my ghosts—I step out without looking at her. The guards open the gates. The driver moves to the back, waiting for my signal.
“Bring her things from the guest room,” I order, voice cold, final. “She stays in the main wing now.”
Talia’s eyes widen as she climbs out of the car, the moonlight catching the dark fall of her hair, the edge of her ruined calm. She doesn’t ask questions. Not yet.
Inside, the mansion is colder than the city. The floors are marble, the windows high and narrow, the corners lost in shadow. It is a fortress, every stone laid for defense, every camera and lock and alarm meant to keep threats out—or in.
I lead her through the maze of corridors, my footsteps measured, hers echoing close behind. The staff vanish at my approach. This is not a home built for warmth.
I stop before a set of carved oak doors, pushing them open to reveal a suite: spacious, elegant, but stripped of anything soft. It is next to my own chambers, separated only by a private hall. Not in my room, but close enough that I can reach her in a heartbeat. I step aside to let her in.
She pauses in the doorway, eyes flicking around the space—bed, windows, fireplace, a single armoire, a faint trace of lavender from fresh linen. Her gaze is wary, but curiosity glimmers beneath the fear.
Talia steps inside. I follow, shutting the door behind us with a soft, irrevocable click.
“You live here now,” I tell her, my voice low and even. “No more games, Talia. You follow my rules. You want to survive, you do what I say.”
She turns to face me, chin raised, eyes dark and defiant. I see her weighing her options, rehearsing a hundred possible retorts, but she says nothing. I close the space between us. The night’s tension is a living thing in the air.
I don’t bother with more words. I have watched her long enough. Smiling for the crowd, lying to my face, walking around like she doesn’t know what she does to me. Tonight, I want truth. I want what’s real, stripped of strategy and mask and fear.
I press her gently against the wall. Not hard, just enough to remind her who holds the power here, who writes the next move. My hand finds her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, then trailing slowly down her neck. Her pulse is wild under my touch. I follow the line of her collarbone, over her chest, feeling the shape of her breast.
She gasps, a soft sound, part fear, part desire. Her eyes close for a moment, then snap open, meeting mine. I watch her reactions, every flicker, every tremble, every stuttered breath. I want to know her limits, to see where her bravado ends and the real Talia begins.
My other hand slides down her side, gathering her dress in my palm. I graze the back of my fingers between her thighs,over the thin barrier of silk and lace. She freezes, muscles taut, head pressed to the wall.
It’s not fear that holds her, it’s anticipation. She’s caught between wanting and denying, every nerve awake, every sense straining toward what comes next.
I press into her, slow and intense, fingers teasing the place where she is already trembling. I do not rush. I want her to feel every second of this, every shift of my hand, every test of her control. She lets out a broken whisper. My name, soft and pleading.
That’s when I know. She’s untouched. Her hips buck slightly, her hands flutter at her sides, not pushing me away but not yet pulling me closer. I slow my movements, fingers tracing circles, not giving, just coaxing, learning the shape of her response.