“That’s not possible.”
“You can’t keep me here.” Her voice rises slightly, control slipping. “I have a job, an apartment, people who will notice if I disappear.”
“Your office believes you’re taking emergency personal leave. Your landlord has been notified you’ll be away for several weeks. The people who matter have been contacted.”
The color drains from her face as the implications settle. I handled the logistics while she was unconscious in the SUV,a few carefully worded emails and phone calls from numbers that won’t trace back to me. It’s impossible to reverse without drawing exactly the kind of attention she can’t afford.
“You had no right—”
She moves suddenly, pushing past me toward the door with enough force that I have to shift my stance. I block her path instinctively, my body between her and the exit.
“Move,” she demands, her hands coming up to shove against my chest.
The contact is hard, genuine resistance rather than theatrical protest. I catch both her wrists before she can strike again, pivoting to pin them against the wall beside the entry corridor. The motion is controlled but firm, my grip tight enough to restrain without bruising.
She’s trapped between my body and the wall, breath coming fast and angry, dark eyes locked on mine with fury that makes my pulse spike. The proximity is electric—her chest rising and falling against mine, the heat of her skin beneath my hands, the faint scent of fear and adrenaline mixing with something distinctly her.
“Let go of me.” The words are steady despite the tremor I feel in her wrists.
I should. This level of contact crosses lines I set deliberately to maintain control. But the feel of her struggling against my hold, the way her pulse hammers visibly at the base of her throat, the defiance radiating from every inch of her body—it shifts something primal inside me.
“You’re not leaving,” I tell her quietly, leaning close enough that my breath brushes her temple. “Accept that now and this becomes easier.”
“Easier for who?” She tries to wrench free, the movement futile but determined. “You break into my apartment, watch me sleep, drag me to some… some compound in the middle of nowhere, and expect me to just accept it?”
The mention of her apartment makes me pause. I release her wrists slowly, stepping back just enough to give her space while still blocking the exit.
“You saw the footage,” I say, and it’s not a question.
Her expression confirms it—jaw tight, eyes bright with anger and violation. She checked the camera feed before the attack. Saw me sitting beside her bed in the early morning hours, watching her sleep with an attention that crossed every boundary between surveillance and obsession.
“You were in my bedroom.” Her voice drops lower, shaking with suppressed emotion. “You sat there and watched me while I was unconscious. What kind of person does that?”
“Someone making sure you stayed alive,” I tell her. “Sartore’s people were watching your building. I needed to confirm your security measures were inadequate before they made their move.”
It’s partially true—I was assessing vulnerabilities, cataloging entry points, measuring response times. The rest of it, the twenty minutes spent studying the curve of her body beneath thin sheets, memorizing the way her breathing changed in sleep, was purely selfish.
She sees through the justification. “You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want.” I cross my arms, settling into the same controlled posture I use in negotiations where emotional leverage matters more than facts. “Understand this: from this moment forward, you stay here. You don’t leave the estate grounds without my approval. You don’t contact anyoneoutside without clearance. Your movements are monitored, your communications tracked, your access restricted.”
“So I’m your prisoner?”
“You’re under my protection.” I hold her gaze, letting the steel show. “Sartore wants you dead. He tried once tonight and failed. He’ll try again unless you’re somewhere he can’t reach. This estate is secured beyond anything you’ve experienced: armed guards, biometric access, camera coverage that leaves zero blind spots. You’re safer here than anywhere else.”
“Safe from everyone except you.”
The observation is accurate and uncomfortably perceptive. She’s the greatest threat to my operations, the civilian who could expose everything with a single well-placed disclosure. Keeping her here contains that risk while creating an entirely new set of complications I’m still measuring.
“I’m not the one who put a gun to your ribs tonight,” I remind her.
“No, you’re just the one who’s been stalking me for days, breaking into my home, manipulating my life.” She pushes away from the wall, creating distance between us even though there’s nowhere to go. “How is that better?”
It’s not. By any objective measure, what I’ve done is worse. Sartore’s men were following orders. I’ve been operating on obsession disguised as operational necessity.
“It’s better because you’re alive,” I say simply. “Whether you frame this as imprisonment or protection doesn’t change the outcome. You stay here until the threat is neutralized.”
“Then what?”
