HIS RULES 2

I didn’t touch the food.

The tray sat on the table between the windows, steam curling lazily upward, filling the room with the scent of spices and something rich and savory. Under any other circumstances, I would have been starving. I hadn’t eaten since morning. My stomach cramped painfully, reminding me of that fact with sharp insistence.

Still, I stood where I was, unmoving.

Dominic noticed, of course. He noticed everything.

“You should eat,” he said again, his voice calm, patient. “Refusing won’t prove anything.”

Slowly, I moved to the chair closest to the table and sat. The chair was upholstered in dark fabric, soft beneath my hands, expensive in a way that made my skin crawl. Nothing in this room was accidental. Everything had been chosen—designed—to reinforce power and control.

Dominic took the seat across from me, long legs stretching comfortably beneath the table.

“Eat,” he said again, more quietly.

I picked up my fork. My hand trembled slightly, though I hated that he could see it. I stabbed a piece of food and brought it to my mouth, forcing myself to chew even though it tasted like nothing.

He watched me the entire time.

The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken things. I swallowed hard and set the fork down.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” I asked. “You watching my every move?”

“For now,” he replied. “Yes.”

“For now,” I repeated. “What happens later?”

“That depends on you.”

I looked up at him. “You said I wasn’t a prisoner.”

“And you’re not,” he said evenly. “Prisoners are kept through force. You’re here because you chose to be.”

My nails dug into my palm. “You call that a choice?”

“I do.”

Anger flared hot and sharp. “You threatened my family.”

“I presented consequences,” he corrected. “You weighed them and decided.”

“That’s manipulation.”

“Yes.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t soften it. He simply owned it.

“You’re honest,” I said bitterly.

“I don’t see the value in pretending otherwise.”

I pushed the plate away, appetite gone. “Why me?”

His gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“You could have taken anything,” I said. “Money. Property. Businesses. You didn’t need… this.”

“Didn’t I?”

He stood and walked toward the windows, hands clasped behind his back. The estate grounds stretched endlessly beyond the glass, dark and quiet under the night sky.

“People assume power is about accumulation,” he said. “It’s not. It’s about leverage.”

He turned back to me. “You are leverage.”

I stiffened. “Against who?”

“That,” he said calmly, “you don’t need to know yet.”

A chill crept through me.

“You planned this,” I said slowly. “You knew exactly what would happen.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

He paused.

“Long enough.”

I stood abruptly. “I want to take a shower.”

His eyes flicked to the bathroom door, then back to me. “Go.”

I hesitated again. “You’re not coming in?”

“No.”

Relief and unease tangled in my chest as I moved past him into the bathroom. It was as luxurious as the bedroom—marble floors, glass walls, fixtures that gleamed under soft lighting. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it, my knees threatening to give out.

My reflection stared back at me from the mirror.

I barely recognized myself.

My face was pale, my eyes too bright. My hands shook as I turned on the shower, steam filling the room. I stepped under the spray and let the hot water pound against my skin, hoping it would wash away the tightness in my chest.

It didn’t.

No matter how long I stood there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

When I finally turned the water off and wrapped a towel around myself, my pulse spiked again. I unlocked the door slowly and stepped back into the bedroom.

Dominic stood near the window again, his jacket removed, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard me.

“There are clothes on the bed,” he said. “Put them on.”

I crossed the room and found neatly folded pajamas, dark, far too intimate for my comfort.

“These aren’t mine,” I said.

“They are now.”

I bit back a retort and changed quickly, acutely aware of his presence even though he had turned away.

When I finished, I climbed onto the far side of the bed, sitting stiffly at the edge.

“Where are you sleeping?” I asked.

He removed his watch and placed it carefully on the dresser. “Here.”

My breath hitched. “You said...”

“I said we wouldn’t sleep together,” he replied. “That doesn’t mean I won’t sleep.”

He moved to the bed and lay down on the opposite side, his back against the headboard, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked entirely at ease.

I stared at the space between us. The bed was large, but it didn’t feel like enough.

“I won’t touch you without your consent,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t mean I won’t claim space.”

I lay back slowly, my body rigid, staring up at the ceiling.

The lights dimmed automatically.

The room plunged into shadow.

My heart raced.

“Why are you doing this?” I whispered into the darkness.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Then he spoke, his voice low and close.

“Because people only reveal who they truly are when they think they have no power.”

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see his silhouette.

“And what are you trying to reveal?” I asked.

His eyes met mine in the dark.

“You.”

Silence fell again.

Sleep did not come easily.

Every sound felt amplified the distant hum of the estate, the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me. I was acutely aware of the fact that he was there, that this was real, that I was bound to him by ink and fear and choices I could not undo.

Just as exhaustion began to drag me under, his voice broke the silence.

“Elara.”

“Yes?” I whispered.

“You should know something.”

My heart clenched. “What?”

“You won’t break me,” he said calmly.

I swallowed. “I wasn’t planning to try.”

His voice softened, just slightly.

“Everyone does.”