Jewelry

"Stephan," Roberta whined, trying to salvage what was left of her dignity. She stepped toward him, reaching for his bare arm. "Why is she here? I thought tonight was for us."

Stephan brushed her hand off as if she were a piece of lint. "There is no 'us', Roberta. There hasn't been for a long time. I tolerate you because of your mother. Do not test that tolerance."

He walked past her to a small table, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid. He took a sip, then turned back to face us. "Get out."

"But—"

"Now," he barked, the word cracking like a whip.

Roberta flinched. She looked from him to me, her eyes filled with venomous tears. "You'll regret this," she spat at me. "He breaks everything he touches."

With a swirl of her black silk, she stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It was just us. The locked door, the dim lighting, and the man who claimed he owned me standing half-naked a few feet away.

"Come here," he said.

I stayed rooted to the spot near the door. "You have a girlfriend. You shouldn't be inviting other women into your bedroom."

He set the glass down with a deliberate clink. "You are not 'other women'." He took a step toward me. "I told you once, Alina. I make the rules. Rule number one: when I call, you come."

"I'm not a dog," I snapped, fear making me reckless.

"No," he agreed, closing the distance between us in three long strides. He stopped inches from me. I could feel the heat radiating off his damp skin. He smelled of soap and danger. "A dog is loyal. You are defiant."

He reached into the pocket of the discarded suit jacket draped over a chair nearby. When his hand emerged, he was holding something that glittered in the lamplight.

My breath caught. It was a necklace. My necklace. The silver chain with the intricate, heavy pendant that I had worn since I was a baby—the one Suarez had stolen from me the night of my first abduction, twelve years ago.

"You kept it," I whispered, my eyes widening. "Why?"

"Turn around," he ordered softly.

For once, I didn't argue. I turned, lifting the heavy curtain of my hair. I felt his cool, calloused fingers brush against the nape of my neck, sending goosebumps erupting over my skin. He fastened the clasp. The weight of the pendant settled between my collarbones, familiar and grounding.

"It belongs to you," he murmured, his mouth hovering dangerously close to my ear. "Just as you belong to me."

I spun around, stepping back. "I don't belong to anyone."

"We'll see." His eyes dropped to my robe. "Take it off."

Panic flared in my chest. "No."

"Alina," he warned, his voice dropping to that dangerous, velvet timbre. "Do not make me tear it off you. Take. It. Off. Leave the underwear."

My hands shook. I knew he could overpower me with one hand. Fighting him physically was futile. I untied the sash, letting the silk robe pool at my feet, leaving me standing in a simple cotton camisole and panties. I felt exposed, vulnerable, my arms instinctively crossing over my chest.

"Lie on the bed," he commanded.

"Stephan, please," I pleaded, my voice trembling. "I don't want to do this. You said... you said you wouldn't force me."

"I'm not going to fuck you, Alina," he said brutally. "If I wanted to do that, you'd already be screaming my name ages ago. Now, get on the bed. On your back."

Confused and terrified, I climbed onto the black sheets. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed up beside me. He didn't touch me intimately. Instead, he hovered over me, his massive frame boxing me in.

He reached for a small metal case on the nightstand that I hadn't noticed before. He clicked it open.

Inside was a syringe.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, trying to scramble backward, but his hand clamped around my ankle, holding me in place with an iron grip.

"Insurance," he grunted. He uncapped the needle with his teeth. "You like to run, golubka. I can't have you running blindly into my enemies' hands again. This is a tracker. GPS. Subdermal."

"No! Get off me!" I kicked out, but he pinned my legs easily, spreading them apart. He positioned himself between my knees, his focus entirely on my inner thigh.

"Stay still," he ordered. "It will only pinch for a second."

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the pain, tears of frustration leaking out. I felt the cold swipe of an alcohol pad high on my inner thigh, just inches from my underwear line.

Then, nothing happened.

The prick of the needle didn't come.

The silence stretched, heavy and strange. I opened my eyes.

Stephan was frozen. He wasn't looking at the syringe in his hand. He was staring at my thigh. His hand, usually so steady, was hovering over my skin, his fingers trembling slightly.

"What?" I breathed, terrified by the look on his face. It wasn't anger. It wasn't lust. It was shock. Pure, unadulterated shock.

He dropped the syringe onto the mattress. His rough fingertips traced a shape on my skin—a small, peculiar birthmark shaped vaguely like a crest, one I had hated growing up because my friends teased me about it.

"Where did you get this?" he rasped, his voice sounding strangled.

"I... I was born with it," I stammered, confused by the sudden shift in his demeanor. "Stephan, what is it?"

He looked up at me, and for the first time since I'd met him in that alleyway, the mask of the ruthless Don slipped. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, reflecting a ghost I couldn't see.

"This mark," he whispered, his thumb pressing into the skin so hard it hurt. "I've seen this before. In the archives of the dead."

He looked from the mark to my face, searching my features as if seeing me for the very first time.

"What do you mean archives of the dead?" I questioned, propping myself up with my elbows.

He ran a hand over his face, and shook his head slightly. "Never mind."

Just as I was about to push the question again, he thrust the needle gently into my skin. I released a pained shriek, causing him to cover my mouth with his hand.

My head fell back to the bed because of the suddenness of the pain.

"You could have informed me," I chided, squeezing my eyes shut tight.

"And miss that little expression of yours? Not a chance," he said, rubbing the spot he had just injected.

He slid off the bed to his feet.

"Go back to your room, Alina. We are finished here."

I stared at him for a few seconds more before nodding weakly. The injection site throbbed with a dull, viscous heat that seemed to spread downward, turning my muscles into water.

I pushed myself off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor.

One step.Two steps. My knees buckled, but I didn't hit the ground, an arm like an iron band hooked around my waist.

"I said go to your room," he growled, his voice vibrating against my ribcage. "Not collapse on my floor."

"I... I can't," I gasped. "My legs."

With a huff of irritation that didn't quite reach his eyes, Stephan swept me up. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing more than a stray feather, cradling me high against his chest. My breath hitched the moment our skins came in contact. His cold skin was a soothing contrasts against mine.

He opened the doors open and strode into the corridor. Roberta stood near the staircase, her phone in hand. When she saw us, the phone clattered to the floor. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut into a thin line. Her gaze raked over me, filled with a consternation.

"Stephan," Roberta started, her voice shrill. "Surely, I can call a guard to—"

"Pick up your phone, Roberta," Stephan said without breaking stride. He didn't even look at her.

Stephan kicked my bedroom door shut behind us once we got inside, cutting off the rest of the house. The silence that followed was pressurized.

He crossed the room and deposited me onto the mattress. But he didn't pull away immediately.

I lay back against the pillows, her hair splayed out like a halo. I looked up at him, expecting him to turn on his heel and leave. Instead, Stephan lingered. His hands remained on the mattress on either side of my head, caging me in.

The throbbing in my leg seemed to have faded in that instant, replaced by a different kind of ache that stretched to my core.

"You are trouble, Alina," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't an accusation; it sounded almost like a confession.

He leaned down. His eyes, usually cold and impenetrable, were dark, the pupils blown wide. He brought a hand up, his knuckles grazing the line of my jaw, trailing down to the pulse point at my throat which fluttered wildly under his touch.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. There was a full on war going on in my head as to whether to pull away or not.

He lowered his head further, and his gaze dropped to my lips. My lips parted involuntarily, a silent invitation. The heat of his body became intoxicating. I wanted him to close the gap between us and end whatever this was already.

“You grew to be so fucking beautiful, Cara Mia,” he said, his breath ghosting over my lips. Then, he froze.

A flicker of something indistinguishable—guilt? disgust? clarity?—passed over his face. The spell shattered.

Stephan shoved himself away from the bed as if he had been burned. He stumbled back a step, his chest heaving once, and his hands balling into fists at his sides. He looked at me, then at the door, panic seeming to war with the desire still etched on his features.

Without another look, he turned and stormed out. The door slammed behind him with a finality that made the pictures on the wall rattle.

I lay alone in the dim light, my body humming with adrenaline. My lips tingled where he almost touched me, and my heart ached with a profound, terrifying confusion.