Ashley's POV:
The doorknob turned.
The sound was sharp, metallic, and final, slicing through the agonizing silence I had been wrapped in for hours.
My heart tried to claw its way up my throat, but I forced a paralyzing stillness onto my body.
I focused only on the ice water flowing through my veins, channeling every ounce of my will into maintaining the perfect tableau of defeat.
I was the very picture of a broken, exhausted spirit, collapsed onto the couch.
Roman stepped inside.
The harsh, motion-activated light caught the severe, almost chiseled lines of his face.
Tonight, he didn't look like a captor fresh from an interrogation; he looked like a wealthy, weary man coming home to his wife.
This casual mask of normalcy was, to me, the most terrifying thing he could wear.
He closed the door with a gentle click, but his gaze, when it found me, was anything but gentle. It was possessive, demanding, and utterly satisfied.
He walked past me to shed his heavy outer coat—a deep, luxurious wool that suggested a business entirely separate from kidnapping and murder.
He tossed it onto a nearby chair, then came to the couch.
Instead of looming over me, which I expected, he sank onto the cushion beside me.
"Hello, Sunbeam," he murmured, his voice a low, heavy purr that vibrated deep in my chest.
Before I could tense, before my body could betray me with a single flinch, his arm snaked around my waist.
He pulled me backward, against the solid, terrifying wall of his chest, locking me into a firm back-hug.
The scent of him—expensive cologne, leather, and that pervasive, cold metallic hint of violence—suffocated me.
I wanted to scream, to claw, but I forced my muscles to go slack, melting into his grip like a defeated rag doll.
My hand, which was gripping the edge of the cushion, relaxed, palms facing upward in a gesture of absolute surrender.
He buried his face in my hair, inhaling deeply, proprietarily. "You smell like home," he breathed out, the words a velvet vice around my sanity. "Like my home. Did you rest, dusha (soul)? Did you finally stop fighting the inevitable?"
"Yes," I whispered, the sound brittle and weak. I gave him the minimal response, the voice of a person who had forgotten how to argue. "I rested."
"Good girl." His grip tightened momentarily, a painful confirmation of his pleasure. He pulled back just enough to slide one hand up, cupping the side of my face.
He tilted my head back, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually cold, were warm now, filled with a dark, suffocating adoration that didn't feel like love, but like a feverish possession.
"You look so tired, moya zvezda," he whispered, his thumb brushing the delicate skin under my eye. "You fought too hard. All that pain... it was unnecessary. I just needed you to understand the parameters of your life now. What I offer isn't a choice, Ashley. It's the absolute, logical conclusion of your existence. You were always destined to belong only here, only to me."
"I... I understand now," I choked out, allowing a single, fake tear to slide down my temple and disappear into the couch fabric. "I'm sorry I fought."
He paused, studying the tear, his expression complex. It was a moment of victory for him.
He kissed me then—not punishing, but deep, lingering, and possessive. His lips were soft, his control absolute.
It was the kiss of ownership, a gentle confirmation of a brutal act.
I endured it, my own lips slack and unresponsive, focusing only on the calculation: He believes you. Keep performing.
The thought of the murder evidence gave me the strength not to vomit.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine, his tone shifting into protective concern. "I'm starving. And you need to eat, too. I brought back your favorite. Tonight, we will have a proper meal, and then we will rest. You simply rest, dusha. You let me care for you. Let me heal you."
He released me and stood up. "Come. I insist."
The dinner was a sickening ritual played out at the vast, mahogany dining table. It was set for two, with silver and crystal, a horrifying mockery of a domestic date night.
He had brought back a delicate, creamy mushroom soup, which he served with a meticulous care that felt like a threat.
He didn't just let me eat. He took the spoon himself.
"Open for me, Sunbeam," he instructed, his eyes never leaving mine.
I obeyed, my throat tight. The soup was rich, hot, and delicious, but the intimacy of the act—being fed by the man who had ruined my life—made my stomach churn.
"Is it good?" he asked, watching my face.
"Yes," I managed.
"Of course, it is. I chose it for you. Everything I choose for you is perfect. Remember that." He brought the spoon back up. "You are too thin. You need strength. I can't have my queen looking frail."
He continued the agonizing ritual, spoon-feeding me several more bites, each one a confirmation of his absolute control.
He was asserting his role as my provider, my caretaker, cementing his fantasy that I was now his grateful, submissive partner.
"When you were fighting," he murmured, leaning closer, "I confess, it gave me a certain thrill. But this, Ashley... this surrender. This is better. This is what I always wanted. A mind that trusts me, a body that yields to me. We can start planning now. New clothes. New home. New life. No more past, only Roman."
I kept my gaze down, only looking up when I swallowed. "I only want what you want," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I am tired of fighting, Roman. I am ready to belong."
His jaw softened. It was the closest I had ever seen him come to looking like the Roman I thought I knew—my brother's friend, charming and distant.
But the darkness was just beneath the surface. He finally set the spoon down, wiping my mouth gently with a linen napkin.
"Beautiful," he declared, satisfied. "Finish the glass of water. I trust you haven't been dehydrating yourself?"
"No," I lied again, drinking the water quickly.
The ritual was finally over. He stood up, offering his hand. "Come. Now we rest."
The master suite was vast, dark, and overwhelmingly masculine. I changed into one of the silk robes he had purchased for me, its softness feeling like the cold shackles of my new reality.
Roman was moving through his own nightly routine, setting an alarm for sunrise, checking the doors. He didn't lock the bedroom door. He didn't need to. He believed his control was the lock.
He slid into the massive bed first, his presence dominating the space. I climbed in carefully, trying to take up as little room as possible on my edge.
The light went out, plunging the room into darkness.
Before he fully gave into sleep, he rolled over. His arm came around my waist, and with surprising strength, he pulled me back against him. His warm breath ghosted my neck.
"Relax, lyubimaya (Beloved)," he commanded softly, using the Russian term for beloved. "Don't hold yourself so stiffly. You've earned this rest. Close your eyes. You are mine. Nothing can touch you. Not even your own thoughts."
He spent a long time simply holding me, his hand resting over my stomach.
I lay there for what felt like an eternity, rigid with loathing and fear, waiting for the one sound I desperately needed to hear: the deep, even cadence of his sleep.
I cataloged every shift, every sigh, every small change in his breathing pattern.
Finally, long past midnight, the rhythm settled. It was heavy, immovable, the sound of a man who held no fear and slept with absolute confidence.
Now.
Fueled by a pure, terrifying adrenaline, I began to move.
Inch by agonizing inch, I slid off the bed.
It took nearly ten minutes to free myself from his light but possessive embrace without disturbing him. The sheets didn't rustle. The springs didn't creak. I was a ghost.
I navigated the room like a phantom, my bare feet silent on the expensive carpet.
I picked up nothing—no shoes, no phone, no coat—nothing that would slow me down. Only the freedom of my own two feet mattered.
I was in the thick-carpeted hallway, halfway to the staircase, when it happened.
It wasn't a shout or a crash. It was a sharp, indrawn gasp from the master suite.
Roman had woken up.
His body, attuned to the presence of mine through months of violent intimacy and possessive contact, had registered the subtle absence of my weight, the loss of my skin against his. He hadn't heard me leave; he had felt it, a primal, possessive reflex.
"Ashley!" His voice was immediately awake, a low, murderous hiss that promised unbearable pain.
I didn't stop. I flew down the staircase, the marble cold beneath my feet, the sound of my ragged breathing swallowed by the silent house.
I didn't look back. I knew he was already out of the bed, his mind moving faster than mine.
I reached the ground floor and sprinted through the dining room, past the table where he had fed me the lie of his affection.
I was at the mudroom door, my hand closing on the cool metal handle, when I heard the thunder on the staircase.
I threw the door open and burst outside. The cold gravel bit into my feet, a sharp, welcome pain that focused my panic.
A moment later, a terrifying roar—the sound of a possessive beast realizing its favorite possession was gone—shook the silent night.
I slammed the mudroom door shut just as I heard the heavy thud of his hand impacting the wood from the inside.
I was already across the yard, running blind into the black, suffocating shadow of the forest, the echo of his rage chasing me into the night.
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Author's Note:
Ah yes, nothing screams "true love" like a back-hug that doubles as a hostage situation 🫠.
Roman's love language? Possession with a side of soup 🍲❤️.
Meanwhile, Ashley deserves an Academy Award for "Most Convincing Rag Doll Performance" 🎭👏.
Honestly, if survival were an Olympic sport, she'd be sprinting home with gold by the time that shower turned on 🏃♀️🥇🚿.
But hey, everyone expresses affection differently—some buy flowers, others enforce captivity 🌹🔗. Balance, right?
Anyway, friendly reminder: if someone calls you "Sunbeam," make sure there's an exit plan and a forest nearby 🌒🌲😉.
-Vaanni 🖤