Ashley's POV:
The club pulsed like a living thing — bass thudding, lights cutting through smoke, the crowd moving as one chaotic heartbeat. I could feel eyes on me long before my phone buzzed. His eyes.
I pulled it from my purse. One message. No name — just a number I'd already memorized like a scar.
Roman: The red looks desperate on you.Every man in this place is looking at you like they want to consume you. I don't share, Sunbeam. Leave. Now.
The blood ran cold in my veins, a familiar, paralyzing fear seizing my heart. He was already here. But the fear was immediately overtaken by a desperate, cold fury—the quiet kind that turns cold instead of loud. He thought he still owned the right to tell me what to wear. Where to breathe. Who to be. This act of defiance was the only thing keeping the panic at bay.
I typed back, my hands trembling violently, forcing my fingers to hit the keys. This was the moment I committed. This was the line in the sand.
Ashley: Make me.
Three dots appeared. Blinked. Vanished.
I opened another chat. The one that mattered. My father's encrypted number. My thumb hovered, then pressed send.
Ashley: Go.
One word. The match to everything we'd built in secret. By morning, they'd be ghosts — safe ones.
Chloe leaned close. "You good?"
I nodded, the lie tasting like smoke. "Perfect," I insisted, forcing the word past my suddenly dry throat.
She frowned. "You're shaking."
"Adrenaline," I lied again.
"Or maybe it's him."
I didn't answer. I just looked out across the crowd — every flash of light, every shadow a possibility. I knew he was here. He was breathing the same air, watching me struggle to appear unaffected. I was terrified, yes, but I had to hold the line.
I lifted my chin, finished my drink, and let the burn steady me.
"Let's dance," I said.
If he wanted to hunt, then fine. I'd give him a show worth chasing.
The music swallowed the world. For one perfect moment I forgot the fear, the plans, the ghosts — and just moved.
Eyes closed. Breathless. I was a decoy, nothing more, dancing on the edge of a panic attack.
Then warmth pressed against my back — a hand at my waist, heavy, steady, claiming.
Every muscle in my body stilled. I didn't need to turn around. I already knew.
"Missed me?" he murmured, his breath grazing my ear. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, the sound of his voice sliding under my skin like a memory I'd tried to burn. The fear was now a violent shiver down my spine.
I opened my eyes but didn't turn. "You always did hate when I enjoyed myself," I challenged, injecting a brittle, feigned carelessness into my tone, praying he didn't hear the tremor underneath.
He chuckled — low, dangerous, the kind that sounded like it could break into a growl. "You call this enjoyment? You're vibrating, Sunbeam. You're waiting to see how long I'll let you pretend to be free. The fear in your throat is music to me. I heard your heartbeat skip when you saw my text."
I tightened my jaw. "Maybe I'm just bored."
"Liar," he said softly, his voice dark and possessive. His hand, heavy and possessing, didn't move from my waist. "You came here because you knew I'd follow. And you came in that dress because you wanted to remind me exactly what I own. Did you really think running into a crowd of my people would save you?"
The weight of his control, the casualness of his possession, struck me. My carefully constructed facade cracked, and a visible tremor ran through me. I swallowed hard, the fear of his physical presence washing away the fleeting pride of my rebellion.
"Let go," I forced out, the word coming out as a strained plea rather than a command.
He didn't. Instead, he pulled me back until my spine met the hard wall of his chest. "Why?" His voice was a cruel, low caress. "That one word you sent—'Go'—was a sacrifice, wasn't it? I watched your little brother put those bags in the car. Very sweet. Now that you've secured their safety, you are officially all mine, with no reason to run. The deal is sealed. You are my prize and this time there will be no escaping, I will make sure…"
His voice trailed off as his lips moved from my ear, down the fragile curve of my neck, and pressed possessively against my bare shoulder. The cold, expensive silk of his shirt brushed my cheek, contrasting with the heat of his skin.
That contact, that sickening claim, was the breaking point. With a gasp, I twisted, aiming a sharp, desperate kick high into his inner thigh.
Roman made a sound—a controlled, guttural "Ah"—but his hold never faltered. The flinch was barely perceptible. I had hurt him, but not enough. I lunged away, shouting "Chloe!"—a useless, muffled cry in the noise.
It was the only advantage I got. Before I could take a second step, Roman recovered with impossible speed. A vice clamped around my arms, spinning me back around. The crowd, thick and oblivious, separated us from Chloe.
Then the world tilted violently. He scooped me up with savage strength, not like a person, but a sack of potatoes, throwing my body over his rock-hard shoulder. The sudden movement and the pain of my stomach hitting his hard muscle made me gasp.
I screamed, muffled by the music, and began to pound uselessly on his back as he stalked through the dense crowd, his height cutting a path through the club's confusion. He held me so tightly my chest was crushed against the fine wool of his jacket.
"You try to hurt me, Sunbeam? Bad choice," he growled, the vibration running through his body and into mine. "You are coming home now. And you will be punished for every single lie."
He reached a door marked "Staff Only" and kicked it open. We were in a cold, quiet hallway. I struggled frantically, kicking and twisting, trying to slide off his shoulder.
"Stop moving," he commanded, his voice tight with controlled pain and rage. He pinned my legs with one arm, the pressure agonizing, and shoved the door to the outside alley open with the other.
A sleek black car waited, engine running, doors already open. As he slammed my flailing body onto the leather seat, I reached frantically for the door handle.
But before my fingers could grasp the metal, a heavy hand covered my face, and a pungent, sickly sweet odor filled my senses. A handkerchief soaked in chloroform was pressed hard against my mouth and nose.
I inhaled sharply, fighting, thrashing against his weight, the chemical burn stinging my lungs. Roman's dark shadow blocked the faint light from the club door.
"Sleep," he whispered, a final, cruel command. "The fun is just about to start."
My vision blurred. The pain in my shoulder, the terror, the smell—it all merged into a dizzying white noise. Roman's face was the last thing I saw—cold, triumphant, utterly devoid of mercy—before the world dissolved into black.
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Author Note🎭
Well, that went precisely according to Roman's plan. Ashley, sweetheart, you made a valiant effort, but you don't bring pepper spray to a chemical weapon fight. 🤦♀️
We love the "kick him in the nuts" moment—a true flash of defiance! 💥 But Roman is done playing games. The family is safe (for now), but Ashley just sealed her own fate. She is his prize, and the lesson is officially about to begin.
Get ready. The next chapter is where the true darkness, and the obsessive love, resides. ⛓️
Happy reading!
-Vaanni 🖤