The dining room could have seated twenty people comfortably.
Its mahogany table stretched beneath a chandelier that threw prismatic light across walls lined with oil paintings that probably belonged in museums.
Instead, it seated two.
Elara at one end.
Kael at the other.
With enough space between them to park a car.
So much for intimate dinners.
She had changed into the one decent dress from her meager wardrobe—a simple black sheath that had seen her through job interviews and her mother's doctor appointments.
Here, surrounded by luxury that whispered of old money and older secrets, it felt like wearing a costume to a play she didn't understand.
At least it's not too revealing. The last thing I need is to give him ideas.
Kael, meanwhile, looked like he had stepped from the pages of a magazine dedicated to beautiful, dangerous men.
The casual clothes from earlier were gone.
In their place, a charcoal suit that fit him like it had been cut by angels.
A white shirt beneath—probably worth more than she used to make in a month.
Everything about him is perfect. Perfectly controlled, perfectly calculated, perfectly terrifying.
"You look lovely," he said.
His voice carried across the expanse of polished wood with the precision of a sniper's bullet.
"Thank you."
The words felt foreign in her mouth, like speaking a language she had only learned from textbooks.
Dinner arrived without fanfare.
Viktor appeared with plates that looked like edible art—seared duck breast with some kind of berry reduction, vegetables carved into geometric perfection, bread that smelled like heaven and probably cost more per slice than her old breakfast budget.
This is my life now. This is normal.
But nothing about this felt normal.
The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
Only the soft clink of silver against china and the distant hum of the city forty floors below broke it.
"Tell me about your mother," Kael said suddenly, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.
The request caught her off guard.
"What about her?"
"What she's like.
What she'll expect from me when we meet."
His dark eyes studied her face with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
"I need to know how to play the part."
Play the part. Right. Because even meeting my dying mother is just another performance.
"She's..."
Elara searched for words that would capture Linda Chen without making her sound vulnerable to a man who collected vulnerabilities like trophies.
"She's strong. Stronger than she looks. She raised me alone after my father left, worked two jobs to put me through college."
"What kind of jobs?"
"Cleaning offices at night, working in a bakery during the day."
The memories felt distant now, like scenes from someone else's life.
"She never complained. Never let me see how tired she was."
Unlike me. I've been complaining since the moment I met you.
"She sounds formidable."
"She is."
Elara took a sip of wine that probably cost more than her weekly grocery budget.
"She'll see right through you if you're not careful."
His smile was sharp as broken glass.
"Will she?"
"She has excellent instincts about people."
Which is why I'm terrified to introduce you to her.
"And what do you think her instincts will tell her about me?"
That you're dangerous. That you're using me. That I'm in way over my head and drowning fast.
"That you're not what you appear to be," she said instead.
"None of us are, angel."
He leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand, studying her with those predatory eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
"We're all performing versions of ourselves, trying to convince the world we're worth whatever price we're asking."
What price are you asking? What's the cost of being in your orbit?
"What version of yourself are you performing tonight?"
"The devoted fiancé who's utterly besotted with his beautiful bride-to-be."
His voice carried a trace of dark humor.
"Though I have to admit, it's not entirely a performance."
Heat crept up her neck at the implication.
"It has to be. You don't even know me."
"Don't I?"
He set down his wine glass and leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them.
"I know you take your coffee black because you can't afford cream.
I know you work double shifts without complaint because your mother needs those medical bills paid.
I know you have a scar on your left ankle from falling off your bike when you were seven, and another on your right palm from when you tried to fix a broken window at fourteen."
How does he know about the window? That happened at home, when it was just me and Mom.
"I know you read romance novels when you think no one's watching.
The kind with shirtless men on the covers and happy endings that probably seem impossible from where you're sitting now."
His smile was gentle and terrible.
"I know you bite your lip when you're nervous, that you unconsciously touch your throat when you're scared, and that you have a tell when you're lying—your left eye twitches, just slightly."
He's been studying me like a book. Learning my patterns. Cataloging my weaknesses.
"That's not knowing me," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"That's stalking me."
"It's research.
And it tells me everything I need to know about who you are."
He stood and moved around the table with that fluid grace that reminded her uncomfortably of large predators.
"You're loyal to the point of self-destruction.
You'd rather suffer than ask for help.
You believe in fairy tales despite all evidence to the contrary."
Stop looking at me like that. Stop seeing through me like I'm made of glass.
"And most importantly," he continued, stopping beside her chair, close enough that she could smell his cologne and the lingering scent of expensive whiskey, "you're exactly the kind of woman who could make people believe I'm capable of love."
Love. He says it like it's a foreign concept.
"Are you?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
"Capable of love?"
His hand came to rest on her shoulder, warm and possessive through the thin fabric of her dress.
"What do you think?"
I think you're capable of obsession. Of possession. Of wanting things so badly you'll take them whether they're offered or not.
"I think," she said carefully, "that you're capable of wanting things."
"Wanting, yes."
His fingers traced the line of her collarbone with devastating gentleness.
"I'm very good at wanting things, Elara.
And I'm even better at getting them."
Things. Not people. Things.
She stood abruptly.
Needing distance.
Needing space to breathe that wasn't filled with his presence.
But the dining room suddenly felt smaller.
The walls closing in like a trap.
"I should call my mother," she said.
"Let her know I'm... settled."
"Of course. But there are some ground rules we should discuss first."
Ground rules. Of course there are.
"Such as?"
He moved back to his chair, but his attention remained locked on her with laser intensity.
"You don't leave this building without security.
Viktor or one of his men will accompany you everywhere—shopping, visiting your mother, even trips to the lobby."
"I'm a prisoner."
"You're protected."
His voice carried that edge of steel she was beginning to recognize.
"There's a difference."
Is there? Because it feels exactly the same from where I'm standing.
"What else?"
"You don't discuss my business interests with anyone.
Not your mother, not Sarah, not a therapist if you decide you need one."
His smile held no warmth.
"Curiosity might not kill the cat in this case, but it will certainly make her very unhappy."
Threats wrapped in silk. His specialty.
"And if someone asks what you do for a living?"
"I'm a businessman with diverse holdings.
Import, export, real estate development, technology ventures."
The lies rolled off his tongue with practiced ease.
"All perfectly legal, all perfectly boring."
All perfectly bullshit.
"What about your... other activities?"
"What other activities?"
His voice dropped to that dangerous whisper that made her spine straighten involuntarily.
The killing. The violence. The empire built on fear and blood money.
"Nothing," she said quickly.
"Never mind."
"Good. Because curiosity about subjects that don't concern you would be... unwise."
He stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out at the city spread below.
"This apartment is your sanctuary, Elara.
Everything you could possibly need or want is provided.
Food. Entertainment.
Companionship when I'm available."
When you're available. Like you're granting me an audience.
"What if I want to go for a walk? Alone?"
"The building has a gym, a pool, gardens on the roof.
You can walk for hours without leaving the premises."
Without leaving my cage.
"What if I want to see a movie?"
"There's a screening room on the twentieth floor.
Any film you want can be arranged."
Any film except the one where I get to leave.
"What if I want my freedom?"
The question hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
Kael turned from the window, his dark eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"Freedom," he repeated, testing the weight of the word.
"That's an interesting concept.
Tell me, angel—when were you ever really free?
When you were working double shifts just to survive?
When you were choosing between groceries and your mother's medication?
When you were living in fear that the next phone call would be a bill you couldn't pay?"
He's not wrong. I haven't been free in years.
"That's different," she said weakly.
"Is it?
Or is it just a different kind of cage?"
He moved toward her again, each step deliberate, predatory.
"At least this cage has silk sheets and French champagne."
And electronic locks. And GPS trackers. And a man who kills people like it's a hobby.
"What happens if I try to leave?"
The question stopped him mid-stride.
For a moment, something cold and terrible moved behind his beautiful eyes.
A reminder of what he was capable of when people defied him.
"You won't," he said simply.
"But what if I do?"
His smile was gentle—and absolutely terrifying.
"Then you'll discover that the protection I provide comes with expectations, angel.
And disappointment... has consequences."
Consequences. His favorite word.
"What kind of consequences?"
He was close enough now to touch her.
Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
His hand came up to trace the line of her jaw with devastating gentleness.
"The kind that remind you why you need my protection in the first place," he murmured.
His voice was silk wrapped around steel.
"The kind that make you grateful for golden cages and silk chains."
Silk chains. Jesus.
"Try to run, Elara," he whispered, his thumb pressing against her pulse point just hard enough to feel her heart hammering against her ribs, "and the consequences will be severe."
The promise in those words made her knees go weak and her breath catch in her throat.
Because looking into those beautiful, terrible eyes, she realized with crystalline clarity—he wasn't just talking about punishment.
He was talking about hunting.
And she was beginning to understand exactly what happened to prey that tried to escape predators like Kael Thorne.