The car door closed with the soft, expensive sound of German engineering sealing them into a leather-wrapped cocoon. Viktor pulled away from the Meridian Grand with the silent efficiency of someone who'd learned not to ask questions about what happened at galas that ended this early.
Elara sat as far from Kael as the backseat would allow, her entire body vibrating with a rage so intense she could taste it like copper on her tongue.
He kissed me. In front of five hundred people, he kissed me like I was a thing to be claimed.
Her lips still burned from the contact, her carefully applied lipstick smeared beyond recognition, her hair slightly mussed from where his fingers had fisted in it with that possessive violence that had made her knees go weak.
And I kissed him back. God help me, I kissed him back.
That was the part that made her angrier than anything else—not that he'd done it, but that her body had betrayed her so completely. That some traitorous part of her had responded to his claiming with a hunger that terrified her.
Stockholm syndrome. This is what it looks like when you start wanting your cage.
Kael sat beside her looking perfectly composed, not a hair out of place, his tie still perfectly knotted despite the intensity of what had just transpired. He was scrolling through his phone with the casual indifference of someone who'd just completed a moderately successful business transaction.
How? How can he be so calm when I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams?
"That went well," he said conversationally, not looking up from his screen.
The words snapped something inside her.
"Well?" Her voice came out sharp enough to cut glass. "You think that went well?"
"Exceptionally well." He finally looked up, those dark eyes meeting hers with infuriating satisfaction. "By tomorrow morning, every person who matters in this city will know exactly who you belong to."
Who you belong to. Not who you love. Not who you're with. Who you belong to.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said, her hands clenching into fists in her lap.
"Don't you?" His smile was sharp as winter wind. "Because the way you melted against me when I kissed you suggests otherwise."
Bastard. Beautiful, terrible bastard.
The rage that had been building since the moment his lips touched hers exploded like a dam breaking. Her hand moved before her conscious mind caught up—palm connecting with his cheek in a crack that echoed through the car like a gunshot.
The sound seemed to hang in the air, suspended in the sudden silence that followed.
Oh God. I just hit him. Again. In his car with his driver right there.
Viktor's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road with the professional discretion of someone who'd seen worse and knew better than to react.
Kael's head had turned slightly with the force of the blow, and for a moment he sat perfectly still. Then, with agonizing slowness, he reached up and touched his lip where a small bead of blood had appeared—probably from where her engagement ring had caught him.
The engagement ring. I hit him with the ring he put on my finger to claim me.
When he looked back at her, his expression hadn't changed. If anything, that infuriating smirk had deepened, like her violence was amusing rather than threatening.
"Feel better?" he asked, his voice calm as still water.
No. Yes. I don't know anymore.
"You had no right," she said, her voice shaking with fury and something else she didn't want to examine. "That kiss, that public display—you had no right to humiliate me like that."
"Humiliate you?" He pulled out a handkerchief—monogrammed, naturally—and dabbed at the blood on his lip with the casual efficiency of someone who'd dealt with worse injuries. "Angel, I elevated you. Every woman in that room would kill to be kissed like that by someone like me."
Someone like me. As if being wealthy and powerful gives him permission to treat people like property.
"I'm not every woman."
"No," he agreed, his eyes traveling over her face with that laser intensity that made her feel exposed. "You're not. Every woman would have smiled demurely and played along. But you..." He leaned forward, close enough that she could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of whiskey. "You slapped me. Again."
The way he says it sounds like admiration instead of anger. Which is somehow more unsettling.
"You deserved it."
"Probably." His smile widened, showing teeth. "But you realize this is the second time you've struck me, and I'm beginning to detect a pattern."
A pattern. Like my rage is predictable, controllable, something he can plan for.
"What pattern?"
"You hit me when I make you feel things you're not ready to acknowledge." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was close to solving. "When I get too close to whatever truth you're trying to hide from yourself."
No. That's not... I hit you because you're an arrogant, controlling bastard who thinks he owns me.
"I hit you because you keep treating me like property."
"Do I?" He leaned back against the leather seat, completely relaxed despite the red mark blooming on his cheek. "Or do I treat you like something precious that needs protection from a world that would destroy you if given the chance?"
Protection. That's what he calls control. What he calls possession.
"I don't need your protection."
"Lucien would disagree." His voice took on that edge of steel she was beginning to associate with discussions of his rival. "The way he was looking at you tonight—like he'd found something valuable he wanted to take from me—suggests you need more protection than you realize."
Take from you. Like I'm a trophy in some decades-long rivalry between billionaire psychopaths.
"Maybe I wanted him to look at me like that," she said, knowing it was petty but unable to stop herself. "Maybe I liked having someone treat me like a person instead of a possession."
The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees.
Kael's expression didn't change, but something cold and terrible moved behind his eyes—the same look he'd had right before ordering those men killed in the parking lot.
Too far. You pushed too far.
"Is that what you think?" His voice was soft as velvet, dangerous as a blade. "That Lucien sees you as anything other than a weapon to use against me?"
Weapon. Person. Possession. Does it even matter anymore?
"At least he asked me to dance instead of dragging me onto the floor like a caveman claiming his mate."
"Caveman." He laughed, low and dark. "Angel, if I were a caveman, I'd have thrown you over my shoulder and carried you out of that ballroom the moment Lucien touched you. What I did was remarkably civilized by comparison."
Civilized. Right. Public claiming is so sophisticated.
"You humiliated me."
"I claimed you." He leaned forward again, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "There's a difference. Humiliation would have been allowing Lucien to continue his little seduction while I stood by like some impotent fool."
Seduction. It was just a dance.
"He wasn't—"
"He was absolutely trying to seduce you," Kael interrupted, his voice taking on that clinical detachment he used when analyzing threats. "And more than that, he was trying to demonstrate that what I've claimed isn't as secure as I think it is."
What you've claimed. Always what you've claimed. Never who you care about.
"Maybe it isn't secure," she said, lifting her chin in defiance even though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "Maybe I'm not as owned as you think I am."
The smile that curved his lips was beautiful and absolutely terrifying.
"Oh, angel," he murmured, reaching out to trace the line of her jaw with one finger. "You really have no idea, do you?"
No idea about what?
"About what?"
"About how thoroughly I've already won." His thumb brushed across her lower lip—still swollen from his kiss—with devastating gentleness. "You're sitting here, furious with me, slapping me, defying me at every turn. And you know what that tells me?"
That I still have some fight left. That I haven't completely surrendered.
"That you're losing control of me?"
His laugh was soft as silk, sharp as broken glass. "That you're exactly where I want you. Fighting back just enough to keep things interesting, but not so much that you actually believe you can win."
No. That's not... I'm not...
But even as she tried to deny it, she realized with growing horror that he might be right. Her resistance had become performative—dramatic but ultimately ineffective. She slapped him, but she didn't leave. She defied him, but she wore his ring. She claimed not to be his, but her body had melted against him the moment his lips touched hers.
This is what total control looks like. Not chains or cages, but making you complicit in your own captivity.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"No," he said gently, his hand moving to cup her face with a tenderness that was obscene given everything between them. "You hate that you're starting to need me. You hate that my kiss made you feel alive for the first time in years. You hate that some part of you wanted me to claim you in front of all those people."
Stop. Please stop seeing through me so easily.
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that made lying impossible. "Then why are you still sitting here? Why didn't you run the moment we got in the car? Why do you keep fighting me in ways that bring you closer instead of pushing me away?"
Because I have nowhere to go. Because you've systematically eliminated every other option. Because my mother needs those treatments and I need to survive.
But looking into those beautiful, terrible dark eyes, she realized those weren't the only reasons anymore. Somewhere between the penthouse and the gala, between his midnight vigil and that claiming kiss, something had shifted inside her.
She was starting to crave his attention almost as much as she feared it.
Stockholm syndrome. This is textbook Stockholm syndrome and you're falling for it.
"You're sick," she said, pulling away from his touch even though her body protested the loss of contact.
"Probably." He leaned back, studying her with that clinical interest that made her feel like a particularly fascinating specimen. "But so are you, angel. The only difference is I'm honest about it."
Honest. Right. The man who built an empire on lies and violence is lecturing me about honesty.
The car pulled up to their building, and Viktor opened the door with the same silent efficiency he'd displayed all evening. Elara scrambled out without waiting for Kael, desperate for air that wasn't charged with his presence.
Just get inside. Get to your room. Lock the door and pretend tonight never happened.
But of course Kael was right behind her, his hand settling possessively at the small of her back as they walked through the lobby. The doorman nodded with professional discretion, probably already hearing gossip about the scandalous kiss through whatever network wealthy people used to spread information.
Everyone will know by tomorrow. Everyone will think I'm madly in love with him.
The elevator ride to the penthouse felt eternal, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words and unconsummated violence. When the doors finally opened, she practically ran to her room, desperate to escape the intensity of his presence.
Lock the door. Lock it and maybe he'll leave you alone for one night.
But his voice stopped her before she could close herself away.
"Elara."
Don't turn around. Don't give him another opening.
She turned around anyway, because apparently her masochistic tendencies were fully developed at this point.
He stood in the hallway, perfectly composed despite the red mark on his cheek and the small cut on his lip from where her ring had caught him. In the soft lighting of the penthouse, he looked like a fallen angel—beautiful, terrible, and absolutely unrepentant about everything he'd done.
"Your fire," he said quietly, his dark eyes holding hers with magnetic intensity, "is what I like most about you."
The words hung in the air between them like a benediction and a curse.
He likes that I fight him. He wants me to fight him. The resistance is part of the game.
"Get some sleep," he continued, his voice taking on that business-like efficiency. "Tomorrow you meet my mother, and you'll need to be at your best."
His mother. Right. Because tonight's performance was just the opening act.
She closed the door without responding, leaning against it until she heard his footsteps retreat toward his own room. Only then did she allow herself to slide down to the floor, her legs finally giving out under the weight of everything that had happened.
He kissed me in front of five hundred people. Claimed me publicly, possessively, permanently.
And I kissed him back.
That was the truth she couldn't escape, couldn't rationalize away with talk of Stockholm syndrome or survival instincts. For a moment—just a moment—she'd wanted that kiss as much as he had.
And judging by the satisfied smirk on his face when she'd slapped him, he knew it too.