Three days.
Three days locked in this room. Rian brings me food himself, stays to watch me eat. He's always watching.
"Eat," he says, setting down a breakfast tray.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday." His voice hardens. "Eat, or I'll force-feed you."
I glare but take the fork. I'm weak from hunger, and spite won't help me escape.
He sits across from me, satisfied. "Good boy."
"Don't call me that."
"Why? It's what you are." His smile is dark. "My good boy. My mate. My possession."
"I'm not a possession."
"You're whatever I say you are."
Rage floods through me. I throw the fork at his head. He catches it easily, not even flinching.
"Feel better?" he asks, amused.
"Fuck you."
"Eventually." He stands, approaching. I scramble back, but there's nowhere to go. He cages me against the headboard, hands on either side of my head. "But not until you beg for it."
"I'd rather die."
"No, you wouldn't." His nose traces my throat, finding the mark. I shudder despite myself. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind fights. You're aroused right now. I can smell it."
Humiliation burns through me because he's right. I am. Whenever he's near, my body betrays me.
"That's the bond," I say desperately. "Not real."
"The bond amplifies what's already there." His lips brush my mark. I bite back a moan. "But don't worry, Luca. I'm patient. I'll wait until you admit what you really want."
"I want you to let me go."
"Liar." His hand slides down, cupping me through my pants. I'm hard. Of course I'm hard. "This says otherwise."
I shove at his chest. "Get off me!"
He does, stepping back with that infuriating smile. "When you're ready to stop pretending, I'll be waiting."
The door locks behind him.
I'm shaking—anger, arousal, fear all mixed together.
I hate him.
I hate that my body wants him.
I hate that the mark on my throat tingles every time he leaves, aching for his return.