Chapter 3: The Price of Possession

Three days.

Elara had been trapped in Dante's penthouse for three days, and she was losing her mind. She'd tested every possible escape route—the elevator required a key card she didn't have, the stairwell door was locked from the outside, and the windows were forty stories above concrete. Even if she could break the reinforced glass, jumping would only solve Dante's problem permanently.

She paced the living room like a caged animal, her bare feet silent against the marble floors. Dante had provided her with clothes—expensive pieces that fit her perfectly, another reminder of how thoroughly he'd researched her before that night at the club. The silk pajama set she wore now probably cost more than her monthly rent, but it felt like a uniform. The uniform of a kept woman.

The sound of the elevator arriving made her spin toward the entrance. Dante emerged, looking immaculate as always in a charcoal gray suit. He carried a leather portfolio and moved with the fluid confidence of a man who owned everything he surveyed—including her.

"Good evening, little bird." His voice was warm, affectionate even, as if she were his willing girlfriend rather than his prisoner.

"It's three in the afternoon," she snapped.

"Is it?" He glanced at his expensive watch with theatrical surprise. "Time loses meaning when you're having fun."

"Fun?" Elara's voice rose to a near shriek. "You call this fun? I've missed three days of classes, my roommate is probably worried sick, and I haven't been outside since—"

"Since you decided to enter my world." He set his portfolio on the marble kitchen counter and began removing his jacket. "I told you there would be consequences."

"You told me nothing!" She stormed toward him, her hands clenched into fists. "You seduced me and then trapped me here like some kind of... of..."

"Treasured possession?" His smile was dangerous. "Because that's what you are."

The casual way he said it made her want to scream. Instead, she grabbed the nearest object—a crystal paperweight—and hurled it at his head. He ducked with inhuman reflexes, and it shattered against the wall behind him.

"Feel better?" he asked mildly.

"No!" But some of the tension had left her shoulders. "I want to go home, Dante. I want my life back."

"Your old life was suffocating you." He moved closer, and she backed away instinctively. "You came to that club looking for something real, something dangerous. You found it."

"I wanted one night of excitement, not a lifetime sentence!"

"And yet you responded to me like you'd been waiting your whole life for someone to claim you." His eyes darkened as he stalked her across the room. "You melted in my arms, begged for my touch, screamed my name like a prayer."

Heat flooded her cheeks because he was right. Even now, trapped and furious, her body responded to his proximity. The memory of his hands on her skin, his mouth claiming hers, made her pulse quicken despite everything.

"That doesn't give you the right to keep me here!"

"Doesn't it?" He backed her against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his hands braced on either side of her head. "You're mine, Elara. Every breath, every heartbeat, every sweet little sound you make when I touch you—it all belongs to me now."

His closeness was overwhelming, his scent surrounding her like an aphrodisiac. She could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar near his left eyebrow that she'd traced with her tongue. Her traitorous body wanted to arch into him, to surrender to the dark promise in his gaze.

Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance. "I don't belong to anyone."

"We'll see about that." His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and she bit back a whimper. "But first, I have something to show you."

He stepped back, retrieving his portfolio from the counter. When he opened it, Elara's blood turned to ice. Inside were surveillance photographs—dozens of them. All of her.

Her walking to class. Sitting in her favorite coffee shop. Leaving her apartment building. Shopping with friends. The photos were taken from various angles and distances, some clearly shot with telephoto lenses. But what made her stomach drop was the date stamps. They went back weeks—long before she'd ever set foot in that nightclub.

"You've been watching me," she whispered.

"Not me." His voice was grim. "Ivan Morozov. He's the head of a rival... business organization. These were taken by his men."

Elara's hands shook as she flipped through the photos. There she was, completely unaware that she was being hunted. The violation was almost as terrifying as the implications.

"Why?" she managed.

"Because he knows I've been watching you too." Dante's admission hit her like a physical blow. "He's been tracking my interests, my movements. When I approached you that night, he saw an opportunity."

"An opportunity for what?"

"To hurt me." His jaw tightened. "In my world, the best way to destroy a man is to take what he values most."

The photos slipped from her numb fingers, scattering across the marble floor like evidence of her shattered innocence. "So this is all about your... business rivalry? I'm just collateral damage?"

"You're everything." The words came out harsh, raw, as if torn from somewhere deep inside him. "And that makes you incredibly dangerous—to both of us."

Elara stared at him, seeing something vulnerable flicker across his features before his mask slipped back into place. This wasn't just about possession or power games. This was about something deeper, something that scared him as much as it terrified her.

"What kind of business are you in?" she asked quietly.

His smile was sharp as broken glass. "The kind that makes enemies who don't hesitate to use innocent women as weapons."

The full weight of her situation crashed down on her. She wasn't just trapped by Dante's obsession—she was trapped by circumstances beyond her control. Even if she could escape, there were people out there who saw her as a target.

"How long?" she whispered.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been watching me?"

He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Six months."

The admission should have horrified her. Instead, she felt something unexpected: a twisted form of relief. All those times she'd felt eyes on her, all those moments when she'd looked over her shoulder for no reason—she hadn't been paranoid. She'd been prey.

"And you never approached me until that night. Why?"

"Because I knew that once I touched you, I'd never be able to let you go." His honesty was more terrifying than any threat. "I was trying to protect you from me."

"But you couldn't stay away."

"No." His eyes met hers, and she saw the truth there—raw, desperate, utterly consuming. "I couldn't stay away."

The photographs scattered around their feet told a story of obsession and danger, of two predators circling the same prey. But looking at Dante now, Elara realized she might not be as helpless as she'd thought. The man who'd taken everything from her was also the only thing standing between her and something far worse.

The knowledge terrified her. But underneath the fear, something else stirred—something dark and thrilling that she didn't want to examine too closely.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Now you stay alive." He began gathering the photographs, his movements sharp with controlled violence. "And I make sure Ivan Morozov regrets the day he decided to use you against me."

As he straightened, his eyes held a promise that made her shiver. She was beginning to understand that being Dante Volkov's obsession might be the most dangerous position in the world.

But it might also be the safest.