Days five, six, seven, eight…

I take great satisfaction in watching her over my video system for the next few days. Her lust for me comes and goes. She tries to act as if everything is okay when she’s spending time with her family, but she’s distracted and clumsy.

I see how she writhes in her seat sometimes, biting her lip, her forehead creased in frustration. She rocks back and forth. She clenches her fists. She hugs herself. She glares around the room, searching for the hidden cameras that are recording her humiliation. I hold my cock in my hands and jerk myself off until I come, again and again.

Of course, jerking off isn’t the same as being with her – but punishing her like this is so satisfying that it’s worth it.

God, if only I could keep her. I could spend a lifetime punishing her and then fucking the breath from her body. Devising new tortures to make her moan in pain and weep for the sweet release that only my mouth and cock can give her.

As the days go by, I feel the ghost of something nagging at me, and I revisit our last conversation. I play it back in my head; I have a near-photographic memory.

What I settle on is that she said that she knew about Ludmilla because she was eavesdropping on me. But on the issue of whether she was using the internet to snoop on me or my business…I think she somehow dodged that issue.

I could ask her directly, but she won’t tell me the truth.

Instead, I can shake her up just by doing something she wouldn’t expect – like taking her out to dinner. That might get her to trust me. To open up to me.

I know that if I offer to take her out to dinner it will be huge for her. So far all I’ve done is drag her to one room or another and use her for my own needs. I’ve set the bar pretty low. It’s not something I’m proud of.

* * *

Day eight…

I check with Maks for her location, and he directs me to the garden. She’s standing in front of her easel near the sugary sands of my private beach, sketching an ocean scene. Her pastels bring the brilliant blue sea to life, and when I look at it, I can feel the water’s depth and mystery. She’s really good. I feel a welling of misplaced pride when I look at it.

I don’t do many good things in my life, and usually when I do, it’s purely by accident – I need something, so I do something good for someone to get something in return. But this, I did for Willow because I knew it would be good for her. I encouraged her because I know she loves to draw.

“It’s about time you stopped neglecting your talent,” I say. “You didn’t draw at all after you left here, which was a shame.”

She sets down her pastel and gives me a sharp look. “And you know this how, exactly?”

I realize that I’ve said too much. Now she knows how long I was watching her. I just let information slip, and that is something I never do. And letting her overhear me when I was talking to Ludmilla…what the hell? What is it about her that gets under my skin like this?

Instead of answering, I go on the offensive. I walk over and slide my finger under her chin.

“Willow.”

“Yes?”

“To use an American expression, don’t push your luck.”

She manages a sad smile. “Am I lucky, Sergei?”

“Compared to some, yes.” I glance out at the sea.

“This place is beautiful,” she sighs.

“My offer still stands. It’s yours. You should take it.” I can’t imagine staying here after I’ve sent her away. She’d still be here, like a ghost. Every room would echo with her absence.

She frowns. “Prove to me that you didn’t buy this place with money from gun running, or drugs.”

“Okay,” I shrug. “I’ll show you the paperwork from my construction company.”

She does a double take. “You will? Now?”

“No. No hurry. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, we’re going out to dinner.”

Her eyes light up at that. “Really?”

I feel like a bastard. I’m doing this because I want to find out what she’s been up to, and she thinks it’s a sweet date. Is it, maybe just a little?

“I like you in the blue tulle dress,” I say gruffly. “I’ll get you at seven p.m.”

A few hours later, she’s wearing the dress I requested, and she’s breathtaking. She doesn’t know it. She moves a little awkwardly, and she keeps nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. She’s all the more beautiful for her gawkiness.

We drive half an hour to a Mediterranean restaurant, with security in my car, and then another car full of men following behind us. I’m not worried that she’ll try to make a break for it – not with her aunt and cousins back at my house.

There are palm trees inside the restaurant, and we’re ushered to a room designed to look like a private grotto with frescoes of ancient Rome painted on the walls. There are two other tables there, but my men are sitting at both of them. The single entryway to the room is through a door that only the staff have access to.

A blonde waitress approaches us with the menus and flutters her eyes at me. I glare at her to send her the message to back off.

I order wine for us, and appetizers, and then dinner.

It feels stiff and awkward. I don’t do seduction; I never have. I go out to an exclusive nightclub or casino and select the most beautiful whores. If I’m feeling inspired, I take them back to my playroom. When I’m done with them, I send them on their way with a chunk of cash or something sparkly clutched in their greedy little fists.

Willow notices my awkwardness.

“So, you don’t take a lot of women out on dates?” she says.

“I don’t take any women out on dates.”

A startled look flashes across her face. “This can’t possibly be the first time you’ve ever taken a woman out on a date with you.”

My lips twist up in a smile. “Not only that, I’m a virgin.”

She chokes on a laugh, then shakes her head reprovingly. “No, really.”

“On occasion, if it was convenient I might have eaten dinner with a woman. Not on a pre-planned date.”

She looks even more confused. “Why would a woman put up with that and come back for more?”

I tear off a piece of bread and drag it through the dish of peppery olive oil. “They don’t come back for more. Because I do not invite them. Does anything about me give you the impression that I can offer emotional intimacy?”

“Sometimes,” she says without hesitation, which surprises me. She’s not lying. “It’s hidden deep and it’s hard to get to. But when you get to that space…” I see the look of longing on her beautiful face. She wants it to be like that all the time. Or at least more often. If I could give that to anyone, it would be her.

“What about you and your relationship history?” I ask, and then an explosion of rage erupts deep inside me and I instantly say, “Don’t answer that.” I take a deep breath, clench my fists, and let it out slowly. If she told me about any of her former boyfriends, I couldn’t stop myself, even if I wanted to. I’d hunt them down and kill them with my bare hands.

She looks at me steadily. “I have never had romantic feelings for anyone but you. I probably never will again, after you send me away.”

“You don’t know that.”

But I suspect she does. And a horrible part of me is glad. It’s not that I want her unhappy. It’s just that even after I leave her, I know that I will keep tabs on her, and if anyone got too close to her, I’d cut them to pieces – while they were alive.

Willow is tucking in to her paprika chicken when the waitress comes back, supposedly to see if everything is to our liking. Her gaze drifts over my custom-made suit, my fifty-thousand-dollar watch, my Italian loafers. Women like her know what to look for. A greedy, eager light shines in her eyes.

Her breasts are spilling out of the top of her black halter dress. In Italian, she says, “Too bad you’re settling for her. I could show you a really good time.” And she gives me an exaggerated wink. I suspect she doesn’t realize that I speak fluent Italian, she just thinks she’s being clever.

Willow doesn’t understand the words, but she gets the gist of it. She stiffens and stares down at the table, humiliated.

I speak to the waitress in Italian. First she smiles, then she goes pale, then she looks at me in horror and flees.

“What did you say to her?” Willow asks me.

I told the waitress that I’d love to take her home with me…because she had such beautiful skin…and I needed a new belt and wallet.

“I’ll answer that question if you promise to answer a question for me,” I say.

She frowns at that.

“Depends on the question,” she says.

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Willow. You hiding something from me, sweetheart?”

She looks at me defiantly. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re hiding lots of things from me.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice growing harder. “And it’s not a two-way street. I’m the boss here. The master. You are subservient to me.”

“For twenty-two more days.” There’s a quiet sorrow in her voice, and I want to pull her to me, and comfort her, and promise I will keep her forever. I want to give her flowers and diamonds and my heart.

So I lash out. “Why? You want to stay longer?” The old mockery is in my voice, and instantly she shuts down. She shrinks in on herself. She sets her fork down carefully, her meal half finished.

“I’m done.”

I should apologize.

I never apologize.

“No, actually, you aren’t.”

She raises her eyes to meet my gaze, with a quiet, resigned pain. “Well, I no longer feel hungry, and if I eat anything else, I’ll probably throw up. If you really want to watch me do that, by all means force me to finish this.”

Rage clouds my vision, so I get up and walk away. I call the owner of the restaurant over and talk to him, making my wishes explicitly clear.

A waiter hurries up to us with a carafe of coffee. He sets coffee cups down and pours the coffee for us, and his hands are only shaking slightly, even though he’s terrified because he knows who I am and what I can do. Willow is avoiding my gaze. Her shoulders are hunched. She’s retreating into that shell that I push her into.

I don’t want it to be like this.

I sit down again, and I reach out and stroke her hand. She flinches, as if she’d like to pull away from me and is just barely tolerating my touch. That hurts me on a level I’ve never experienced before.

“Willow,” I say quietly. “Remember that night I went crazy on you? I never know when those moods are going to come on me. You’re not safe around me. Nobody is. I’m keeping you here for my own selfish purposes, but when the time comes, I am going to set you free.”

“Oh, I see. It’s for my own good, then.” Her eyes flash angrily. “And in the meantime, you’re going to make fun of me and hurt my feelings, to guarantee that I don’t try to make you change your mind. Tell me, how well did that work out the last time?”

Fury at her defiance swells inside me like a black tide, and I do something I’ve never done before.

I push back against the tide. I hold it at bay, long enough to keep myself from exploding in front of her.

“Excuse me,” I say to her with perfect calm.

I walk through the restaurant, and out the front door, and across the parking lot to my car. Jasha follows me at a careful distance.

I kick the car several times, so hard I leave dents in the door.

Then I take several deep breaths, and I let them out slowly, and I visualize the blackness flowing out of me like an oily river. I’ve tried it before, and it’s never worked. This time it does. Mostly.

I walk back inside, just as the waiter is setting our desserts down.

She’s taking a sip of her coffee, and I sit down and tell her what I said to the waitress. She spews the wine all over her dessert, all over the white table cloth, and goes into a coughing fit that’s half shocked laughter.

“You did not,” she says to me, eyes huge.

My laughter is harsh. “She disrespected you. So, yes, I did. Do you see her anywhere on the floor?”

She looks around, then shakes her head. “No.”

“When I talked to the owner, I had her fired.”

She looks as if she’s about to protest, then sees the expression on my face – the “don’t fucking argue with me” expression – and gives a resigned shrug.

Then she looks down regretfully at her dessert, where she spewed most of her coffee. “I ruined it,” she says apologetically.

I push mine towards her. “Here, have mine.” At least her appetite is back. I’ve salvaged the evening.

“So romantic,” she says, and then I see a flash of fear in her eyes. “Sorry,” she adds quickly. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

Arousal flares through me, and guilt. I’m wired wrong. The sight of a frightened woman shouldn’t make me as hard as a diamond, but it does.

“It’s all right.”

I feed her a bite, and she lets out a little moan of pleasure.

I feed her another bite. She moans again and licks the spoon. I watch her pink tongue swirling, lapping up the sweet cream.

“Damn,” I say. “I’ve never been jealous of a dessert before, but I think I’d like to take this tiramisu out back and cut its throat.”

She laughs. “Okay, promise you won’t get mad at me, but I feel like, for you, that’s a genuinely romantic statement.”

I start to slip the spoon into her mouth again, then pull it away. She’s getting a little too comfortable. I want her to have to work for her pleasure. And she needs that. She wants it.

“Say please,” I growl.

“Please. Sir. Please put it in my mouth,” she whispers, and a hint of mischief gleams in her eyes.

My cock is about to tear the fabric of my pants, and I’m filled with the strangest emotion, an emotion I can’t even name.

I want this. Forever. I want her to look at me like that, with her beautiful blue eyes shining, with just the tiniest hint of fear, because she knows what I’ll do to her later.

But men like me don’t get forever. There are no happy endings for us.

I let her suck the chocolate off the spoon, and then I lower my voice. “We’re done,” I say to her.

She looks at me, worried, but doesn’t question me.

I call out to my men sitting at the other two tables. “Get out. Lock the door behind you.”

My men stop eating instantly and leave the room. They’ll guard the door until I tell them otherwise.

“Did you like this dress?” I ask her, and then I tear the neckline with my hands, exposing her small, perfect breasts. Her rosy-pink nipples are pebbled with desire.

She gasps in shock and takes a step back. She shoots a panicked look at the door. We’ll have to walk through the restaurant to get to my car.

“When we leave, you’re going to be wearing my jacket,” I tell her. “Everyone in the restaurant will know why. They’ll know what we just did here. They’ll know that I own you.”

“Oh.” Her face flushes with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

“Now turn around and bend over the table.”

She does, and I lift the hem of her dress.

As I do, I realize that she’s distracted me yet again. I think she did, anyway. Is she actually outwitting me at my own game? I wanted to ask her about her web-surfing habits, and somehow I’m about to fuck her blind instead.

I can’t stand the thought of her keeping any secrets from me. She’s not allowed to keep any part of herself from me; I own all of her.

Tomorrow, I promise myself, I will do whatever it takes to find out what she’s hiding, even if it makes her hate me.

Tonight I’m going to make her scream.