Fuck this little woman.
I watched her as she sat there with her head down, pretending like she wasn’t trembling, like her defiance wasn’t crumbling under my gaze. But I could see it all-the subtle shake of her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched against the table. And yet, she kept her chin tilted up just enough to mock me.
She thought she could get under my skin. Thought she could fuck with my head by parading around in that goddamn lace.
And she succeeded.
When she’d walked out like that, wearing that, looking like some cursed combination of an angel and a temptress, my first instinct was to kill every man in the room. My men-men I trusted with my life-had dared to look at her. Their gazes had lingered, even for a fraction of a second, and I wanted to gouge out their eyes and shove them down their throats.
I clenched my fists at the thought, my nails biting into my palms. It wasn’t their fault. They were men. I’d brought them here to protect her, to make sure she didn’t try to run again and get herself killed in the goddamn snow. But I hadn’t anticipated this.
She had planned it-plotted it, even. That red lace. The way it clung to her like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My imagination didn’t have to work hard, not with the way the straps framed her shoulders, the delicate fabric barely covering the curve of her breasts. Her stomach, soft and sun-kissed, dipped into the lace like an invitation, and the thin strip that ran down between her thighs-fuck. My cock twitched at the memory, and I growled low in my throat.
Even now, sitting there in her rebelliousness, she was mine. Mine to protect, mine to punish, mine to- Oh, for crying out loud, not this nonsense again.
I shook my head and my jaw tightened. Not now. Not like this. Definitely not while she’s looking at me like she’s plotting my death.
But she was testing me, wasn’t she? Pushing me, daring me to snap. Her fear was there, shimmering in her eyes, but she refused to back down. Brave little thing. Or stupid. Did she know how badly I wanted to bend her over that table right now? To rip that lace off her body and remind her who she belonged to?
She’d looked so fucking scared, so small when I’d grabbed her. And yet, her lips parted as though she wanted to challenge me. To fight me, even. Did she think I wouldn’t? That I couldn’t?
I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her until she couldn’t walk, couldn’t think, couldn’t dream of pulling another stunt like this. And I would’ve, too, if not for that flicker of something in her eyes-something that stopped me.
I hated it. That look. The one that made me think twice.
It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper. A fragility that no matter how much she fought to hide it, bled through. It wasn’t her screaming agitation that got to me. It was that quiet, broken part of her she thought I couldn’t see.
And maybe that’s why I hadn’t taken her right there. Why I’d dragged her to the table instead of throwing her against the wall.
I clenched my teeth, watching her now as she hesitated over the plate of food. She wasn’t even looking at me anymore, but she knew. She knew exactly what she’d done. And she was winning, wasn’t she? Fucking winning.
My voice came out sharp, venomous. “Pick up the fork, ptichka.”
Ptichka. The only word that gave me semblance.
Her hand twitched, reaching for it, but still she hesitated. God, she was infuriating. My patience was threadbare, hanging on by a fucking string, and she kept tugging at it with every tiny rebellion.
I leaned down, close enough to feel her uneven breaths, her scent invading my senses-sweet, maddening, hers. “You think I won’t make you?” I growled. “You think I won’t feed you myself if you keep pushing me?”
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, wide and defiant, but I could see the fear there. And something else. Something that only made my blood run hotter. She was scared, yes, but she wasn’t backing down. That fire in her… it was fucking addicting.
I straightened, stepping back to keep from doing something I’d regret. My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I stared at her. She looked like a goddamn dream, even now. Fragile, angry, and so fucking mine.
She didn’t understand what she was doing to me. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she’d worn that lace in the first place. To provoke me. To unravel me. And fuck, it was working.
I raked a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. She thought this was a game. That she could test me without consequence.
Fine. Let her think that. Let her believe she was winning. Because when I did finally lose control, when I did snap, she wouldn’t be walking away from it. She wouldn’t be walking at all.
When she didn’t move, my patience snapped.
A sharp exhale escaped me as I grabbed the chair and dragged it to the table, the screech of wood against the floor made her visibly flinch. I sat down, my knees brushing against hers as I leaned forward and gripped the edge of her chair. Without a word, I pulled her toward me, the legs of her seat scraping against the floor in protest.
Her breath hitched, her wide brown eyes locking onto mine, and I saw it all in her expression-fear, defiance, and something she didn’t want to admit. Her pale lips quivered, parting slightly, as if she was expecting me to kiss her.
It wouldn’t be that hard.
To lean in, close the distance, claim her mouth until her trembling wasn’t fear but something else entirely. Something I could control. Something that would remind her who she belonged to. My gaze flicked to her lips, soft and flushed, and for a moment, I swore I could taste her already-sweet, intoxicating, mine.
No. Not yet. She needed to eat first. If she got sick again, it’d be on me, and I couldn’t afford that. Not with the way she’d nearly fucking killed me with anger the last time.
“Open your mouth,” I ordered, picking up the fork she’d ignored. My voice was low, rough, more a growl than anything human. I made porridge for her, thinking it would be easy for her to digest than anything fancy.
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her eyes darting between the fork and my face. “I can-”
“Don’t,” I cut her off narrowing my eyes. “You had your chance. Now, you’ll eat my way.”
Her jaw tightened, and for a second, I thought she’d fight me again. But she didn’t. Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her mouth.
“Good girl,” I murmured, sliding the fork between her lips, watching intently as she took the bite. Her tongue flicked against the metal, and I had to clench my teeth to keep my thoughts in check. Feeding her shouldn’t have felt like this-so goddamn intimate, so obscene-but with her, everything felt like a battle of wills, like a fucking test of my restraint.
She chewed, her lashes lowered, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to have her mouth somewhere else. To feel her warmth, her softness, her defiance yielding to me in the way it was meant to. My cock throbbed at the thought, and I shifted in my seat, forcing myself to focus.
Another bite. Another flick of her tongue. Fuck. She was doing this on purpose, wasn’t she? That had to be it. There was no way she didn’t realize the effect she was having on me.
My eyes unconsciously lowered to her cleavage and the perky erect nipples begging for my attention as she rubbed her arms.
I wanted to keep her here as a captive, to strip her of everything. Her non-existent freedom, society and basic needs so that she could understand what I was giving her earlier was my kind of mercy.
But… I went against myself to buy her clothes. Even if she happened to run again, at least she wouldn’t freeze to death.
“I… I am done,” She whispered after third bite.
My eyes narrowed. “Not unless I say so.”
“I’m full,” she muttered. But her tone-oh, her tone-was laced with something close to sarcasm. She was poking the bear, daring me to lose it.