The first thing Elena felt was warmth.
It was heavy, suffocating… yet steady.
Vincent's arm draped across her waist like a shackle disguised as comfort, his chest pressed to her back, his breath ghosting over the curve of her neck in slow, unhurried strokes.
He slept like a man with nothing to fear.
She, on the other hand, hadn't closed her eyes for more than a few scattered minutes all night.
Her body stayed perfectly still, but her mind was a storm. Every breath she took was measured, quiet, as her fingers inched toward the hem of the thin dress he'd forced her into.
She found it — the familiar texture of fabric, and hidden in the seam… the cool, secret weight of the loose screw she'd stolen from the bedpost days ago.
Relief whispered through her chest. Still there. Still hers. Still hope.
She closed her hand around it—
And froze.
The weight behind her shifted. Muscles tightened.
Even before she turned, she could feel it: his eyes on her.
"What are you touching?" His voice was still rough with sleep, but alert — the kind of alertness predators carried even in their dreams.
Elena swallowed, keeping her tone flat. "The blanket. It's cold."
A slow pause. Then, without comment, he pulled another blanket from the foot of the bed, draping it over her. The gesture almost looked caring. Almost.
He slid from the bed, already pulling his phone from the nightstand.
"Double the men at the docks," he ordered, voice sharpening. "I want eyes on every crate."
A pause.
"And check payroll from last month. If anyone's name doesn't match the books, cut them loose."
Another pause — lower this time. "No… cut them out. You know what I mean."
Elena listened, pretending disinterest. But her mind caught every word. Docks. Crates. Payroll. Someone inside his operation was leaking information.
If he had to go in person… if he left this place…
She'd be gone before he returned.
By noon, the apartment wasn't quiet anymore.
Vincent's men moved through the space like restless shadows, their heavy boots thudding against the hardwood, radios crackling with clipped updates.
She heard them through the half-open door:
"…shipment's delayed again — the cargo's still sitting in Bay 4."
"…dock security doubled, customs sniffing around. They're checking containers at random now."
"…someone tipped them off. No way they'd be watching that section otherwise."
"…that load's worth millions if it clears. If it doesn't…" A sharp whistle. "…we all bleed."
Elena's pulse picked up. Worth millions. Whatever Vincent was moving, it was enough to draw blood if it went wrong — maybe the kind of blood that got people killed.
But Vincent didn't leave. He stayed — anchored in place, pulling strings by phone, his voice alternating between icy calm and lethal threat.
Her frustration burned. He was supposed to leave.
Then Damien walked in. And the air shifted.
His gaze found her instantly, locking on like a hawk's on prey. That smirk was casual, but his eyes lingered too long.
"Still here?" he asked, the question dripping with suggestion.
"She's not your concern," Vincent said flatly without looking up.
Damien's smirk deepened. "Everything you lock away becomes interesting. Especially when you guard it this much."
Her fingers curled under the table, nails biting into her palm.
Damien turned back to business, but his words carried a double edge.
"Shipment's stuck. Dock security's all over it. Your guy down there says someone's feeding customs your schedules. Either we plug the leak or…" His gaze flicked briefly toward her. "…we drown."
Vincent's jaw tightened. "We don't drown. We bury."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
When Damien finally left, the door clicked shut and Vincent moved.
Two strides, and he was in front of her, one hand braced against the wall beside her head. The air between them tightened.
"He looked at you too long." His voice was low, dangerous.
Her throat tightened. "I didn't do anything."
"You exist," he said simply. "That's enough."
When she looked away, his fingers slid under her chin, tilting her face up. His gaze was molten steel. "You stay where I can see you. I'm not in the mood to chase you today."
Later, in the bedroom, he took her hairbrush in hand and began brushing her hair himself. The bristles slid through her strands in slow, deliberate strokes, his fingers combing through first before the brush followed.
"You hear a lot," he murmured, his voice too close to her ear. "I wonder if you understand any of it."
"I'm not interested," she lied.
He leaned down until his lips hovered just above her skin. "You are interested. Just not in the way I want you to be."
Her breath caught — and he noticed.
The brush stilled. His free hand found her waist, pulling her gently but firmly back against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart beat against her shoulder blade.
"You're tense," he said, voice lowering. "Maybe I should fix that."
Before she could answer, he turned her toward him, his thumb stroking her cheek with unsettling softness. His gaze locked on hers, searching — memorizing.
The kiss came slow, deliberate — nothing gentle in it. It was a claiming, a quiet warning written in the language of touch. She tried to step back, but his arm held her in place until he chose to release her.
When he did, his voice was soft but laced with steel. "You'll get used to me, Elena. You already are."
That night, Vincent's breathing deepened beside her, but Elena didn't sleep. Slowly, she reached under the hem of her dress and touched the screw again — her secret anchor.
Her heart raced as she slipped from bed toward the window. She fit the screw into the latch and turned, pulse quickening when she felt it give.
It was working.
She could escape. Tomorrow, when he left, she'd be gone.
Behind her, Vincent lay still, eyes closed. He let her turn the latch. Let her think she was winning.
In the darkness, his lips curled into the faintest smirk. You won't stop hoping, will you?
She slid back into bed, smiling faintly to herself. In her mind, she was already free. Already gone. And she didn't notice the way his arm came around her again, holding her close — not in affection, but in quiet possession.