I woke up.
The last thing I could recall was a jarring cacophony of fear: the sharp, searing crack of gunshots, followed immediately by the scream – my own, raw and desperate – that tore from my throat before everything dissolved into a terrifying, silent void. I didn't know how long I'd been out, or where out had led me.
I tried to move my arm, a sluggish effort that confirmed I wasn't restrained, merely exhausted and disoriented. A sense of wrongness pricked the hairs on my neck, an instinct far older than rational thought.
"You're awake."
A voice – deep, dark, low, and smooth, accented with a dangerous, velvety sound – Italian, laced with an undeniable edge of menace.
My heart didn't just beat; it leapt, a frantic bird slamming against the cage of my ribs. I spun sharply in the direction of the sound, my eyes straining desperately, trying to pull light from the oppressive gloom.
Slowly, agonisingly, my vision adjusted, resolving a figure standing there. Tall, broad-shouldered, a figure carved in sin and power. He stepped forward, each movement deliberate.
My breath hitched. He's breathtaking. No – breathtaking doesn't even begin to cover it.
Sharp jawline, high cheekbones. Hair black as midnight, eyes so blue they could freeze blood. His Armani suit whispered wealth, authority, control. The kind of man whose presence made the room shrink.
"Done looking, little vixen?" he teased, a smirk dancing on his lips.
I spun away, cheeks burning.
"You killed that man," I said, my voice trembling despite how hard I tried to keep it in steady. "How could you?"
He didn't answer. Not even a blink. Just stood there, hands in his pocket, blue eyes watching me like I was some wild creature concerned in his den.
"Кто, чёрт возьми, ты? И чего ты хочешь?"
(Who the heck are you? And what do you want?) I spat, the words slipping out in Russian before I could stop myself – then switched to English, because something in his gaze demanded it.
"English," he said coldly.
My fingers clutched the bedsheets. "Why am I here? Let me go or else –"
"Or else what?" His voice dripped with dark amusement. It wasn't loud – it didn't need to be. It filled the room like smoke, slow, curling, suffocating. "You'll scream for help? Run? Call for help?"
"I'm not afraid of you," I lied through my teeth.
He finally moved – just one step closer – but it felt like the walls closed in around me. His height, his scent, the quiet power in every motion made my chest tightened.
"You should be," he murmured.
"You have no right?" I snapped. "You think you can just take me. I don't belong here."
"No right?" He echoed softly, almost mockingly. "You think the world runs on rights, Kymara? He tilted his head, eyes glinting like cold glass. "You of all people should know it runs on power."
"I don't care what kind of sick games you're playing," I said, voice rising. "You can't just kidnap me like some – some–"
"Some what?" He interrupted smoothly. "Trophy? Possession? Prize?" His tone's almost amused. "Call it what you like. But understand this –" he leaned forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper, "– you're here because I want you here, little vixen."
"You're insane."
He gave a soft laugh, "maybe."
"You don't know who I am. The police, my fans, my best friend – they'll all come looking for me. My disappearance is already on the media by now. In less than 24 hours you'll be behind bars ."
He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Instead his lips curved – slow, deliberate. The kind of smile that made your stomach twist because it wasn't amusement, it was certainty. "Oh believe me," he said quietly, "I know exactly who you are."
My breath caught as he spoke my full name, the one buried so deep it barely existed anymore. "Kaimara Elizaveta Rivianova."
The room felt silent. My pulse stopped for a beat. No one – no one – knew that name except Sorella and her family.
My mind raced. How does he know that?
"Do you know who runs the same system you're counting on?" His voice lowered into a velvet whisper that slithered into my bones. "I do."
His next words dripped like poison – quiet, confident, terrifying.
"I control your word, little vixen. The networks, the police, the screens you think worship you – they all answer to me. Do you really think the world sees what I don't allow it to?"
The words didn't make sense. They couldn't. No man would have that kind of reach.
My lips parted, voice barely audible. "Who are you?"
For a moment, he just stared – long, quiet, unreadable.
"Lucivar."
"You're mine now," he added, almost possessively, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
I blinked, disbelief cutting through fear. "You're shameless."
But he only watched me – calm, controlled, his gaze sliding toward the wall-sized picture behind me. My stomach turned, as I followed his eyes. My picture.
"Why do you have these? You've been watching me? Why?"
His eyes glittering with something unreadable – amusement, maybe, or obsession.
When he didn't answer me again, I tried to bargain – anything to feel in control again. "Listen – name your price. I'll get you what you want. Is it money?"
That made him pause. For a fleeting second, his lips twitched – almost like he wanted to laugh – then his calm composure returned, colder than before.
Money. Even I knew that was stupid. This man didn't need my money. He could probably buy my entire empire just to watch it burn.
And then – before I could think. I spat straight into his face.
The moment froze. Lucivar's expression didn't crack immediately, but something inside him shifted. Those blue eyes that had once been calm now blazed like frost catching fire.
Before I could even blink, I bolted toward the massive door.
His fingers tangled into my hair – rough, dragging me backward with such force that I lost my footing. My body crashed onto the bed, bouncing off the edge. Before I could process what was happening, his hand was already on my throat. Not tight enough to bruise, but firm enough to make every breath ache.
He leaned closer, voice low and merciless against my ear. "Defiance looks beautiful on you. But just because you're mine doesn't mean you get to test me. I don't kill what I own….. I discipline it – until it learns what fear really tastes like."
For the first time, I've felt something I've never felt before – not the fear of dying, but fear of belonging to someone I cannot fight.