CHAPTER SIX

ELLA

It’s evening now, and with every passing moment, a wave of anxiety crashes over me at the thought of seeing my captor again.

The novel I had been reading lies forgotten beside me, its words unable to distract me. I abandon it entirely and start pacing the room, my thoughts spiraling.

I’m dressed in the clothes Daphne handed me earlier. They’re not what I would’ve chosen, but they’re an improvement over a bathrobe. A delicate set of white lace underwear and a soft blue sundress that buttons up the front. The fit is unsettlingly perfect, as though he had studied every detail about me, down to my size.

The realization makes my stomach churn.

I try to push away my thoughts, but they persist, filling the silence of the room. Something deep inside tells me he’ll come to me tonight. Maybe he has other women here, an entire harem, and tonight isn’t my turn. But I know better. Last night was just the beginning—he’s not finished with me. Not even close.

The door finally opens.

He strides in with the confidence of someone who owns everything in sight. And here, he does.

Once again, I’m caught off guard by his striking appearance. He could have been a model, a movie star—his face carved with symmetry and allure. If the universe were fair, he’d have some flaw to balance his beauty. But he doesn’t. He’s tall and powerfully built, every part of him exuding dominance.

The memory of him against me, inside me, flashes through my mind, and an unwanted jolt of heat surges through me.

Tonight, he’s wearing jeans and a simple gray T-shirt. He doesn’t need extravagant clothes; his presence alone demands attention.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips as he looks at me. “Hello, Ella.”

I’m frozen, unsure of what to say. The words escape me before I can think. “How long are you going to keep me here?”

He tilts his head, his expression calm and faintly amused. “Here in this room? Or on the island?”

“Both,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

“Daphne will show you around tomorrow,” he replies, stepping closer. “Take you swimming, if you’d like. You won’t be locked in unless you do something foolish.”

“Like what?” My heartbeat quickens as he closes the distance between us and gently strokes my hair.

“Like trying to harm Daphne or yourself.” His voice is low, almost soothing, his gaze drawing me in. The way his fingers move through my hair is far too calming.

I blink, forcing myself to focus. “And on the island? How long will you keep me here?”

His hand brushes my cheek, his touch deliberate and soft. I catch myself leaning into it instinctively before I snap upright, mortified by my reaction.

His lips curl into a knowing smirk. He’s aware of the effect he has on me, and he revels in it. “A long time, I hope,” he says softly.

I should’ve expected that answer. Of course, he didn’t bring me all the way here for anything less. Fear knots in my stomach, but deep down, I already knew.

I summon every ounce of courage and ask the question that’s been burning in my mind. “Why did you kidnap me?”

His smile fades, his expression unreadable as his piercing blue eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t answer, and the silence makes me tremble.

I swallow hard, my voice shaky as I ask, “Are you going to kill me?”

“No, Ella,” he says, his tone calm but firm. “I won’t kill you.”

Relief washes over me, though a part of me wonders if he’s lying.

“Are you going to sell me?” The words barely make it out of my mouth. “To... you know, like a prostitute or something?”

His voice softens, a quiet intensity in his words. “No. Never. You’re mine and mine alone.”

A flicker of calm settles in my chest, but one question remains, clawing at the edge of my fear. “Are you going to hurt me?”

For a moment, he says nothing, a shadow crossing his face. His eyes darken, and when he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “Probably.”

Before I can process his words, he leans down and kisses me. His lips are warm, soft, and impossibly gentle, a stark contrast to the darkness that lingers within him.

I stand frozen, unable to move, unable to respond. I know he’s being truthful. He will hurt me. There’s something about him that terrifies me, something primal and untamed that has unsettled me from the start.

He isn’t like the boys I’ve dated before. He’s capable of anything, and I am completely at his mercy.

The thought of fighting him flickers in my mind. It’s what I should do, what anyone in my position would do. It would be brave. It would be right.

But I don’t.

I can sense the darkness lurking beneath his surface, barely restrained. His perfect exterior masks something dangerous, something monstrous. I don’t want to see it unleashed.

So I stay still in his arms, letting him kiss me. When he picks me up and carries me to the bed, I don’t fight. I don’t resist.

Instead, I close my eyes and surrender to the sensations.

He’s gentle with me again. I should be paralyzed with fear—and I am—but my body betrays me, responding to the strange combination of terror and desire. I don’t know what that says about me, and I don’t want to think about it.

With my eyes shut, I feel him begin to undress me, peeling away the layers of my clothing. He starts with the buttons on the front of my dress, his movements deliberate and smooth, like he’s unwrapping a gift.

His hands are confident and sure, each motion revealing his experience.

Once the dress is undone, he pauses. I feel his gaze on me, heavy and assessing. My skin prickles under his scrutiny, and I wonder what he sees. I know my body is slim and toned, though I’ve always wished for more curves.

His fingers trail down my stomach, and I shiver at his touch. “So pretty,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “Such beautiful skin. You should always wear white—it suits you.”

His words linger in the air, their sweetness at odds with the situation.

I don’t respond. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, willing myself to disappear. I don’t want him looking at me, don’t want him taking pleasure in the sight of my body dressed in the undergarments he selected.

The shame is suffocating. I wish he would just take what he wants and leave me in peace, rather than dragging me through this cruel charade of intimacy.

But he has no intention of making this easy for me.

His mouth follows the trail of his fingers, his lips warm and damp as they press against my stomach.

Then he moves lower, to the point where my thighs are clamped together in resistance. He doesn’t seem to appreciate my defiance, and his hands grip me firmly, prying my legs apart with a strength that leaves my flesh stinging.

I whimper at the force of his touch, trying to will my body to relax. I don’t want to anger him further.

Sensing my submission, his grip softens, his touch becoming tender. “My sweet, beautiful girl,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my most sensitive skin. “You know I’ll make this good for you.”

Then his lips are on me, his tongue moving with an unbearable precision that sends jolts of sensation through my body. He swirls around my most sensitive point, his mouth alternating between sucking and nibbling, each movement calculated to unravel me. His hair brushes against my thighs, a maddening tickle, while his hands keep my legs firmly spread apart.

I can’t hold back the moans that escape my lips, the pleasure so overwhelming that for a brief moment, I forget everything but him.

Each time I near the edge, he changes the rhythm, pulling me back from the brink with cruel precision. Frustration consumes me, and I find myself pleading, begging him for release, my body arching toward him in desperation. When he finally lets me fall over the edge, the relief is so profound that I tremble uncontrollably, every nerve ending alive with the intensity of the release.

Tears begin to flow unbidden. They spill from the corners of my eyes, trailing down my temples and soaking into the pillow beneath me. For reasons I can’t comprehend, this seems to please him. He climbs up my body, his lips following the wet streaks on my cheeks, kissing and licking away the evidence of my tears.

His hands roam over my body, stroking and caressing with a gentleness that feels almost soothing, if not for the unmistakable hardness pressing against my entrance.

The pain returns as he begins to push inside me. Even though my body is slick from my release, it’s not enough to ease the intrusion. He moves slowly, inch by inch, giving me just enough time to adjust to the relentless stretch. The discomfort burns, sharp and overwhelming, and I bite down on my lip to keep from crying out.

Will it ever stop hurting? I wonder. Will I ever feel pleasure in his arms without the sharp edge of pain?

“Open your eyes,” he commands, his voice low and rough.

I obey, though my vision is blurred by the tears that refuse to stop falling.

He's watching me, his eyes locked on mine as he begins to move, slow and deliberate. There's a flicker of triumph in his gaze, as though conquering something far beyond my physical self. The heat radiating from his body envelops me, his weight anchoring me to the bed, leaving no room to breathe, no space to hide. He’s everywhere—inside me, around me, consuming every part of my being. Even the sanctuary of my thoughts is no longer my own.

In that moment, I feel something shift, something deeper than fear or resistance. It’s as if he’s reaching into the very core of me, claiming more than just my body. He’s unraveling something within, awakening a side of me I’ve never known, something raw and unsettling.

Because in his arms, I feel something unexpected—a feeling that defies logic and reason.

A primal, irrational sense of belonging.