The Ride Home
1371 Words
Ch.2:. The Ride Home
Lena’s POV
The car was a tomb.
Black leather seats, tinted windows, the hum of the engine the only sound. Damian slid in beside me, his presence filling the space like a storm gathering on the horizon. I pressed myself against the door, as far from him as possible, but it wasn’t enough. I could still feel the heat of him, still smell the expensive cologne mixed with something darker—something that made my pulse stutter.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Just tapped his fingers against his thigh, a slow, rhythmic beat that set my teeth on edge.
The city blurred past the windows, neon lights bleeding into shadows. I clenched my hands in my lap. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home.”
The word sent a shiver down my spine. His home. Not mine. Never mine.
I risked a glance at him. His profile was sharp in the dim light, all angles and shadows. “You don’t have to do this,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m not my father’s debt. I’m a person.”
His lips curled, just slightly. “Aren’t you?”
I flinched. “What does that mean?”
He turned his head, his gaze locking onto mine. “It means you’re whatever I say you are, milaya. And right now, you’re my property.”
My breath hitched. “That’s not—”
“Legal?” He finished for me, his tone mocking. “Morally acceptable? It doesn’t matter. The auction was binding. You’re mine.”
I looked away, my chest tight. Outside, the city gave way to winding roads, the houses growing fewer, the trees thicker. We were leaving civilization behind. Panic clawed at my throat. “What are you going to do with me?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, softly: “Whatever I want.”
---
The car turned onto a long, tree-lined drive, the branches clawing at the windows like skeletal fingers. At the end of it loomed a house—no, a mansion—all dark stone and towering turrets, the windows glowing with warm light. It was beautiful. Terrifying.
Damian’s estate.
The car stopped, and before I could react, the door opened. A man in a black suit stood there, his expression impassive. “Welcome home, Miss Valenti.”
I didn’t move. Damian slid out first, then turned and offered his hand. I hesitated, but the alternative was to sit there like a coward. So I took it, his fingers closing around mine with a firmness that bordered on possessive.
The air was cooler outside, the scent of pine and damp earth filling my lungs. Damian led me up the steps, his grip unyielding. The front door swung open before we reached it, revealing a grand foyer—marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a chandelier that cast fractured light over everything.
A woman in a black dress stepped forward, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun. “Mr. Volkov. Your guest has arrived.”
“This isn’t a visit, Marta,” Damian said, his voice smooth. “Lena will be staying with us indefinitely.”
Marta’s gaze flicked to me, her expression unreadable. “Of course. I’ve prepared the east wing for her.”
Damian nodded, then turned to me. “Marta will show you to your room. You’ll find everything you need there.”
I swallowed. “And if I don’t?”
His smile was slow. Dangerous. “Then you’ll ask me for it.”
---
Marta led me up the staircase, her steps silent on the thick carpet. The house was a maze of dark wood and gilded mirrors, every surface polished to a shine. I tried to memorize the route, but it was hopeless. This place was designed to disorient.
My room was at the end of a long hallway, the door heavy oak with a brass handle. Marta opened it and stepped aside. “Dinner is at eight, Miss Valenti. Mr. Volkov expects you to be prompt.”
I stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind me.
The room was luxurious—a four-poster bed draped in silk, a wardrobe filled with clothes, a vanity with a mirror that reflected my wide, frightened eyes. But the window caught my attention. I rushed to it, my heart pounding, and pressed my hands against the glass.
Bars.
Thick, iron bars, painted to match the frame. I gripped them, my knuckles turning white. A gilded cage.
A soft knock made me jump. I whirled as Marta entered, carrying a tray. “Mr. Volkov thought you might be hungry.”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
She set the tray on the table—a sandwich, a glass of water, a single red rose in a crystal vase. “Eat, Miss Valenti. You’ll need your strength.”
I didn’t touch the food. Not until she left, the door locking behind her with a quiet click.
---
Damian’s POV
She was trying so hard not to react.
I watched her from the corner of my eye as the car ate up the miles between the auction house and my estate. Her fingers were clenched in her lap, her breath coming just a little too fast. She was scared, but she wasn’t broken. Not yet.
Good.
I liked a challenge.
The car turned onto the drive, the headlights cutting through the dark. Lena pressed her face to the window, her reflection pale and wide-eyed. She was taking in the house, the grounds, the sheer scale of it all. Let her be impressed. Let her be intimidated.
Let her understand.
Marta was waiting when we arrived, her expression as impassive as ever. Lena hesitated before taking my hand, her fingers cold and trembling. I squeezed, just enough to remind her who was in charge.
The foyer was designed to impress, and it did its job. Lena’s eyes darted around, taking in the chandelier, the marble, the art on the walls. She was calculating, planning. Good. Let her think she could outsmart me.
Marta showed her to her room, and I watched until the door closed behind them. Then I turned to my head of security, who was waiting in the shadows.
“Eyes on her at all times,” I said. “If she so much as thinks about leaving, I want to know.”
He nodded. “And if she tries?”
I smiled. “Then you let her. And you let me handle the rest.”
---
I gave her an hour.
An hour to settle in, to explore her room, to realize the bars on the windows weren’t just for show. Then I knocked on her door, not waiting for an answer before stepping inside.
She was standing by the window, her back to me, her shoulders tense. She whirled at the sound of the door, her eyes wide.
“You don’t knock?” she snapped.
I shut the door behind me. “It’s my house.”
She crossed her arms, her chin lifting. “And I’m your prisoner.”
“You’re my guest,” I corrected, stepping closer. “There’s a difference.”
“Guests can leave.”
“Can they?” I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched but didn’t pull away. “You signed a contract, Lena. You’re mine until I say otherwise.”
Her breath hitched. “I didn’t sign anything.”
“Your father did.” I let my fingers trail down to her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. “And now, so are you.”
She jerked back, her cheeks flushed. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” I cut her off, my voice low. “And I will.”
She swallowed, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin. I could see the fight in her eyes, the defiance. It made my blood hum.
“I want to go home,” she whispered.
I almost laughed. “This is your home now.”
She turned away, her voice barely audible. “I hate you.”
I smiled.
Good.
- Writer
