4. Eliza
1162 Words
He did not loosen his grip once we crossed back through the trees.
Rowan did not drag me, but he did not allow me to walk either. One arm locked around my waist, lifting me just enough that my feet skimmed the ground uselessly. My hands clawed at his forearm, nails scraping against skin and fabric, but it was like fighting stone.
I kicked once. Twice. My heel connected with his shin.
He did not even flinch.
The rain soaked into my clothes, chilled my skin, but his body was warm. Uncomfortably so. Every step he took was measured, controlled, infuriatingly calm.
“Put me down,” I screamed, my voice raw now. “Please. I will walk. Just let me go.”
“You will not,” he said, his mouth close to my ear. “You will run again.”
“I would not,” I lied desperately. “I just want to leave. I will disappear. You will never see me again.”
His grip tightened.
“That is exactly why you cannot leave.”
The estate loomed ahead, lights glowing against the rain like watchful eyes. As we crossed into the courtyard, I realised something that made my stomach drop.
People were there.
Not guards rushing forward. Not anyone intervening.
They stood beneath overhangs, near doorways, along the edges of the stone path. Men and women. Watching. Silent. Their expressions unreadable. Some curious. Some disapproving. Some coldly indifferent.
No one stopped him.
No one questioned him.
No one looked at me with sympathy.
That was when it truly sank in.
This was not chaos.
This was order.
I twisted violently in his hold, panic spiking anew. “Help me,” I cried, my voice cracking as I looked at the faces around us. “Please. He is taking me against my will.”
Their gazes slid away.
A few lowered their heads.
One woman met my eyes briefly, something like pity flickering there, before she turned her back.
Rowan did not slow.
Tears blurred my vision as he carried me through the doors and into the vast hall. The warmth inside was suffocating. Every step echoed. Every sound felt too loud. The murmur of voices rose and fell as we passed.
I realised with sick clarity that this was how things were done here.
Quietly. Efficiently. Without witnesses interfering.
Up the stairs. Down the corridor.
Back to his room.
The door shut behind us with a solid, final thud.
He released me.
I stumbled, barely catching myself against the bed. My legs shook violently. My heart felt like it was trying to tear its way out of my chest.
“Do you feel powerful?” I shouted, rounding on him, all the fear boiling over into rage. “Dragging me around like that. Letting them watch.”
He closed the distance between us slowly.
“This is not about power.”
“Then what is it about?” I demanded. “Because from where I am standing, you are a monster.”
Something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not quite.
Pain.
“You ran,” he said quietly.
“I was escaping,” I shot back. “Because you locked me in a room. Because you refuse to explain anything. Because you keep telling me I am not safe while being the one who terrifies me the most.”
He stopped a few feet away from me.
“I told you,” he said. “You do not understand what you are involved in.”
“Then help me understand,” I pleaded. “Stop treating me like an object you can move wherever you want.”
His jaw tightened. “You are not an object.”
“Then stop acting like you own me.”
The words hung between us.
His gaze dropped to my neck again, lingered there in a way that made my skin prickle.
“You were claimed,” he said.
My blood ran cold. “I did not agree to that.”
“I know.”
“Then undo it.”
Silence stretched.
“I cannot,” he said.
That was it.
Something inside me snapped.
“You are unbelievable,” I said, laughing harshly. “You assault me in the woods, knock me out, lock me up, and now you are telling me you cannot undo something I never consented to.”
He stepped closer.
“You were dying,” he said sharply. “You do not know what was hunting you.”
“That does not give you the right over me,” I shouted. “I am not part of your world. I do not want to be.”
His eyes darkened.
“And yet your body responds to me.”
The words felt like a slap.
Heat flared in my chest, unwanted and humiliating. My hand moved before my mind caught up.
I slapped him.
The sound echoed sharply in the room.
My palm stung. My breath hitched. For a heartbeat, the world froze.
Rowan’s head turned slightly with the impact.
Slowly, he faced me again.
The air shifted.
Not violently. Not explosively.
Dangerously.
He caught my wrist as I tried to pull back, his grip firm enough to hurt. His other hand came up, bracing against the wall beside my head. I was trapped between stone and muscle, his body close enough that I could feel his breath, his heat, the tension coiled beneath his skin.
“You do not slap me,” he said, his voice low and controlled to the point of breaking.
“Get away from me,” I whispered, even as my body betrayed me, heart racing, breath shallow.
His grip tightened briefly, then eased. His face was inches from mine now.
I could see the faint glow in his eyes, the way his control was fraying at the edges. His breath brushed my cheek. My skin reacted treacherously, heat pooling low, my pulse jumping in response to his proximity.
I hated myself for it.
“Do not look at me like that,” I whispered, tears sliding down my face. “I did not ask for this.”
“Neither did I,” he said.
His hand shifted, fingers brushing my wrist, not restraining now but holding. The contact sent a shiver through me. My breath caught. I could not stop it.
He leaned closer.
My lips parted without permission.
Fear tangled with something darker, something aching and confusing. I should have pulled away. I should have screamed.
Instead, I stood there, frozen, suspended between terror and a pull I did not understand.
His forehead touched mine.
“Say stop,” he murmured, his voice strained. “And I will.”
The room felt too small. Too hot.
I swallowed hard.
I did not say anything. Words refused to come out of my mouth.
His breath hovered over my mouth. And I closed my eyes as I felt his lips touch mine.
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