OWNED BY THE ENEMY

CHAPTER FOUR – NEGOTIATIONS[Part 2]

“You…let it slide?” I say slowly.

“I let it run for six seconds,” he says calmly. “I wanted to see how far you’d go.”

Heat and humiliation flood my chest.

He doesn’t just see my moves.

He sets the board.

He leaves without waiting for a reply, the door left half-open behind him.

Alone, the room feels too big and too small at once.

I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the rain hit the windows, to the faint hum of the tower around me.

One year.

One year in his world. Under his rules. Under his eyes.

I peel myself off the mattress eventually and move to the bathroom.

It’s marble and glass, with a walk-in shower big enough for three. The shelves are already stocked with products I use—the exact brands, even the unscented face wash I like. There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door in my size.

He didn’t just read my reports.

He read me.

I shower quickly, scrubbing away the smell of the car, the lobby, the fear sweat dried on my skin. Hot water beats down, finally loosening muscles I didn’t realize were locked.

When I step out, I catch my reflection in the mirror.

Without the armor of makeup, I look younger. Smaller. Like a girl about to walk into a haunted house she paid to enter.

I stare at myself and try to see what he sees.

Collateral.

Leverage.

Useful brain.

Pretty pawn.

I snort once, humorless, and pull on a black silk camisole and soft lounge pants from the closet. They fit too well to be generic.

The city outside has slipped from bruised blue to full black. Lightning flickers, briefly turning the room white.

I should stay here. Close the door. Obey.

I don’t.

I crack it open and step out into the main living area, bare feet sinking into the thick rug.

The space is empty at first glance.

Then I see him at the bar, sleeves shoved to his elbows, pouring something dark into a heavy glass. His tie, if he ever wore one, is gone. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, showing a hint of chest. The storm light carves shadows along his collarbone, the tendons in his throat.

“You’re disobeying already,” he says without turning.

“I didn’t see a clause about bedtime,” I say, moving toward the window. “Or was there fine print?”

“The rule was about my security system,” he says. “Not about wandering my floor in a camisole.”

I glance down at myself. Silk clings to damp skin.

“I thought you said you wanted me comfortable,” I say. “This is comfortable.”

He takes a sip, watching me over the rim.

“My cameras up here are disabled,” he says. “Permanently.”

That lands like another kind of confession.

“The photo of us,” I say slowly. “In your bed. That didn’t come from this floor.”

His jaw flexes once. “No.”

“Then from—”

“Not tonight,” he cuts in. “We’ll get to that.”

“We?” I echo. “I’m part of this investigation now?”

“You sold yourself to save your brother,” he says. “The sooner we find the people who took him, the sooner you can decide if staying was worth it.”

He sets his glass down with deliberate care.

“Come here,” he says.

Something in his tone makes my feet move before my brain votes.

I stop on the other side of the bar.

He studies my face, my damp hair, the way I wrap my arms around myself without meaning to.

“You said you wanted rules,” he says. “Here’s one more. I don’t hurt what’s mine. I don’t let anyone else hurt what’s mine, either.”

“That implies I’m—” The word sticks in my throat. “Yours.”

His gaze drops to my wrist, where faint indentations from his earlier grip are just barely visible.

“Don’t insult both of us by pretending this is anything but ownership,” he says quietly.

His gaze pins me in place.

“You signed yourself into my control, Aria,” he adds. “The difference is… I intend to keep you intact.”

His honesty knocks breath out of me.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I say.

“I’m very sure of what I keep,” he corrects.

“And if I decide, I don’t want to be kept?” I ask.

His eyes darken.

“Then we see which one of us is better at not letting go,” he says softly.

The storm outside cracks, white light flooding the glass.

For a second, I see our reflection there: him in black, me in white silk, the city burning quietly below.

He reaches behind him and picks up a sleek black phone, sets it between us on the bar. His fingers brush mine for half a second as he lets go.

It's not an accident.

A reminder.

“Call your friend,” he says.

I go still. “You said tomorrow.”

“I changed my mind.” He nudges the phone closer. “Ten minutes. Let’s see how you use them.”

My fingers close around it slowly.

“Put it on speaker,” he adds.

I look up.

“You wanted contact,” he says calmly. “Now I get to hear what matters to you.”

My pulse stutters.

“Why?” I ask.

His voice drops—quiet, controlled, lethal.

“Because if she says the wrong thing…”

His gaze locks on mine.

“…I decide whether she stays in this city—”

a beat

“—or disappears from it.”

The phone feels heavier in my hand.

If I call her, I drag her into this.

If I don’t, I leave her exposed.

Either way—

I choose who gets burned.

I don’t look at him when I unlock the screen.

Because if I do, he’ll see it.

Not fear.

Strategy.

Somewhere in Brooklyn, Siena Cruz has no idea that with one call, I’m about to pull her into my cage with me.

**End of Chapter Two**

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