The silk bonds remained.
Hours had passed and she couldn't tell how many but Carson hadn't left her side. He sat in a leather armchair across from the bed now, his posture immaculate, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He looked like a king surveying a captured queen.
And Justina hated how regal he seemed, how untouchable. Every inch of him screamed command the precise cut of his navy suit, the way the city skyline bent around his silhouette, the steady calm in his eyes as though time bent to his will.
Her wrists ached, her pride burned, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "So this is who you are. A man who ties women to his bed to feel powerful."
Carson swirled the liquid in his glass, the ice clinking. "Power isn't something I feel, sweetheart. It's something I am."
She laughed bitterly. "No. Power is an illusion. The right scandal, the right headline, and men like you fall like dominoes."
He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a chess piece he was considering moving. "And you think you're the one to tip me over?"
Her lips curved despite the tension. "Why else would I be here?"
Carson set his glass down and rose, slow and deliberate. His footsteps were silent against the polished floor as he crossed the room. When he reached the bed, he leaned down, bracing his hand beside her head, his face hovering over hers.
"You want to play games?" His voice dropped, silk over steel. "Then let's make it interesting. I won't turn you over to the police. I won't even release the footage. But you'll stay here, in this penthouse, until I decide otherwise."
Her chest tightened. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I am." His eyes glimmered with dark amusement. "Call it a contract. No lawyers. No signatures. Just one rule: while you're under my roof, you play by my rules."
She stared at him, heat and fury tangling in her chest. "And if I refuse?"
Carson's mouth curved into that dangerous smirk again. "Then I'll untie you, open the door, and let you walk straight into a scandal so loud the world won't remember your name only the shame attached to it."
The trap snapped shut around her.
And she realized then Carson Wills wasn't just a man who tied knots in silk.
He tied knots in futures.
The weight of Carson's words settled over her like chains.
Under my roof. My rules.
He made it sound simple, but she knew better. It was never simple with men like him. Billionaires didn't deal in rules; they dealt in cages disguised as castles.
Justina clenched her jaw, refusing to let him see her panic. "So that's it? I'm your prisoner now?"
Carson's smirk deepened, though his eyes stayed unreadable. "Prisoners have no choices. You do. Stay, play by the rules… or walk into the storm outside. Either way, I win."
Her pulse thudded in her throat. He was daring her to fight, tempting her to rebel, and some twisted part of her hated that she wanted to. Because giving him resistance gave him satisfaction.
"You're insufferable," she snapped.
"You've told me that three times already tonight," he replied smoothly. "And yet, here you are still tied to my bed, still glaring at me like you want to murder me and kiss me in the same breath."
Heat crawled up her neck. "Don't flatter yourself."
Carson leaned closer, so close she felt his breath against her ear. "I don't need to. Your body does it for me."
Her stomach tightened, fury and arousal clashing inside her like lightning. She hated him, hated the way his words sliced through her armor, hated the way her pulse betrayed her by racing faster.
And yet… he wasn't wrong.He was straightened, giving her space, though not freedom. He never gave freedom.
"You'll stay here," he said, voice turning colder, more businesslike. "You'll work for me. Cook for me. Eat at my table. You'll follow my orders, and in return, I'll give you what no one else has offered you before."
Her brows knit. "And what's that?"
His gaze burned into hers. "Protection."
The word made her chest tighten. For a second, her mask cracked. She knew he saw it the flicker of recognition, the flash of fear she hadn't meant to show.
Carson's eyes narrowed. "Interesting."
Justina forced steel back into her voice. "I don't need your protection."
He arched one perfect brow. "No? Then why do you look like someone who's been running her whole life?"
The air left her lungs. She schooled her expression quickly, but it was too late. Carson Wills was a predator who could smell weakness from across the room. And now he'd caught her scent.
Her only chance was offense. She forced a smirk. "If I stay, what makes you think I won't find a way to destroy you from the inside?"
Carson's answering smile was sharp as a blade. "Because, sweetheart, that's exactly what I want you to try."
The trap wasn't just closed. It was perfect.
And she was already caught.
The silence stretched again, heavy as iron. Justina kept her chin high, though her heart pounded so violently it made her wrists throb against the silk bonds.
Carson Wills had declared war, but not in the way she'd expected. He wasn't threatening her with prison or ruin he was threatening her with himself. With the unbearable game of living under his roof, inside his orbit, constantly at the mercy of his rules.
It was clever. Too clever.
"Why?" Her voice cracked despite her best effort to keep it sharp. "Why go through the trouble of keeping me here? You could crush me in a second. End this."
Carson's eyes softened barely, but she saw it. "Because you're useful."
Her chest tightened. "Useful how?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he untied one wrist, slowly, deliberately. The brush of his knuckles against her skin sent heat darting down her spine. He didn't free her other hand, though. He liked the imbalance her half-loose, half-bound, suspended between resistance and surrender.
"You cook," he said finally. "Not just cook. You create. I've tasted what you can do."
Her eyes narrowed. "You've been to my restaurant?"
Carson's smirk returned. "I own the building your little bistro rents from. I don't believe in coincidences."
The revelation made her stomach twist. He'd been close this whole time. Watching. Waiting.
"So that's it?" she asked bitterly. "You'll keep me here as your… personal chef?"
"And other things." His gaze raked over her, unapologetic, scorching. "But yes. You'll feed me, you'll work for me, and in return…"
He paused, his jaw tightening in a way she hadn't seen before. A flicker of something almost human passed through his eyes.
"…in return, I'll let you meet him."
Her pulse stilled. "Meet who?"
Carson's lips pressed into a line, the arrogance momentarily gone. "My nephew. Nathaniel. He's twelve. Lives here with me."
Justina blinked. The image didn't fit the ruthless billionaire with a child hidden away in his glass castle.
"You're lying," she whispered.
Carson's expression was unreadable. "Am I?"
The revelation rattled her. It didn't fit with the man who'd tied her to his bed, who toyed with her like a cat with its prey. A guardian? A caretaker?
Her instinct screamed trap, but her chest told her otherwise. She remembered her own childhood, the loneliness, the hunger, the nights she wished someone anyone had taken responsibility for her.
She hated that the thought made her ache.
"You expect me to believe you've got a kid upstairs while you're down here… doing this?" she snapped, forcing venom into her voice.
Carson's smile was slow, cruel, but his eyes betrayed something else. "You think a man can't be both sinner and savior?"
The words hit too close. She was both, wasn't she? Thief and protector. Liar and survivor.
And for the first time, Justina wondered if Carson Wills wasn't just her captor. He might be her mirror.
The words mirror and savior spun in her head like a cruel joke. Justina pulled against the single bond still tethering her wrist, needing space, needing oxygen.
Carson didn't move. He lingered close, studying every twitch of her face, as if memorizing the battle inside her.
"You hate me," he said softly. "But tell me why didn't you scream when I tied you down?"
Her pulse spiked. "Because I don't waste my breath on men like you."
"Lie." His eyes glinted. "You didn't scream because you wanted to see how far I'd go. Because you're as reckless as I am."
"I'm nothing like you."
Carson leaned down, his lips grazing her jaw. The heat of his mouth, the steady weight of his body near hers, made her skin burn.
"Prove it." His whisper was fire.
Her breath caught. She wanted to spit in his face, to shove him away but the silk bit into her wrist, reminding her of the truth. She wasn't in control. Not yet.
So she shifted tactics. She turned her head deliberately, letting her lips brush the corner of his mouth. The move startled him just enough. His body stilled, his breath faltered, and in that moment, she felt the balance of power tip.
"Careful," she murmured, her voice a silken blade. "You keep me here too long, Carson, and I'll learn every weakness you have. Even the ones you've hidden under glass and steel."
His jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something she couldn't name. Anger. Desire. Fear. Maybe all three.
For the first time, he looked uncertain.
Justina smiled, slow and dangerous. Got you.
But then his expression shifted, dark amusement replacing the crack she'd glimpsed.
"Good," he said, releasing her other wrist at last. "I want you to try. I want you to tear me apart, Justina. Let's see which of us is still standing at the end."
The freedom of her hands should have been victory, but when he stepped back, she realized she wasn't free at all. The room, the penthouse, the contract he'd spoken into existence
every inch of this place was a cage.
And she'd just accepted her role inside it.
Carson moved to the door, his back impossibly broad beneath the fine tailoring of his suit. He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing over his shoulder.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you'll meet Nathaniel."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with the city's neon glow bleeding through the glass.
Her pulse was still erratic, her lips tingling with the phantom heat of his nearness. She pressed her hands to her face, trembling.
She'd come here to destroy Carson Wills.
Instead, she'd been caught in his trap.
But traps had weaknesses.
And she would find his.
Even if it meant burning with him.
Justina sat on the edge of the vast bed long after Carson left, her wrists still marked by faint red lines where the silk had bitten into her. She rubbed at them absently, her chest rising and falling as she stared at the city through the glass wall.
The skyline looked different from here. Too clean. Too untouchable. From her side of life, skyscrapers were just cruel reminders of where she didn't belong. But here, inside Carson's world, they were bars in a golden prison.
Her mind raced, but one thought echoed louder than all the rest.
A nephew.
If he was telling the truth, that changed everything. Billionaires didn't raise children in secret. Not willingly. What did that mean? Who was this boy, and why was he hidden?
She drew her knees up to her chest, folding her arms around them. For the first time in years, she felt the sting of old memories the small, hungry girl she used to be, abandoned and desperate, wishing someone, anyone, had fought for her.
That girl was the reason she cooked the way she did, the reason she poured herself into every dish. Food had saved her, piece by piece, when love hadn't.
She pressed her forehead to her knees and whispered to herself, Don't you dare start feeling sorry for him. He's not like you. He's not broken. He's a monster who hides children and ties women to beds.
But her voice shook.
When the door opened again hours later, she nearly leapt to her feet. Carson filled the doorway, framed by warm light from the hallway. He'd changed no jacket, no tie, just a black shirt rolled to the elbows. He looked more dangerous like this, less polished, more human.
He carried a tray.
Justina's stomach betrayed her before her mouth did, growling loud enough to make him smirk.
"I thought you might be hungry," he said, setting the tray on the edge of the bed.
She eyed it like it might explode. "What is this? A peace offering?"
"A test."
The silver lid lifted, releasing the scent of roasted duck with pomegranate glaze. The presentation was immaculate. Too immaculate.
"You cooked this?" she asked suspiciously.
"I don't cook," he replied flatly. "I hired someone. But I want to see what you think."
Justina's pride stirred. "You're evaluating me? After tying me up in your bed, you want me to critique your chef?"
Carson's smile was lethal. "Exactly."
Her hunger waged war with her dignity. But in the end, hunger always won. She took the fork, cut into the duck, and brought it to her lips. The flavor was rich, layered… but lacking soul.
"It's technically perfect," she admitted, swallowing. "But empty. Soulless. Like something designed to impress, not nourish."
Carson leaned forward, his gaze sharp. "And that's the difference between you and them."
Her chest tightened. "You've tasted my food."
"I've tasted you," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, "and I don't mean with my mouth."
Heat shot through her, infuriating and intoxicating all at once. She dropped the fork, clattering it onto the tray.
"You're insane."
"Maybe." His smirk widened. "But I'm never wrong about what I want. And I want you, Justina Ashes."
Her name on his lips felt like a brand.
She stood, fists clenching at her sides. "You can't own me."
Carson rose too, closing the space between them with predatory grace. His hand lifted, brushing her jaw with a gentleness that contradicted his every word.
"Ownership isn't the word I'd use," he whispered. "Obsession. Possession. Desire. Those fit better."
Her breath caught. The urge to slap him battled the urge to drag him closer. The contradiction made her dizzy.
But before she could react, a sound echoed faintly from the hallway. A boy's laughter light, unguarded, real.
Justina froze.
Carson's head turned sharply, his body tensing. For the first time, she saw him vulnerable. Protective.
He muttered a curse, then moved swiftly to the door. "Stay here," he ordered, his tone colder than ever.
But Justina's blood burned with defiance. As the door clicked shut behind him, she whispered to herself, "Not a chance."
She crept to the doorway, pressing her ear against the wood.
And what she heard on the other side wasn't just a boy's laughter. It was Carson's voice, softer, warmer, almost unrecognizable.
A man she hadn't met yet.
A man she might be able to destroy.
Her wrists ached, the silk leaving faint grooves in her skin, but she couldn't stop noticing how the fabric still smelled faintly of him. Clean, expensive, sharp like cedarwood tangled with smoke. It was maddening, to be marked not only by restraint but by scent, as though he'd branded her without fire.
Carson untied one wrist, his fingers grazing her pulse deliberately. The lightest brush, yet it felt obscene, her skin hypersensitive, sparking beneath his touch. He didn't free the other hand, and she realized with a jolt that the imbalance wasn't carelessness. It was control.
"Why not both?" she demanded, tugging at the restraint.
"Because I like you half-wild," he murmured. His thumb stroked over her palm once before he withdrew, leaving a trail of heat in its absence.
Her breath came sharper. "You think tying me up makes you powerful?"
"No," he said, leaning down until his lips hovered a breath from her ear. "It makes you honest."
Her body betrayed her then. A tremor shivered through her legs, and she hated him for noticing. His chuckle was low, rough, and satisfied.
Later, when he fed her the duck from the tray, he didn't simply set it down. He speared a piece with the fork, holding it to her lips.
She hesitated, glaring.
"Open," he ordered softly. Not loud. Not forceful. But commanding in a way that set every nerve alight.
Against her better judgment, she obeyed, her lips closing around the fork. The taste filled her mouth, but it was his gaze intense, unyielding that made her pulse race.
"Soulless," she said after swallowing, her voice sharper than she felt.
Carson's lips curved. "Then give it soul, Justina. Feed me something that tastes like you."
Heat flushed her cheeks. "You're impossible."
"Obsessed," he corrected, the word dark and heavy.
When the boy's laughter filtered through the hallway later, Carson's body tensed against hers. She wasn't supposed to feel it the protective coil of his muscles as his chest brushed hers, the rush of his scent when he leaned closer to the door. But she did.
And it left her shaken.
Because she realized then that his danger wasn't only in silk restraints, whispered commands, or sharp threats. His danger was in the way he could soften just enough for her to want to see more.