The lock turned. Elena's pulse raced.
The Don stepped inside, his presence filling the room as if the walls bent to accommodate him. His jacket was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, veins taut across his forearms. He shut the door quietly, deliberately, the sound echoing louder than a slam.
"You're awake," he said.
Elena's back stiffened. "You keep breaking into my room. Maybe I should stop sleeping altogether."
He smirked faintly, though his eyes were sharp. "I gave you a door to remind you this isn't a prison. But don't mistake locks for freedom."
She crossed her arms tightly. "Funny. Most people call that kidnapping."
He stepped closer, slow, measured. "You're alive because I choose it. Do you really want to test the alternative?"
Her throat tightened, but her chin lifted defiantly. "You don't scare me."
He laughed, a low, dangerous sound. "You should. But no—you intrigue me instead."
The distance between them shrank. Elena backed away until her calves hit the bed, but he kept coming, his body heat brushing hers. His hand lifted—not to grab, but to trail a finger along her jaw. The touch was light, almost reverent, and it startled her more than violence would have.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered.
His eyes locked on hers, dark and unyielding. "I want the part of you that fights me. The part that hates me. The part that pretends she isn't drawn to the fire she swears she despises."
Her stomach knotted. "You're insane."
"Maybe." His thumb brushed her lip, lingering. "Or maybe I just see what you won't admit."
She shoved his hand away, her voice trembling with rage and fear. "I'd rather die than want you."
His gaze flickered—not hurt, but something sharper. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered, "Be careful what you say, bella. Death is always listening."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She turned her head sharply, their lips nearly colliding before she shoved him back with both hands. He let her push him, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth as though her resistance thrilled him.
"You're fire," he murmured, straightening. "Untamed. Dangerous. And mine to hold."
"Not yours," she spat. "Never yours."
His smirk widened. "You'll scream it one day. Not in defiance—" he stepped back toward the door, eyes glinting—"but in surrender."
Her skin burned where he'd touched her, her chest heaving with fury and confusion. The lock clicked again as he left, but the room felt smaller, hotter, his presence still lingering like smoke after a fire.
The next morning, Elena couldn't stop pacing. The memory of his breath against her skin haunted her, tangled in her mind like thorns. She hated it. Hated him. But her body betrayed her, trembling not just from fear but from something she refused to name.
She yanked the heavy curtains open, letting sunlight flood the room. Beyond the gates, freedom mocked her, so close and yet unreachable. She pressed her forehead to the glass, whispering to herself, "You don't belong here. You don't want this. Remember who you are."
The door opened.
It wasn't him this time. It was the woman again, carrying fresh clothes folded neatly in her arms.
"Change," the woman said simply, setting them down.
Elena frowned. "Why?"
"He's hosting guests tonight. He doesn't want you hidden."
Her chest squeezed. "I'm not a decoration."
The woman's eyes softened with quiet pity. "To him, you're far more than that. That's what makes you dangerous."
Before Elena could press, the woman slipped out, leaving her staring at the silk dress laid out on the bed. Dark red. Bold. A cage in fabric.
That evening, he came for her.
The Don filled the doorway, dressed in another immaculate suit, black with a crimson tie. His gaze swept over her, lingering. "Perfect."
Elena's fists clenched at her sides. "I'm not your doll."
His lips curved faintly. "No. Dolls don't fight back. That's why I like you."
He extended his hand. She didn't move. His brows lifted slightly, a silent challenge. Finally, with a sharp breath, she brushed past him, refusing his hand, her chin lifted high.
His smirk followed her.
The mansion's grand hall glowed with chandeliers, laughter and murmurs bouncing off marble walls. Men in suits, women in jewels, glasses of wine clinking. Elena's chest tightened as eyes turned toward her, whispers threading through the crowd.
The Don's hand rested possessively at the small of her back as he guided her through the sea of people. "Smile, bella. They're watching."
"I'm not your trophy," she hissed under her breath.
"No," he murmured, lips close to her ear. "You're my obsession."
Her skin prickled with heat, her body stiffening. She wanted to scream at him, shove him, but every pair of eyes on her reminded her of the danger in defiance. Still, she bit out, "One day, I'll find a way out."
He chuckled low. "And I'll be there, waiting at every door."
The night blurred—a haze of introductions she didn't care for, drinks she refused, conversations she couldn't follow. But beneath it all was his shadow, constant, looming, his gaze burning into her every time she looked away.
Near midnight, he led her back upstairs. The hallway was silent, the mansion asleep but for guards below. At her door, he paused, leaning close.
"You looked exquisite tonight," he murmured. "But the fire in your eyes was the real jewel."
Her breath hitched despite herself. She forced her voice steady. "You'll never have it."
His smile was sharp. "We'll see."
He brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of his fingers, lingering just enough to send her heart into chaos. Then he turned, leaving her trembling in the doorway.
She shut the door quickly, pressing her back against it, her chest heaving. She hated him. Hated him. So why couldn't she stop shaking?
Hours later, sleep wouldn't come. She lay restless, twisting in the sheets, her mind replaying every word, every touch. She wanted freedom. She wanted air. She wanted… she didn't know what she wanted anymore.
The sound came again.
The lock turning.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Slowly, she sat up.
The door opened.
And this time, he didn't stop at the threshold.