Page 56

We're drowning together, clutching at each other like survivors in a storm-tossed sea. And maybe we are. Maybe this desperate, frantic coupling is the only thing keeping us from being swept away completely.

23

KATARINA

The SUV moves silently through the darkness. I sit in the back seat, Erik beside me, his body rigid with tension. He hasn't touched me since we left the compound. Hasn't even looked at me.

I should feel relieved. In less than thirty minutes, I'll be free from captivity. Back with my own people. Away from the man who kidnapped me, bound me, dominated me.

So why does my chest feel like it's collapsing?

Erik shifts beside me, his knuckles white against his thigh. I catch the reflection of his face in the window—jaw clenched, eyes forward, the perfect soldier. Nothing like the man who held me mere hours ago, who whispered broken confessions against my skin.

My father waits at the exchange point. The man who tried to force me into marriage with Anton Petrov. The man who kidnapped an innocent woman to get me back.

“Is this Stockholm Syndrome?” I whisper to myself, too quiet for anyone to hear.

The clinical term makes it simple. A psychological response. My brain's way of coping with trauma. That would explain whymy heart races when Erik enters a room or why his touch unravels me.

But it doesn't explain how I felt before he took me. That first night at the gala, the electricity when our eyes met.

The SUV slows as it approaches the abandoned warehouse district. My time is running out.

“Erik.” His name catches in my throat.

He turns, finally looking at me. His dark eyes hold something raw and unguarded—something I've only glimpsed in our most intimate moments.

“Don't,” he says, voice rough.

My fingers find him in the darkness between us. “Is it real? Any of it?”

His hand turns, gripping mine with desperate strength. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

The warehouse appears ahead, floodlights cutting through the night. Cars wait—my father's men. Time's up.

The SUV stops. My breath catches in my throat as Erik's hand tightens around mine one last time before pulling away. The absence of his touch leaves me cold.

“We're here,” Viktor announces, unnecessary words filling the sudden silence.

I stare at the warehouse ahead, its industrial bleakness a fitting backdrop for what feels like an execution. Not of my body, but of something else entirely—something that bloomed in the darkness between enemy lines.

“Look at me,” I whisper to Erik.

He turns, his face a carefully constructed mask, but his eyes—God, his eyes betray everything. Pain. Desire. Resignation. The muscle in his jaw twitches as he swallows.

“This is how it has to be,” he says, voice barely audible.

I nod, even as something shatters inside me. “I know.”

What's wrong with me? This man took me against my will. Held me captive. And yet the thought of walking away from him tears at my insides like barbed wire. I'm returning to my freedom, my company, my life. I should be relieved.

Instead, I'm fighting tears.

“Your father—” Erik starts.

“Don't talk about him.” My voice breaks. “Not now.”