Page 30 of Shackled

I don’t know why I feel the need to offer a hint of an olive branch. Fuck knows she doesn’t deserve it.

She stops struggling, her body tense against mine, and for the first time, I feel a shred of something like compliance.

“I take very good care of what belongs to me,” I say softly before I pull away. “Let’s get you ready. I won’t hold you captive anymore, either. You have free run of the place.” I let her go and head to the door, pausing just before I leave. A fleeting look of desperate hope crosses her perfect face. “Go ahead and try all you like, Isabella. There is no escape. I’ll catch you. I’ll hunt you down. And I’ll drag you back where you belong now.”

I give her a final, lingering look, leaving the door open behind me on purpose. I want her to know freedom is an illusion; the real binds that keep us together are inevitable.

I can’t fucking wait to see her in a wedding dress.

Wearing my ring.

Taking vows.

Bearing my child.

The more I think about it, the harder I fucking get.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier.

CHAPTER NINE

Isabella

I stare at the open door.

I stare at his retreating back.

My stomach clenches. The events of the last few days have spiraled out of control. I hardly know what I want anymore.

But I know who I am. He can say what he wants. He can force me to take his name, and he will. But I’m Isabella Morales, and I will always be Isabella Morales.

And I have never, ever, no matter how powerless and beaten down I was, let my circumstances dictate my future. I may have been born into a family that valued me as a second-class citizen, but that doesn’t make it so.

Fine. Lev Romanov is going to marry me. I turn over the possibilities in my mind and think it through.

Yes. Yes, I can absolutely use this to my advantage, and I will.

The tension still lingers in the kitchen when my belly aches for an entirely different reason. I’m starving.

Well, then. Make myself at home, he said.

Happily.

Lev maintains his body like a finely tuned sports car. Well, guess what? So do I.

I open the fridge and am not at all surprised to find it well stocked and immaculately clean. Excellent. Someone’s watching his macros—we have at least one thing in common. Not that he cooks… It looks like most things in his fridge are prepackaged meals he gets from some kind of delivery service.

I grab a banana and yogurt before I hit the basement workout room.

I’ll need my energy for the day ahead.

I look around the kitchen. Will this be my kitchen? Will we live here?

In that case, I could like it. Could use some color, maybe some greenery or plants and definitely more coffee cups, but it’s a large, open-concept kitchen with high-end appliances.

I make myself a cup of strong, black coffee and drink it slowly while I consider the possibilities.

I fought him. I’ll fight him still. But he isn’t wrong. The two of us marrying might be exceptionally advantageous. He says he wants to do it to keep me chained to him or whatever, but it takes two to tango, and I am not going to lie down and give up. Nope.

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