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Azriel Moreno was going to kill Graysen Nolan.

He’d known he would for years, the impulse tempered by his brother—and boss—Rhysand. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. It would have been so much easier to kill him back when Nolan was nothing more than the city prosecutor. He ran afoul of criminals like Azriel all day. Any one of them would have liked to see his blood stain the pavement. 

Rhys thought Nolan might be of use to them someday. After all, he’d been all too happy to take Rhys’s cash as a campaign donation in his race for state senator. And for all his talk about being tough on crime, Nolan never seemed to mind the way his corporate buddies polluted the air and soil in the name of shareholder profits. He didn’t bind busting up unions the way Cassian busted up knees, and if layoffs happened at Christmas so top execs could take home a bigger bonus? Well, that was just business.

And when Nolan peddled his conspiracy theories in order to crush his opponents, when he resorted to fear mongering attacks that caused a local high school to be temporarily shut down, Rhys had done nothing. He played local politics when it suited him, and Nolan had risen far higher than Rhys cared to police. 

All of it might have been forgivable if Nolan hadn’t turned his attention to the city that had raised him and decided to bite the hand that fed him. He wanted to be tough on crime. He wanted to round up the gangs, the old families, the casinos, the brothels, the drugs. He struck—but it was clumsy. The police were thoroughly bought and the local politicians far too afraid of Rhysand to truly try and come for him. Nolan knew it, after weeks of leaning hard and seeing no results, he’d sent in state police.

And arrested Rhysand’s mother, sister and Azriel’s mother, and Rhysand’s. It had been humiliating, for the women, their faces splashed all over the front page of the papers. They’d made national news, though Rhys had managed, in the end, to spin it as more political ineptitude. Rhys had released five years of his taxes and gone on more than one podcast, schmoozing and lamenting his fathers legacy. As if Rhys wasn’t the master at straddling both worlds.

But Azriel’s mother was little more than a housekeeper and the aftermath of the attention had put her in the hospital. The stress had strained her heart, had left her exhausted and depressed. As if Azriel’s father hadn’t done enough damage to his mother—now a greasy politician with too straight teeth was trying to kill her. 

Azriel wanted retribution. Striding through the halls of Rhysand’s elegant, sprawling home, he found his brother lounging in a high backed leather chair, pensive look on his face. Violet eyes found his when Azriel quietly closed the door behind him.

“How is your mother?” 

Azriel’s fists clenched. “She’s been better.”

Rhys nodded, rage flitting over his face before it smoothed out. Family was important to all of them. “I could send a caretaker.”

“She’d never accept,” Azriel replied. He’d been trying to give her money for years. She was too proud, both of him and her own circumstances. His father had been in the Moreno family, one of Antonio’s inner circle. She’d been a housekeeper—and Azriel a bastard. She was proud to have escaped the worst of his father’s cruelty, for raising Azriel as a single mother despite his fathers wealth. And she was proud Azriel had taken his father’s place when the man died.

Sometimes Azriel wondered if she’d be proud if she knew it had been him who had killed him, in the end. 

Rhys nodded, sighing heavily. “Something has to be done or he’ll try again.”

“Let me kill him.”

Rhys shook his head. “Too messy. We need something a little more subtle. A warning of what could happen if he tries again.”

Rhys reached for a plain manilla folder on his elegant mahogany desk. He slid to the end, prompting Azriel to step forward. Ignoring the cases of books, the sitting area where they occasionally smoked and drank, and the opposing leather chairs he might have sat in, Azriel reached for it.

“He proposed,” Rhys said, as Azriel flipped open the folder. How Rhys had amassed so much information on Nolan’s personal life was a mystery. Azriel flipped through photo after photo of a very public proposal to a woman just as immaculate and put together as Nolan was. She was, if Azriel was honest, absurdly beautiful. Untouchable, in her designer heels and her perfectly styled, golden brown hair. 

She grinned, red lips stretched over straight teeth. Azriel thought her fawn brown eyes seemed tight, though he might have been projecting his own hatred onto whoever this woman was. She’d clearly said yes, and in the next photograph, while Graysen held her against his body, his new fiance held her hand out behind him, examining that massive diamond with an unreadable expression.

“You want me to kill his wife?”

Azriel didn’t hurt women.

Rhys scoffed. “Kidnap. Hold her up in the mountains for a week, maybe two. Long enough for Graysen to see what I might do if he comes for my family again.”

Azriel flipped shut the file, tossing it back to Rhys’s neatly organized desk. Paper and pictures slipped from inside, spread around them both.

“Ask Cass. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Her name is Elain Archeron,” Rhys said, ignoring Azriel’s protests. He recognized that name. Archeron was the name of some oil magnate—or was it shipping? Either way, Archeron was an old money name, the way Vanserra was. “She’s his middle daughter—some say his favorite daughter. I wonder how Archeron would feel knowing his soon-to-be son-in-law got his daughter roped into our bullshit. Or any of his daughters, really.”

Azriel stared flatly. “What are you playing at?”

“Cassian can’t deal with Nolan’s bride because he’s too busy with the eldest sister. She’s a big time lawyer… loves her sisters. I heard she’d do anything for them.”

Azriel looked up at the ceiling, sighing loudly. “You think kidnapping Elain will turn the family against Nolan?”

“I think Archeron has a lot more political capital than Nolan does, and pulls a lot of purse strings. Charisma doesn’t win elections—money does. Nolan needs a war chest if he’s going to win his reelection campaign, and I’m not stupid enough to imagine courting and marrying an Archeron doesn’t help him with that.”

“I don’t give a fuck about his political career—”

“You can’t kill a Senator, Az. You can kill a private citizen,” Rhys replied, holding Azriel’s gaze. “Two weeks with a dormouse. You’ve done worse.”

“He’d been tortured for longer than that. Azriel’s eyes slid to the picture on Rhys’s desk. His brother was right. This would be easy. He doubted he’d have to even tie her up after the first day or so. She’d do whatever he told her, too scared to argue or fight back. 

“Stock up that cabin if I can’t leave,” he finally grumbled. “Weapons, food, clothes. Whatever she’s gonna fucking need to an extended stay. I’m not going to fuss over a princess.”

“Can you get her?”

Azriel rolled his eyes. “The day I can’t kidnap a society girl is the day you put a bullet between my eyes.”

ELAIN: 

Elain stared at her phone with trembling hands. In front of her, Gray was talking with a group of her father’s friends, his megawatt smile on full display. He didn’t notice the way she’d gone silent, how she was no longer at this side, touching his shoulder and making all those men jealous. 

I know you don’t know me, but I thought you should know what Graysen has been doing and saying when you’re not around. I’m really sorry. I just think you deserve better. You seem really nice…and I’m sorry that I helped to hurt you. If you have any questions, you can call me or text me. I swear I didn’t know who he was.

Picture after picture of Graysen and a very beautiful, very young, very blonde woman grinned. Selfies of them kissing, of texts where he swore he missed her, that he loved her—wanted to be with her. Elain wanted to scream. She hadn’t wanted to date Graysen in the first place. Right out of college, Elain wanted to travel. She wanted to see the world, to explore and do something besides get married.

Her father had pleaded with her. Meet him once. He’s a fine young man. 

As if such a thing existed. Was she even in love with him? When she’d felt that thread of cold dread as he’d sunk to one knee and put the ring on her finger? She thought she was, even if she wasn’t ready for marriage. She’d told herself she’d get there. That this was merely the cold feet everyone spoke of. 

Elain slid her phone into her pocket. Walking to Graysen, she slid a hand up his shoulder. This was not the place for an embarrassing spectacle. She’d confront him in private, after she had a chance to think about what she wanted to say and what she wanted to do.

But Elain knew there was no way in hell she’d marry him. She wasn’t going to live her life as a cliche, the wife who endured her husband’s infidelity with a smile. Elain sure as shit wasn’t going to one day stand behind him in a Chanel skirt, eyes pinned to the floor while her husband apologized to the nation. She’d end things quietly before campaigning even began. Tell everyone they’d parted ways amicably, that she wished him no ill will, even if that was a lie. 

“Hey,” she murmured into his ear, revolted by how he turned. How he wrapped a hand around her waist and pressed a kiss to her neck.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” he said, earning appreciative chuckles from the men in the room. Elain’s skin crawled, though she plastered a pretty smile on her face. 

What else do you like, Gray?  

“I don’t feel well. I think I need to lay down,” she said, praying he didn’t override her and demand she stay. The day would drag into the night, brunch becoming dinner, becoming drinks and then smoking out on the terrace. 

People meandered about Grayson's home, peering at his expensive art he didn’t understand and his curated furniture with appreciation. It looked as if he had style, had taste.

What he had was her fathers money and a designer who had put together every single thing in his home. Elain hated the Nolan residence, of which she would one day be expected to preside over. Graysen couldn’t even select his own silverware, let alone a chair. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, though perhaps he cared less than she’d imagined. “I’ll miss you…”

She wanted to slap him. 

“I know,” she said with a believable sigh. “Maybe if I take a nap I’ll feel better.”

“Upstairs?”

In the bed you’ve probably fucked a hundred other women in?

Elain couldn’t hide the tightness in her eyes. “At home.”

That irritated him. They were surrounded by far too many people for him to truly protest. To cut her down with his words, wielded as effectively as any blade. Elain’s body tightened on instinct as adrenaline raced through her. Graysen’s brown eyes promised a fight.

Elain had never once won a fight with her fiance. He was so good at turning things around on her. At cutting her down to ribbons, making her feel small and worthless and stupid. 

“Whatever you need, darling.”

She forced herself to kiss his cheek. Nothing was wrong, nothing amiss. Two people desperately in love and nothing more. Only then was Elain allowed to slip from his grasp and make her way to the door, her heels clipping evenly over the hardwood. He’d be watching as long as could, suspicious as to why she couldn’t get in his bed, where he could keep his eyes on her. He’d been arguing with her for weeks to move into his home with him and Elain hadn’t understood back then why she kept resisting.

She’d need to move out eventually.

Now she was grateful she’d listened to her intuition. 

Elain didn’t think she took a breath until she was out in the gloomy, spring weather. Rain threatened overhead, filling the air with a warm, wet scent she’d always enjoyed. Elain exhaled roughly, turning to look at the white door of Graysen’s house. He lived in one of the old, historic neighborhoods in the city, gated from the rest as if he could somehow block everything out. 

Elain wasn’t far, to be fair, though in heels it might have been several hundred miles. She hated the tall, black stilettos he demanded she wear, just as much as she hated how he forced her to straighten out her hair, how he wanted her in muted blues and whites. Elain had never forgotten the way he’d screamed at her over a revealed collarbone, or how he thought anything showing above her knees would be cause for a scandal.

No more strappy sundresses. No cute shorts, no unmade faces where the freckles that dotted her nose were visible. No curled hair—nothing that she liked about herself. Only the doll he liked to dress up and drag from place to place to place. 

Look at beautiful Elain. Don’t you wish you could touch her, too?

Elain shook out her hands in anger as she walked, her mind racing. She needed to break things off. Somewhere public, somewhere her sisters could intervene. She could block Graysen and make a public statement about the whole thing on Instagram, forcing him to acknowledge it. To leave her alone before he looked insane. 

Elain was all but bouncing when she arrived home. Pulling open the vibrant cobalt door, painted by her own hands two years earlier, Elain visibly relaxed when her own decor came into view. Twining plants curtained the windows of her townhouse, creeping toward sunlight and glass. Rose and cream furniture was set against pink walls decorated with a mix of Elain’s personal style and her sister Feyre’s art. 

Elain ignored her growling stomach for the stairs, taking them two at a time once she’d kicked off those awful shoes. She wanted a bath, wanted soft, loose pajamas and then as much food as she could put in front of her while she binged watched television. Elain was in such a good mood that when she pushed open her bedroom door, the sight of an interloper didn't immediately ruin it. 

Graysen had sent people to watch her before. They usually waited outside, but maybe Graysen had called the minute she stepped out the door in an effort to punish her. Gripping the doorframe, Elain sized that man up. He…wasn’t the usual type. Shadows seemed to slide over the sharp, elegant planes of his face. Hazel eyes more brown than green watched her with a predator's focus while his blue black hair all but gobbled up the light. He was tall, broad and muscular, like he’d been carved from marble rather than flesh. He was beautiful—all full lips and warm, brown skin covered in black ink. Only his hands, which were deeply scared, were untouched by the tattoos covering him. His hands and his beautiful, cold face. 

“Gray sent you?” she asked with a sigh, stepping into the room. He tracked her movements without smiling, which put her at ease. If he thought to hurt her, she expected him to smile, to leer, to do anything but stand so strangely out of place among the soft, feminine space. 

“You can wait in the living room,” Elain added, annoyed by the whole thing. 

“And if I won’t?” he asked with a voice as deep and velvet as midnight. She whipped her head around to look at him. 

“Are you planning to watch me bathe?” she snapped, heart racing. His brows pulled together, and it was clear things were not going how he’d imagined. “Get out.”

Elain pulled her phone from her pocket, heart racing. She hated Graysen for this, for putting that diamond studded leash around her neck and calling it love. Or safety. Or whatever this was supposed to be. She was going to call him and demand she call his dog off.

The man standing on her braided cream rug strode toward her, knocking her phone from her hand before she could do more than open the screen. He reached into the pockets of his jeans, chest heaving beneath his short sleeved, black shirt.

He pulled out a rag.

Elain understood, then, that this man had not sent by Graysen. He reached for her, strong arms gripping her around the chest as she flailed. Elain managed to graze her teeth over his forearm, sinking her teeth viciously into his flesh until she tasted blood.

“Fuck!” he swore, dropping her before he managed to get his rag over her face. Elain scrambled, racing for the hall, her pursuer just behind. He caught her just at the top of the stairs, though the weight of his solid, heavy body sent them both tumbling viciously to the bottom.

He managed to pin her to her back, thighs tight around her waist, both wrists pinned beneath one overly large hand.

She took a deep breath to scream and he grinned, savage in his beauty. It was a strange, hysterical last thought, because he brought that rag over her face roughly, holding it to her nose even as she struggled. The harder Elain fought, the more her lungs burned, until she had to draw breath.

And then another, panting in the overwhelming chemical coated against the cloth. Her head swam, vision blurring. The last thing Elain saw, before the darkness fully took her, were two eyes, more brown than green, staring down at her without emotion.

She was going to die. 

AZRIEL:

“She fucking bit me,” Azriel snapped into the phone, sitting in his car just outside the cabin in the Illyrian Mountains. “Stop fucking laughing, Cassian.”
Rhys was laughing too which only rankled him further. He had the passed out woman in his trunk, which in retrospect was unnecessary. It made him feel better, though. After all, she’d strolled right into that bedroom like it wasn’t unusual to see a stranger standing in her personal space.

What the fuck was going on with her and Nolan? 

“You have her, though?” Rhys confirmed. “Did you ah…clean up the blood?”

“Fuck you,” Azriel deadpanned. Though he had made sure to clean everything up before hoisting her over his shoulder and dumping her in his trunk. The politician’s princess had teeth. 

Had claws. 

Azriel was willing to bet she’d beg, too. 

“Two weeks, Az,” Rhys offered, his tone conciliatory. “I’ll reach out to Nolan tomorrow. Let them both stew a little.”

There was a pause, and then— “Don’t hurt her.”

Azriel tried not to be offended. “You got it.”

Once Azriel was freed of his brothers, he allowed himself one moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath of dry mountain air. Elain Archeron was just a woman. A beautiful, angry woman who would want to get home to her ugly, stupid fiance. If she were a difficult captive, he would have planned to tie her to the radiator in the basement.

She wasn’t, and Azriel anticipated he could tie her to the bed that first night, if only to scare her, and then allow her some freedom. Nothing opened from the inside without a key, including the windows. He’d lock her in the bedroom so he didn’t have to babysit her when she needed to pee and spend two weeks stuffing his face with snacks and watching television.

Better than anything else he would have done, at any rate. The thought was enough to motivate him to get out of the car, to grab his bag from the backseat, and then a drowsy Elain in the trunk.

“Bastard,” she slurred, trying so hard to keep her eyes open. 

Azriel slung her over his shoulders. “Am I so obvious, baby?”
She groaned before falling limp again. She smelled like jasmine and honey and he hated that he noticed that. Azriel was grateful for the dim cabin and the scent of cedar and pine that drowned out Graysen’s wife. She didn’t stir again as he took her to the main bedroom, deciding he’d sleep on the couch just in case she tried to make a break for the door at some point. 

She didn’t fight him when he bound her arms to the headboard. He gave himself permission to look at her, dressed in an ugly, too tight, too beige dress. Still beautiful, despite it—tied to a bed, which might have been a fantasy of his had she not been so slick and perfect. 

He left her, slamming the door behind him in favor of bandaging up his forearm and seeing what Rhys had left him in the fridge. Azriel was a dogshit cook and there was no way to order anything up the perilous mountain road. Rhys had stocked actual cooking ingredients—meats and vegetables and fruits—along with ramen noodles, chips, and other things Azriel could sustain himself on without ever dirtying a pot. So long as he had a microwave, he was golden. 

Pulling open a bag of pickle chips, Azriel padded to the open living room and the leather couch just calling his name. He still remembered the first time he’d come up here as a boy, nervous on one of his fathers weekends. Rhys had been there, sprawled over that couch like a spoiled prince.

Want to play Super Smash Brothers?  

Azriel had no idea what that was back then. He knew now. Maybe, if Rhys had never introduced him to it, he wouldn’t be so viciously competitive. Azriel had hated losing and, after begging his mother for both the system and the game, knowing full well she had to work so much over time in order to provide it for him, Azriel had spent day and night practicing. 

The next time he and Rhys played, Azriel had wiped the floor with him.

They’d been friends ever since. 

Turning on the television, Azriel flipped aimlessly, looking for something that interested him. He had the sense a basketball game was coming on, and swore he meant to watch the pregame show. Instead, he found one of his mothers soaps a few channels in and though he hadn’t got caught watching just behind her worn, floral sofa in a long time, Azriel was immediately sucked in, losing himself in the familiar spanish his mother still spoke when it was just the two of them and the characters that were still up to no good nearly three decades later. 

He’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing until he heard Elain scream. He jumped, sending chips flying in the air. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grumbled, swinging his legs back to the floor. She could have woken the fucking dead with a set of lungs like that. Azriel let himself be loud, stomping toward her bedroom in hopes she’d settle the fuck down.

If anything, Elain only got louder. 

Azriel pushed the wood door open, revealing a twisting, thrashing Elain against red and black plaid bedspread. “You’re going to give yourself a rope burn if you don’t knock it off,” he said dryly, bracing his body against the frame. 

She turned to look at him, brown eyes flooded with tears. Predictable, the thought. “Let me go!” she ordered in the bossiest tone he’d ever heard. 

Azriel ran his tongue over his teeth, pretending to consider. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Her eyes ran up his body, appraising him as she plotted her next words. “Are you going to kill me?”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Azriel could practically feel his mothers disapproval as he prepared to taunt her. He needed to silence that voice in his head, needed to be cold and cruel if only to keep this woman in line. “That depends on you, princess.”

“This is because of Gray, isn’t it?” she whispered, her voice breaking when she said her fiance’s name. “He’s mad and now he’s punishing me.”

Azriel blinked. “I— what?”

Elain turned her head, as if she couldn’t stand to look at him. Azriel had a million questions, all of them swallowed as Elain began to weep mascara tears into the black cased pillow. “I’ll behave,” she managed, gulping down a breath of air. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The word was more accusatory than he meant. She was trembling and obviously trying so hard to stop her breathless sobs.

“For leaving,” she hiccuped, her eyes smudged and swollen.

“Oh for fucks sake,” he snapped. “I—” He didn’t even know where to begin. How had he become the good guy? In his entire life, never had Azriel ever been anyone's hero, their rescuer from someone far worse. No one was worse than him. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said, pushing off the doorframe to stalk into the room. She cringed away from him which he found suddenly intolerable. “And Nolan didn’t send me to punish you. You’re here to punish him.”

“Punish him?” she whispered, blinking another fat tear over her make-up coated face. Azriel swore he saw a dusting of freckles just beneath, worn away from her fear and stress. Those, he thought, were pretty. 

“Your husband is a bastard,” Azriel hissed, waiting for more sobs, more protests.

Her tears were drying. “You took me away from Graysen?” she repeated, pressing her knees together as he came to the edge of the king sized bed. “To teach him a lesson?”

Azriel hesitated for the first time in years. “Yes.”
There was a beat. “Oh,” Elain breathed, which answered none of Azriel’s questions. She dared to look up at him again, her brown eyes flecked with gold. “Will you untie me?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I won’t—” she sucked in a breath of air, her chest slowing as she calmed. “I won’t try and run.”

“They all say that,” he replied, though he was reaching for his back pocket and the blade he had concealed. 

“I swear,” she said, blinking big eyes up at him. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

He bit his tongue, swallowing every lewd response that rose into his throat. “If you try to escape, I’ll tie you to a pipe in the basement for the next two weeks. Naked,” he added for good measure.

Elain nodded solemnly. Azriel cut the bindings he’d tied not even a few hours before, his effort wasted. She sighed, sitting herself up to rub the bruised, welted skin. 

“Are you going to kill Graysen?” she asked him, not daring to look up at him as she asked.

“Would you like me to?” he replied, wondering if he’d honor her request if she asked. Elain shook her head back and forth, nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Is this for money, then?”

“This is a warning,” Azriel said, letting the hatred he felt seep into his voice. “Next time I won’t be so nice to his pretty little princess.”

Elain’s mouth flattened. “I’m not his princess.”

Azriel turned his back to her. “We’ll see.”

ELAIN:

Kidnapped.

Stepping out of the steam from her shower, Elain had to stamp down how giddy she felt. Kidnapped—by who, she didn’t know, and why, she didn’t truly understand. That dark haired man had said two weeks. Two weeks for Graysen to stew and Elain to work out how she was going to continue to stay gone once she returned to her normal life. 

Wiping the mirror, Elain looked at her bare face for what felt like the first time in ages. There was no looming twelve step skin care routine she needed to adhere to, no mascara to coat over her lashes so Graysen would think she was naturally like that. Who cared if the terrifying man with the knife thought she was pretty? Elain didn’t. She ran a brush through her hair and slipped on a pair of swishy pajama pants he’d obviously swiped from her bedroom, along with an oversized band t-shirt from a concert she’d attended months ago. It was stained purple from paint and utterly comfortable. 

Only when she was dressed did Elain dare to creep toward the door. She tested the handle, relieved when it turned without resistance. She could hear the sound of low voices coming from a television just down a long hall. The man was stretched over a leather couch, a remote in his hand as if he’d meant to change the channel but had gotten absorbed in the drama.

“Can I eat something?” she asked. He jumped, spraying a bag of chips in his lap all over a glass coffee table. He twisted to look at her, eyes narrowed.

“No knives.”
Elain resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You thought I was going to make you dinner?”

He scowled. “No knives, princess.”

She made her way into the kitchen, holding his gaze as she pulled a steak knife from a wooden block. “What was that?”

He shot to his feet, leveraging that large, muscular body and Elain hastily shoved the knife back.

“Okay, alright. No sense of humor, I see.”

He came to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. Elain pulled open the fridge, trying to pretend this was normal. He was still a stranger, still obviously dangerous. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d tackled her or how he’d pressed that rag against her face. Elain’s gaze slid to his arm, wrapped in a bandage.

Their eyes met and she smiled. “Do you have a name?”

He sighed. “Azriel.”

She almost laughed. Of course he’d have a name like that. “Is that your god given name, or something you choose for yourself?”

“Do I look like someone who has a stage name?” he deadpanned.

No. Humorless Azriel didn’t look like the sort to try and make himself seem more dangerous. Elain found a sealed tub of queso and an unopened bag of tortilla chips atop the fridge. She had to reach on tiptoes for it, dragging the bag down with her finger tips. 

“Microwave it,” he told her, as if Elain were some kind of tasteless animal. Though, to be fair, she would have preferred to cook her cheese over a stove.

Elain was going to park herself in this cabin for two weeks and mourn the death of her relationship with Graysen, and then pretend she’d never met any of them. 

“I think we should establish some ground rules,” Elain began, facing off the large man across the marble kitchen island.

He gaped. “That’s my line.”

“Yeah, I know—no escaping, no weapons. I have rules, too.”

“You’re in no position to bargain with me.”

Elain held his icy stare, waiting for him to back down. She had to fight her delight when he sighed, gesturing for her to tell him her rules.

“No touching,” she warned, holding up a finger like he was a child. Azriel rolled his eyes, but waved his hands for her next rule. 

“I can use knives in the kitchen,” she said quickly. She’d seen several good cuts of meat, along with a whole host of vegetables. Did he expect her to sit around making conversation for fourteen straight days? 

“And if I say no?”

“Am I supposed to eat chips and cheese every single day?”

He shrugged broad shoulders. “Why not? I don’t care if you enjoy yourself.”

Elain’s expression flattened. “Which brings me to my third point. At no point are you allowed to fall in love with me.”

A smile cracked his face, his amusement plain. “Does that happen often, princess?”

“You look like you’d fold with one kind word,” she shot back. That man was wound so tight she thought she could break him by telling him she thought he was lovely. Not that she intended to say so.

Azriel glared. “Falling in love has never been my problem.”

“Something we agree on,” she said cheerfully as the microwave dinged. “When this is over, I never want to see you again.”

He mumbled what she swore was “the feelings mutual, princess,” before turning back for the couch. Elain followed behind him, thinking it was the first time in who knew how long she was in shapeless clothes, eating actual cheese and chips in front of a man without commentary on her appearance or her weight. 

If she’d been with Graysen, she’d have  been in skin tight leggings or some silky little thing he could slide his hand up if he wanted to. Azriel didn’t so much as spare her a second glance when she plopped onto the opposite end of the couch, large enough he could stretch out his legs without ever coming close to touching her. Elain yanked the chunky white blanket draped over the back to her lap, not offering to share—not that he’d ever accept—before asking, “So. What are we watching?”

He cut her a suspicious glance. “Basketball.”

Before she could protest, Azriel flipped to the game, clearly hoping to be rid of her. Elain wondered what kind of operation was being run here that the best kind of torture he could manage was sports.

Though, to be fair, after ten minutes it was working. Elain drew her knees toward her chest and sighed loudly. Azriel didn’t react, though his eyes were glazed over. He was bored, too. Petty as she was, Elain could sustain herself knowing her kidnapper was bored and would rather watch a Spanish soap opera if he had the chance. 

Besides—she was pretty sure he couldn’t kill her. And though she didn’t want to test it, Elain would have bet money that Azriel also wasn’t supposed to tie her up naked. 

“What just happened?” she asked when a buzzer went off. Someone had obviously scored, but he didn’t need to know she understood any part of this.

Game on, asshole. 

Azriel offered Elain a thousand yard stare. “What do you think just happened?”

Elain made her own eyes big and round. “Is he out?”

Azriel looked like he might strangle her. “Surely you saw the ball go through the hoop?”
“Is that good?”

“Does this usually work?” he asked, leaning forward ever so slightly. She caught his biceps flex as his hands curled to fists. She wondered what had caused those scars, though there were some things she didn’t dare ask.

She was merely pretending to be stupid, after all.

“Does what work?”

“Your doe-eyed, dumb girl routine? I’ll bet men eat that shit up, don’t they?”

Elain narrowed her eyes. “Only because they can’t stand the thought of not being the smartest person in the room.”

She swore he nearly smiled. “It’s good to know how you make it work with Graysen.”

Elain looked away. She didn’t want to think about Graysen. Elain rose from the couch, kicking off the blanket so she could put away her chips and cheese.

“Did I hit a nerve, princess?”

Elain spun on her heel, facing off with this much larger, far more dangerous man. “The idea that a man with a junior high education could ever touch any part of me is laughable. You think you know me with your snide princesses and that makes us equals somehow? That we’re on an even playing field simply because you have a gun hidden somewhere nearby?”
He’d gone utterly still, his handsome face curiously blank. This was a mistake, she realized. He was dangerous and he had hit a nerve. But Elain couldn’t stop. She couldn’t say any of this to Graysen, who would have hurt her if she’d ever done anything but smile and play stupid—just as Azriel said. 

The mobster was right. 

And she hated him for it. 

“You are no better than him.”

Azriel’s eyes widened, anger flashing over his features. It took every ounce of will to turn her back to him, to put away her food and then storm into her bedroom. Elain slammed the door as the day began to crash around her. Graysen cheating. Azriel tackling her, dragging her out here. Trapped, always trapped.

The outside of the door latched and too late, Elain realized Azriel had locked her inside. She twisted the handle to no avail before pounding on the wood with her palms.

And when that didn’t work, Elain turned to look at that room, unable to calm her breathing.

She did her best to keep her sobs silent when she couldn’t keep them in anymore. Hiding in the bathroom, knees hugged to her chest, Elain let herself really cry for what felt like the first time in her life.