Celeste'

Sleep is a joke.

I've been staring at the ornate ceiling of this baroque bedroom for what feels like hours, watching shadows shift across the painted cherubs and gold leaf as clouds pass over the moon outside. The bed is too soft. The room is too quiet. My mind won't shut off.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel him—Ares, pinning me against that window, his body a wall of heat and muscle and terrible, unwanted desire. The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted to consume. The way my traitorous body responded like it didn't get the memo that we're supposed to hate him.

The bedside clock reads 2:47 AM when I finally give up and throw back the silk covers.

The stylist came and went this afternoon—six hours of being measured and photographed and treated like a dress-up doll while a team of Czech women clucked disapprovingly at my "before" state. They left behind a wardrobe that makes me want to set something on fire: tailored trousers and cashmere sweaters and designer boots that probably cost more than my father paid me in a year of invisible servitude.

I refused to try any of it on. Petra looked like she wanted to argue, but one glance at my face and she quietly retreated, leaving me alone with racks of clothes I didn't ask for and don't want.

Now, at almost 3 AM, I'm padding through the unfamiliar apartment in my tank top and the baggy jeans I've been living in since New York. My canvas shoes are silent on the parquet floors as I navigate hallways lit only by the ambient glow of the city outside.

I need water. My throat is dry from the recycled air, my mouth tastes like the protein bar I ate for dinner because I refused to let Petra bring me a proper meal. Small rebellions are all I have left.

The kitchen is state-of-the-art and completely foreign—all stainless steel and marble countertops, nothing like the utilitarian space at the Brown estate where I used to hide when Elara was on a rampage. I find a glass in the third cabinet I try and fill it from the filtered water dispenser built into the refrigerator.

The water is cold and perfect, and I'm draining half the glass when I hear it.

Rhythmic impact. Flesh on leather. The unmistakable sound of someone hitting something with controlled violence.

My curiosity outweighs my common sense. I take the glass with me where water is still there. and follow the sound through another hallway, down a flight of stairs I haven't explored yet, until I'm standing in front of a door that's slightly ajar, light spilling through the gap.

I should go back to my room. Should pretend I didn't hear anything and climb back into that too-soft bed and try to pretend sleep will eventually come.

Instead, I push the door open.

The room beyond is pure function over form—a private gym that's all mats and mirrors and equipment that looks like it could double as medieval torture devices. Punching bags hang from reinforced ceiling mounts. Free weights are organized with military precision. And in the center of it all, demolishing a heavy bag with kicks that make the chain rattle: Ares.

He's shirtless, wearing only black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, and every inch of exposed skin is slick with sweat. His body moves with a fluidity that's hypnotic—each kick a perfect arc of controlled power, each strike landing with the kind of precision that speaks to thousands of hours of practice.

I've never seen anything like it. He's not just working out—he's performing violence like it's an art form.

A roundhouse kick connects with the bag, and the impact reverberates through the room. Another kick, this one aimed lower. Then a spinning back kick that makes the bag swing on its chain like a pendulum.

He's beautiful. That's the thought that crosses my mind unbidden, unwanted. Not beautiful like a painting or a sunset—beautiful like a apex predator, like something designed by evolution to be perfect at killing.

I must make a sound—a sharp intake of breath, maybe—because suddenly his head snaps toward the door and those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine.

We stare at each other across the gym, and I see the moment he decides what happens next.

"Come here."

Two words. A command, not a request.

Every instinct screams at me to run. Instead, I place my glass down on the floor near the door and my feet carry me into the gym like they're operating on someone else's orders.

He doesn't move from his position by the heavy bag, just watches me approach with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.

"Can't sleep?" His voice is rough, breathless from exertion.

"The bed is uncomfortable." It's a lie. We both know it's a lie.

"The bed is a custom-made Hästens that costs more than most people's cars. Try again."

I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware that I'm standing in front of him in just a thin tank top and baggy jeans, no bra, my body doing things I don't want it to do in response to all that exposed, sweat-slicked muscle.

"I'm not used to sleeping in strange places."

"You slept fine on the plane." He moves to the water station and grabs a towel, using it to wipe sweat from his face and neck. The movement makes his abs flex, and I forcibly drag my eyes away.

"That's because I was exhausted from being kidnapped and dragged across the Atlantic against my will."

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "You signed the contract willingly."

"Under duress."

"Semantics." He tosses the towel aside and returns to the heavy bag. "Since you're here and awake, make yourself useful. Hold the bag."

"What?"

"The bag. Hold it steady while I work." He gestures impatiently. "Unless you'd rather go back to your uncomfortable bed and stare at the ceiling for another few hours."

I should definitely go back to my room. Should put distance between myself and this man who radiates danger like it's a cologne.

Instead, I walk to the heavy bag and wrap my arms around it from the opposite side, bracing myself against its weight.

"Tighter. I need resistance, not a suggestion of resistance."

I adjust my grip, pressing my whole body against the leather, and immediately realize my mistake. From this angle, I'm going to feel every single impact.

The first kick lands, and the force of it reverberates through my entire body. I grit my teeth and hold on.

"Good." Another kick, harder this time. "Don't let go."

He falls into a rhythm—kick, pause, kick. Each impact progressively harder, testing my ability to keep the bag stable. Sweat is dripping down his chest in rivulets, his breathing controlled despite the obvious exertion.

I'm mesmerized despite myself. Watching the way his muscles coil and release, the perfect economy of movement, the raw power behind each strike.

"Enjoying the view, little Saint?"

My eyes snap up to his face, and I find him watching me with an expression that's equal parts amusement and something darker.

"I'm just doing what you told me to do," I manage, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

"Liar." He kicks again, hard enough that I stumble back a step. "You've been staring at me like you're trying to memorize every scar."

"I haven't—"

The next kick is brutal, and I see it coming. See the way he's putting his full strength behind it, see that it's going to hurt.

So I let go.

The bag swings backward, carried by momentum, and catches him square in the shoulder. It's not hard enough to hurt him—not really—but it's enough to throw off his balance, to make him stumble back a step.

For a second, we just stare at each other.

Then his eyes narrow, and I see something predatory slide across his face.

"Did you just—"

I don't wait to hear the rest of that sentence. I turn and run.

It's stupid. The gym is enclosed, there's nowhere to go, and he's a trained martial artist who's probably caught people more qualified to flee than me. But adrenaline makes me stupid, makes me think I can somehow evade him if I just move fast enough.

I make it maybe fifteen feet before he catches me.

One second I'm running, the next his arm is around my waist and we're falling. He twists mid-air so he takes the brunt of the impact, landing on his back on the training mats with me on top of him.

Then he rolls, and suddenly I'm pinned beneath two hundred pounds of sweat-slicked muscle and barely controlled violence.

"That," he says, his voice a low growl, "was a mistake."

I try to buck him off, but it's useless. He's everywhere—his thighs bracketing mine, his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his chest pressing me into the mat with inexorable weight.

"Let me go!" I'm writhing now, trying to create space that doesn't exist.

"Why?" He leans down, and I feel his breath hot against my neck. "So you can run again? So you can pretend you didn't come down here hoping to see exactly this?"

"I came down here for water!"

"Liar." His hips settle more firmly against mine, and I feel him—hard and thick and pressing against me through our clothes. "You came down here because you can't stop thinking about what it felt like when I pinned you in the car. When I had you against that window. You're addicted to it, Celeste. Addicted to being overpowered by something you can't control."

"You're insane." But even as I say it, I can feel the heat building between my legs, the traitorous dampness that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his body is dominating mine.

"Maybe." He shifts, and the movement grinds his erection directly against my center. "But you're the one getting wet right now. I can feel it, even through your jeans."

My face burns with humiliation and unwanted arousal. "You're disgusting."

"I'm honest." Another roll of his hips, slower this time, more deliberate. "Look at you, little Saint. Already soaking through your panties for a monster."

The words are filthy, degrading, exactly the kind of thing that should make me hate him more.

So why is my body arching into his touch instead of away from it?

"I can feel how wet your tight cunt is getting just from being pinned under me." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Feel how your body is betraying everything your mouth is saying."

He releases one of my wrists, and before I can use the freedom to push him away, his hand is between us, palming me roughly over my jeans. The pressure is firm, inescapable, his fingers pressing the damp fabric hard against my swollen folds.

I gasp, the sound sharp and shocked in the quiet gym.

"There it is." His eyes are burning now, ice turned to flame. "That's the sound I've been waiting to hear. Pure, unfiltered need."

"Stop." But I don't sound convincing, even to my own ears.

"Why? Because you're afraid of how good it feels? Afraid of what it means that you're soaked and trembling and ready to come just from me touching you through your clothes?"

His fingers move, finding my clit through the layers of fabric and pressing hard. The sensation shoots through me like electricity, making my back arch off the mat involuntarily.

My messy bun comes completely loose, dark hair spilling across the mat as I writhe beneath him.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face like he's cataloging every microexpression. "Stop fighting and just feel it."

He grinds against me again, letting me feel every thick inch of his erection rubbing along my dripping slit through our clothes. The friction is maddening—enough to drive me higher but not enough to satisfy the ache building in my core.

My breath comes in short, confused pants, my soft body betraying every principle I thought I had.

"Please." The word escapes before I can stop it, and I don't even know what I'm asking for. For him to stop? To continue? To do something, anything, to relieve this terrible pressure building inside me?

"Please what?" His hand is still between my legs, rubbing slow circles that make my vision blur. "Please fuck you? Please make you come? Use your words, Wife."

"I hate you." It's all I can manage.

"I know." He leans down, his forehead resting against mine, and for a moment the violence in his eyes softens into something almost tender. "But hate is still feeling something. And right now, you're feeling everything."

Sweat drips from his chest onto my face, and I taste salt on my lips. His heart is thudding against mine, our breathing synchronized, our bodies moving together in a rhythm that feels inevitable.

This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong. I should be fighting harder, should be screaming for help, should be doing anything other than lying here letting him touch me like he owns me.

But God help me, it feels good. Feels right in a way that terrifies me.

"You want to know the real reason I chose you?" His voice is rough, strained. "It wasn't strategy. Wasn't revenge. It was this—this feeling right here. The way you fight me even when your body is begging to surrender. The way you look at me like I'm a monster and still get wet when I touch you."

His hips thrust against me harder, the thick length of him dragging along my clit with brutal precision.

"I'm going to ruin you, Celeste. Going to take everything you think you know about yourself and burn it down. And you're going to let me, because deep down, you want to be ruined. Want someone to finally see all the darkness you keep hidden and love you for it instead of despite it."

The words hit me like a physical blow, cutting too close to truths I'm not ready to acknowledge.

"Get off me." My voice breaks. "Please, just... get off me."

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Just stares down at me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much, that strip away every defense and leave me raw and exposed.

Then he releases my other wrist and pushes himself up, rolling off me in one fluid motion.

I scramble backward, putting distance between us, my whole body shaking with adrenaline and unwanted arousal. Between my legs, I'm achingly aware of the wetness soaking through my panties, the throbbing need that his touch created and then abandoned.

Ares stands and walks to where I left my water glass on the floor by the door. He picks it up, drains the remaining water in one long swallow while holding my gaze, then sets it down with deliberate care.

"Go back to bed, Celeste." His voice is calm now, controlled, like he didn't just have me pinned to the mat and grinding against me. "Before I decide you're here for something other than water."

I don't need to be told twice.

I run—actually run—out of the gym and back up the stairs, my canvas shoes slapping against parquet as I flee to my room. I slam the door behind me and lean against it, my chest heaving, my entire body trembling.

Between my legs, I'm still throbbing with need. My nipples are hard beneath my tank top, my skin flushed and sensitive.

I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, my knees pulled up to my chest.

What is wrong with me? Why did I let him touch me like that? Why did I like it when he touched me like that?

The worst part isn't what he did. The worst part is that some broken, desperate part of me wanted him to keep going. Wanted to see what would happen if I stopped fighting and just let him take what he wanted.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory of his body on mine, his voice in my ear, his hands making me feel things I have no right to feel for a man who bought me like property.

Sleep still doesn't come.

But when it finally does—hours later, as dawn is breaking over Prague—I dream of ice-blue eyes and sweat-slicked skin and the feeling of being pinned beneath something vast and terrible and utterly inescapable.

And in the dream, I don't fight.

In the dream, I surrender.