Ashley's POV:
I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment the penthouse stopped feeling like a holding cell and started feeling… padded. Soft. Gentle. Like someone had wrapped my whole existence in cashmere and whispered that the world outside was too sharp for me now.
Time didn't move normally here.It stretched, curled, melted—like steam from a too‑hot bath.
Four days dissolved into something warm and glittering and wildly disorienting.
And Roman?He never left my orbit.
Not physically.Not emotionally.Not mentally.
He didn't have to lock me in. He didn't need to. He just existed around me with this density, this gravitational pull that made resistance feel pointless.
Wherever I moved, he was there at the periphery—reading, watching, working—always aware of me. He was the most attentive presence I'd ever encountered, which somehow made him infinitely more dangerous.
We played chess. He let me win once, and the tiny smirk on his mouth told me he enjoyed the fake loss more than any real victory.
We watched old films in his private cinema.
We spent an entire afternoon cataloguing rare coins, and I swear he talked about each one like it was a lover he'd lost in a past life. I saw reverence in him I never expected.
And through all of it, I kept asking myself the same question:
Why do I like this? Why does it feel normal?
I'm losing my mind.He's a monster.He's my captor.He should make me sick—not warm.
But the warmth persisted.
That morning, I paced the living room, my bare feet whispering over polished floors. Roman looked up from the mahogany desk where he sat reviewing documents with surgical precision. His gaze—sharp, assessing—softened the moment it landed on me.
"Stop pacing, sunbeam," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around command. "You look like a caged lioness. Beautiful. Agitated."His lips twitched. "Untamed."
My heart stuttered. It always did when he looked at me like that—like I was dangerous and precious at the same time.
Don't react. Don't soften. He feeds on that.
But my stomach still flipped.
He closed his folder, stood, unbuttoned his jacket, rolled up his sleeves—slow, intentional. The ink on his forearms shifted like shadows.
"I'll indulge you," he said. "No stress today. No expectations. Only pleasure."A smirk."I've been told Americans require stress-baking to stay functional."
In the massive stainless-steel kitchen—sleek and cold and definitely not cookie‑friendly—he said simply:
"Bake for me. Show me something from your old life."
"I make a mean chocolate chip cookie," I laughed. "But I'm a disaster in the kitchen."
"I don't need perfection," he said. "I need you."
I hated how deeply that hit.
Flour exploded across the counter. Roman Volkov—ruthless crime king—held a measuring cup like it was delicate brain surgery. When flour coated his expensive trousers, I burst out laughing.
He shot me a warning look that failed because of the half-smile tugging at his lips.
"These are high-stakes cookies," he said. "For my queen."
"I'm not a queen," I snorted, flicking flour onto his nose.
He crossed the space between us in two long strides and slid his arms around my waist from behind, pulling me gently but firmly against him.
Warm.Solid.Too close.
"You've been my queen since the day I saw you," he murmured at my ear. "You simply haven't accepted it yet."
My butterflies went feral.
Remember what he did to your family.Remember the debts.Remember the fear.
But then I thought… maybe he wasn't the monster I'd painted him to be.Not entirely.
His presence behind me grounded me, steadied me. Terrifying how easy that was.
I rolled another dough ball, mind spiraling to my parents—their exhausted faces, the weight they'd carried. I remembered those first days after he took me—the panic, the choking fear that I'd never see them again.
The memory grabbed my chest—
And then he pressed a soft kiss against my cheek, almost tender.
Just like that, the panic loosened. Courage warmed in its place.
Ask. Ask now.
I swallowed hard. "Roman… can I call them?"
Everything stilled.He looked at me, unreadable.
"Your parents," he said flatly.
"I just… need to know they're okay."
A beat. Two. I braced for the gentle, permanent no.
Instead:
"Wait here."
He walked away.
He didn't say no.Oh God.
Minutes later, Mary led me to my room. A laptop waited, already connected to a call.
My parents' faces filled the screen instantly.
"Ashley!" my mom cried.
I broke. Full-on tears—relief, guilt, love.
"I'm okay," I said. "I promise."
Then I noticed their surroundings—sunlight, elegant furniture, a garden.
"Where are you?"
My dad almost laughed. "Ash, a miracle happened. A lawyer came. He paid everything. Every debt. Every bill."
My mom nodded through tears. "Daniel's start-up got funded too. We're safe, sweetheart. We have security now."
The world tilted.
Roman.Roman did all of this.
"The lawyer said it was because of you," my mom whispered.
Something inside me cracked open, wide and terrifying.
"I'm with the benefactor," I said softly. "And… I chose to be here. I really am okay."
When the call ended, the screen went black.
I sat in silence, trembling.
Roman bought their freedom.He protected them.He provided.He restored everything.
And the truth hit with brutal clarity:
He's a monster, but he's my monster.Loyal in a way that scorches.Devoted in the only language he understands.
I won't change him.I'll accept him.I choose him.
The door clicked. Roman stepped in with a tray of warm cookies.
"Did you tell them you were happy?"
I rose and walked to him—not with courage, not with fear, but with something magnetic, inevitable.
"I did."I wrapped my arms around him.
He exhaled sharply, as if something inside him broke open.
"Good," he murmured into my hair. "As it should be."
We ate cookies on my bed—domestic, warm, unreal.
After a while, he brushed a crumb from my cheek.
"I have news, solnyshko. Tonight, there is a gala. You will stand beside me."
I felt anticipation—not dread.
That evening, he brought me the dress—midnight-blue silk, shimmering like deep water. When I slipped into it, he watched like I was holy.
He knelt, slid the diamond heel onto my foot with a reverence that stole my breath.
"You are my light," he whispered in Russian. "My treasure. My impossible thing."
Heat rushed through me.
I reached for him. He rose.We stared—minutes, hours, years—all in one electric silence.
Kiss him—don't—kiss him—
I couldn't think.I leaned in.Soft. Shaky. A question, not a declaration.
Roman froze for one heartbeat. Then exhaled like he'd been holding that air forever.
He slammed me gently against the wall, the gown rustling. His mouth took mine, deep and consuming. My body flooded with a wild, intoxicating rush I'd been fighting for days.
His hands moved down my waist, hungry, remembering me, claiming me.
"I can smell the fear leaving you," he growled softly. "Good. Do you feel that this belongs to me now? Every part of you."
A sharp knock split the moment.
"Sir, the driver is waiting," Mary called.
Roman stilled against me, breathing hard. Forehead pressed to mine.
"We'll continue this later, solnyshko," he whispered. "Tonight, you are my weapon. I need them to see I did not just claim you—I remade you."
My blush burned.
He pulled back, straightened his jacket, mask of composure snapping into place. He offered his hand.
I took it.
And together, we stepped out—my captor, my protector, my chosen king.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Look, besties,
If you're still here after watching me voluntarily fall for a man who files his taxes in blood and spite, congratulations —
you've officially joined the "Bad Decisions, Premium Edition™" club 😎✨.
I swear I sat down to write a normal chapter and somehow ended up baking cookies with a warlord and making out like I've never heard of self-preservation.
Honestly, at this point I'm just letting the intrusive romantic thoughts run the whole operation 💅🔥.
Anyway, stay tuned — things are about to get messier than Roman's trousers after the flour incident. 🍪
-Vaanni🖤