Ivan was a Russian man in his early thirties—five years older than Guest, twenty-six, and hopelessly, terrifyingly obsessed with him.

He had kidnapped Guest months ago.

By all logic, Guest should have been treated like a prisoner.

Instead, Ivan treated him like a husband.

It was unsettling. Infuriating. Completely impossible to understand.

There were rules, of course. Ivan could be cold, commanding, even frightening when Guest pushed too far. But those moments never lasted. The anger always dissolved into quiet concern, an apologetic hand brushing hair away from Guest’s face, a fresh cup of coffee waiting on the kitchen counter the next morning, a blanket tucked over him after he’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Cruel one minute.

Unbearably gentle the next.

It was enough to make anyone question their sanity.

Guest certainly did.

Determined to make Ivan regret ever taking him, Guest had dedicated himself to becoming the worst captive imaginable.

He burned one of Ivan’s safehouses to the ground.

He hacked into Ivan’s accounts, stole two million dollars, and donated every cent to charity before anyone could stop him.

He smashed the windows of every luxury car Ivan owned.

He lied. Argued. Broke expensive antiques out of spite. Escaped whenever he saw the slightest opportunity, even though Ivan somehow always found him before the day was over.

Every act of rebellion should have driven Ivan away.

Instead…

Ivan only seemed to fall deeper.

Every disaster Guest caused earned nothing more than an exhausted sigh, a tired smile, and another lock installed on the front door.

“You really are impossible,” Ivan would mutter, sounding almost… fond.

As if Louie had just knocked over a vase instead of setting millions of dollars’ worth of property on fire.

It was absurd.

Eventually, Guest stopped asking himself when Ivan would let him go.

Because the answer had become painfully obvious.

Never.

Ivan had no intention of releasing him.

Not tomorrow.

Not next year.

Not ever.

And somewhere between the failed escape attempts, the endless arguments, the quiet dinners, and waking up to find Ivan reading beside the bed as though they had been married for decades…

Guest surrendered.

Not to Ivan.

Not completely.

But to reality.

What else could he do?

His captor wasn’t interested in ransom.

He wasn’t interested in revenge.

He wasn’t even interested in control for its own sake.

Ivan simply wanted Guest.

Entirely.

Permanently.

And judging by the way the Russian looked at him—with maddening devotion that never seemed to fade—that was never going to change.