CHAPTER 25: NAYA: YOU BELONG TO ME.

He didn’t answer or even slow down. He kept walking like I hadn’t called his name.

I ran after him, my bare feet slapping against the pavement because I’d lost one of my heels somewhere between the bus stop and the police station and had kicked off the other one in the holding cell. "Hansel, please! I need to talk to you!"

He ignored me.

When he reached the building entrance, the doorman opened it immediately, greeting him with a respectful nod while barely glancing at me as I hurried through behind him.

We got into the elevator together, and I stood there breathing hard from running and watching him ignore me with such deliberate focus that it felt like another slap. He stared straight ahead at the polished metal doors, his jaw set and his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and I wanted to scream at him or shake him or do something to make him acknowledge that I existed.

But all I could do was shift from foot to foot, unsure of what to say.

When the elevator reached his floor, and the doors opened, he strode out, and I followed because where else was I supposed to go? We reached his penthouse door, and he unlocked it, pushed it open, and walked inside without holding it for me.

I caught it before it could close in my face and rushed in after him, my patience finally running out.

"Hansel!" I reached out and grabbed his arm, yanking him back with all the strength I had left.

He spun around, and the fury in his eyes made me take an instinctive step back. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping, and when he spoke, his voice came out as a yell that echoed through the penthouse.

"What?!"

I curled back, my shoulders hunching as fear shot through me at the violence in that single word. "Why are you angry with me?" My voice came out small and shaky. "I haven’t done anything wrong."

"Yeah?" He laughed bitterly.

He stared at me for a few more seconds before the fight disappeared from his eyes. He looked away and ran a hand through his hair, sighing loudly.

"Go take a bath, you reek."

Then he turned and started walking away.

That act registered something strange in me. All the fear, confusion and exhaustion turned into fury, and I found myself running after him again, grabbing his arm and pulling him back with enough force that he actually stopped.

"Why?" The word came out as almost a sob. "Why are you torturing me like this? You show me kindness one moment and then hatred the next. You confuse me, Mr Ward. You save me from being arrested and pay off my debts, then you won’t even look at me or talk to me. I don’t understand why we’re still involved with each other when it’s so clear that you don’t like me!"

He turned slowly, and a dangerous expression flickered across his face.

Before I could react, he walked back to me, backing me up until my back hit the wall. His hand shot out and grabbed my throat, not tightly or to choke me. He just held me, staring at me intently.

The impact knocked the air from my lungs, and I found myself pinned between cold drywall and Hansel’s hard body, his hand on my throat keeping me exactly where he wanted me. His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his dark eyes and feel his breath against my lips.

"You belong to me now, Naya Rivers." He said in a low voice that vibrated through me in a way that should have terrified me, but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly. "The stunt you pulled last night, disappearing, making me worry, making me search the entire city for you, don’t ever try it again. If you give me a reason to worry about you like that again, you’ll regret it. Do you understand?"

I stared up at him, my heart hammering so hard I was sure he could feel it through his palm against my throat. The rational part of my brain was screaming at me to be afraid, to push him away, to run. But the rest of me—the part that was hyperaware of how his body felt pressed against mine, of the heat radiating from him, of the way his thumb was stroking absent patterns against my pulse point—that part wanted to lean into him instead.

"Why?" The word came out breathy, almost a whisper. "Why do you worry about me?"

The question hung in the air between us, and I watched something shift in his expression. The anger faded slightly, replaced by something more complicated—confusion, maybe, or frustration, or something else I couldn’t name. His eyes dropped to my lips for just a second before snapping back up to meet mine, and I felt his hand tighten fractionally on my throat.

The tension was so thick I could barely breathe through it, and part of me wondered if he was going to kiss me or yell at me or stand there holding me against the wall until one of us actually initiated the kiss.

Then he pulled back abruptly, releasing my throat and taking several steps away, as if being close to him burned him.

He stared at me for several long seconds, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to keep them still.

"Freshen up," he said finally, his voice rough. "We’ll talk tomorrow."

Then he turned and walked toward his bedroom, leaving me sagging against the wall, my heart racing and my skin tingling where his hand had been, with absolutely no idea what had just happened or what it meant.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I belonged to him now.

And I wasn’t sure if that terrified me or thrilled me.

Maybe both.