His captive, His obsession

XANDRA'S POV

The night swallowed me the moment I stepped into the club.

Bass thundered through the floor. Red and violet lights cut through the dark, catching faces, expensive clothes, and people pretending their lives were more interesting than they were. The air smelled of perfume, alcohol, and trouble.

My kind of night.

Heads turned as I walked in. Whispers followed. They always did.

My name is Xandra Leo. Eighteen. Ocean-blue eyes, long dark hair, and a face that had earned me more attention than I'd ever asked for. Some called me an angel. Others called me a heartbreaker. Personally, I preferred trouble. At least trouble didn't pretend to be innocent.

I had a twin brother, Xander. He'd left home to start his own life, and honestly, his absence was the closest thing to peace I'd had in a long time. He had a terrible habit of treating me like I was made of glass. Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Why are you home so late? Questions. Rules. Restrictions.

I loved him. I always would.

I just wouldn't admit that the apartment had been very quiet since he left.

Now nobody watched over my shoulder, and I intended to keep it that way.

"Xandra!"

Charlotte waved at me from the VIP section, surrounded by our usual crowd. I crossed the floor, heels clicking, and dropped into an empty seat.

"You're late."

"Yet you survived. I'm impressed."

The table laughed. People expected me to be entertaining. At school I was the girl everyone talked about: player, flirt, heartbreaker. I'd heard them all. The funny part was that most of them had never spoken to me properly. People loved inventing stories about things they didn't understand, and I'd stopped correcting them long ago.

"Truth or Dare!" Charlotte announced.

Groans and cheers.

"Please. Try something original."

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart. I have something special planned."

I knew that smile. It meant someone was about to regret being born.

A bottle appeared. The first few rounds were harmless: embarrassing confessions, ridiculous dances. Then the bottle spun again, slower, slower, until it stopped.

Pointing at me.

"Truth or dare, Xandra?"

"Dare."

Charlotte's smile widened. "I dare you to give Harrison a lap dance for five minutes."

The table exploded. Harrison, the boy every girl wanted and every guy secretly competed with, sat across from me with an amused look, waiting for me to back down.

I tilted my head. "That's the big dare? I expected better."

I stood. "Start the timer."

For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely surprised.

Good.

I settled onto his lap, placed his hands at my waist, and moved with the rhythm, aware of every eye on us. His confident smile faltered.

"You look nervous," I murmured.

"You're imagining things."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

When the timer went off, I returned to my seat without a second glance. Someone joked that Harrison had forgotten how to function.

"What can I say? I'm unforgettable."

"You're insufferable," Charlotte said.

"And yet you love me."

"Unfortunately."

For a while everything was exactly as it should be: music, friends, freedom. No rules. No one asking me to explain myself.

Then the room tilted slightly.

The alcohol, probably. Did that stop me from heading to the bar? Of course not.

I straightened my dress and slipped into the crowd. I didn't notice the man on the balcony above me. I didn't notice the dark eyes following every step, or the way the air around him seemed to change.

I was too busy enjoying my freedom to realize someone had just become interested in taking it away.

WYATT'S POV

I hated clubs. Too much noise, too many idiots who thought money made them untouchable.

Yet there I stood on the VIP balcony of a place I'd never have visited under ordinary circumstances. The mafia meeting earlier had been a waste of time: too many excuses, too many men forgetting that loyalty wasn't something I asked for twice. I'd come looking for a distraction.

Instead, I found her.

She didn't look extraordinary at first. Just another beautiful face in a room full of people desperate to be noticed. Then I watched her. She had a confidence that bordered on recklessness. She moved through the crowd as if everyone else were background noise, and she wasn't trying to impress anyone.

That was what caught me. Everyone wanted something from me: money, protection, power. My name alone could make people forget how to breathe.

She didn't even know I existed.

Not that I hadn't known hers for a long time.

I watched her accept a dare and settle onto some boy's lap. He looked pleased with himself. She looked bored. When it ended, she walked away as though he were an item crossed off her evening.

"Heartless devil!"

I didn't turn. Only a handful of people were stupid enough to call me that within earshot, and one of them worked for me.

"Sebastian Wyatt!"

I closed my eyes briefly. "Derry. What?"

"That's a lovely greeting."

"Do you want a better one?"

"No, sir." His amusement vanished. "We've located the man who leaked information to the rival organization."

Finally. Something worth my attention.

"Keep him alive. I'll deal with him myself."

I handed him my glass and headed for the stairs. That should have been the end of my evening.

Halfway down, someone collided with me. A glass shattered. Cold alcohol soaked my black shirt.

I looked down at the stain, then slowly raised my eyes.

The girl from the dance floor. She stared at me for about two seconds before a small, drunken laugh escaped her.

"Oh. I'm so sorry, sir."

She sounded anything but.

Most people knew better than to touch me without permission. This girl had ruined an expensive shirt, laughed about it, and now rested her hands on my shoulders to steady herself.

"I'm not myself right now, so please don't take it personally."

"You're drunk."

"Very observant."

Derry made a strangled sound beside me.

She blinked up at me, unaware she was speaking to a man whose name could turn a room cold. "Are you always this quiet?" I said nothing. She tilted her head. "Okay. Mysterious. I see you."

Derry turned away, shoulders shaking.

There was no fear in her eyes. No recognition. No desperate attempt to charm me. And for reasons I couldn't explain, I found that refreshing.

"Move," I said quietly.

She stepped aside, still smiling. "Have a nice night, mysterious stranger."

I walked past her without a threat, without demanding an apology, without looking back. But something had changed, and I disliked things I couldn't control.

Derry caught up. "Well. That was unexpected."

"Speak again and you'll walk home."

He lasted three seconds. "Who is she?"

I stopped. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Just curiosity."

"Find something else to be curious about."

In the car, the leather smelled of cologne and rain. Derry waited until the driver pulled away before opening his mouth.

"So."

"No."

"You don't know what I'm going to say."

"I know you."

He sighed. "Fine. Who was the girl?"

"My mother."

Derry stared at me, then laughed, not politely, like a man who had forgotten what his employer could do with one phone call.

"Finished?"

"Almost." He wiped his eyes. "I've watched you stare down men twice your size. And tonight a random girl spills a drink on you, laughs in your face, and you don't even raise your voice."

"Perhaps I'm becoming a better person."

"You're becoming something." He studied me. "You like her."

"No."

"You want to know her name."

I said nothing.

His grin widened. "Oh, that's even better."

I didn't believe in fate. I believed in decisions, consequences, and the fact that every weakness eventually became someone else's weapon. Interest in a stranger was a weakness, and I had no intention of letting it grow.

"Forget her," I ordered.

"Of course."

He wouldn't. Neither would I.

XANDRA'S POV

Two days later, Harrison had a problem, and the problem was me.

Ever since the club, he'd been asking me to be his girlfriend. At first it was amusing, then flattering, now just annoying. He was attractive and charming when he wanted to be. I could have said yes and played the role everyone expected.

But I didn't want someone checking my phone or questioning my whereabouts. I'd fought too hard for my freedom to hand it over because someone had a crush.

My phone buzzed.

Harrison: Meet me by the pool after class. We need to talk.

Me: Fine. But this is the last time we're discussing this.

He was waiting when I got there. "You came."

"You invited me."

"You're always this cold?"

"Would you prefer dishonest?"

That shut him up. I stopped a few feet away. "Harrison, you're a good-looking guy, and half the school would fight for you. But I'm not interested in being your girlfriend. I have a job, my own plans, and a life I want to enjoy."

He looked away. "What if I wait?"

"Then you'll be waiting for something I never promised."

It came out colder than I meant, but it was true. I could see I'd hurt him.

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

I hesitated. "I'm sorry you're hurt. I'm not sorry for being honest."

I walked away without looking back. Some called that heartless. I called it knowing what I wanted.

Still, crossing the courtyard, one thought settled in. Why is it so easy for people to fall for me? And why do I feel nothing when they do?

I pushed it aside. I wasn't looking for love. I wasn't looking for trouble. And I certainly wasn't looking for a mysterious man in an expensive black suit.

My life was exactly where I wanted it: simple, uncomplicated, mine.

That was about to change.

XANDRA'S POV

Saturday. For once, the world left me alone.

I made breakfast, scrolled my phone, and called Wendy Tris.

"Come to school."

"Good morning to you too, Your Majesty."

"I need to collect a document. After that, we find something entertaining."

"Something legal?"

"No promises."

An hour later, I'd collected my document and gone outside. No Wendy. Typical. Before I could call her, a hand caught mine.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting?"

Wendy stood there, wearing a look of exaggerated annoyance. I blinked. "I called you less than an hour ago."

She waved it off. "Whatever. Are we doing something fun or not?"

Something about that nagged at me, but before I could place it, a group of students shouted from beside a black Mercedes. "We're going out! Everything's on us. You coming?"

Wendy was already smiling. "We're going."

She dragged me toward the car, and I let her. I wanted a few hours of forgetting: Harrison, school, the strange feeling that life was getting predictable.

Then something caught my eye.

A black car near the school gates, its windows tinted too dark to see inside. I slowed. The driver's window lowered a few inches, and a man sat behind the wheel in black clothes, with sharp features and a stillness that had no business in a busy schoolyard.

He wasn't looking at the road. He was looking at me.

My smile faded. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt the weight of his attention, cold, deliberate, unsettling. It was the same feeling I'd had in the club when I spilled my drink on that stranger.

Was it him?

"Xandra! Are you coming?"

When I looked back, the window was rising. The man disappeared behind the glass.

"Coming."

Wendy pulled me toward the Mercedes, talking about where we were going. I tried to listen, but my mind stayed on that car. I didn't know his name, why he was watching me, or what he wanted. But a quiet instinct whispered that I should stay away from him.

I should have listened.

The most dangerous people rarely look dangerous. Sometimes they wear tailored black suits and speak in quiet voices and watch you from behind tinted glass. Sometimes they don't chase you at all. They simply wait.

And by the time you realize you're part of their game, the door has already closed.

XANDRA'S POV

The day dissolved into noise and laughter, just as Wendy had promised. By dusk, the boys had taken us to a rooftop bar, and somebody pressed a glass into my hand.

I should have noticed Wendy watching me drink.

The lights began to blur. I laughed at something that wasn't funny. When I stood, the floor was a long way off.

"I need air."

"I'll come with you," Wendy said, too quickly.

XANDRA'S POV

By the time I got home, I barely had time to breathe before work. I showered, pulled on a white mini dress, grabbed my bag, and was out the door within minutes.

The restaurant was one of the few places I genuinely loved: soft lighting, polished floors, quiet music that made the whole room feel like a held breath. Officially, I was a receptionist. Unofficially, I was the reason customers left having ordered more than they'd planned. A smile, a few well-chosen words, and suddenly someone wanted dessert they hadn't known existed.

I drifted between tables, answering questions and ignoring compliments from boys my age. Flirting with customers wasn't in my job description, whatever they believed.

At one table, a family was celebrating, flowers between the plates and children fussing over their parents.

"Good evening. Is everything all right?"

"Perfect, dear," the woman said warmly.

"Celebrating something special?"

"Our wedding anniversary," the man answered proudly.

My smile froze for half a second.

Yesterday was my parents' anniversary. And I hadn't called. Not even a text.

Guilt settled in my chest like a stone. I'd left home because I was tired of feeling trapped in a life that never seemed to fit me. But that didn't mean I'd stopped caring. At least, I hoped it didn't.

"That's lovely," I managed. "Happy anniversary."

At the counter, I pulled up my parents' number and called. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I walked to the passage by the entrance, where rain hammered the windows and turned the night into streaks of silver, and tried a third time.

The call wouldn't connect.

"Seriously?" I lowered the phone.

That was when I saw the black car outside the restaurant.

Same dark, polished body. Same windows, tinted so heavily they showed nothing but my own reflection. The one from school.

A cold thread slid down my spine. Coincidence. Maybe. But the word felt too convenient.

I waited for movement behind the glass. Nothing.

"You're being ridiculous, Xandra," I whispered, and went back to work.

By ten, my shift was over. I took an umbrella and stepped into heavier rain.

Tris usually picked me up after work, and I'd grown used to seeing her waiting at the curb. Tonight the curb was empty. I called her. The call failed. I tried again. Nothing.

The storm, probably.

Then I looked down the road, and my fingers tightened around the umbrella handle.

The black car was still there. And farther along, at neat intervals, there were more. Five. Six. All identical, all parked as if they'd been placed.

The street had gone very empty, and the air felt colder than it should.

Taxi, I decided. Now.

As I turned to check the road, something moved behind one of the tinted windows. Someone was watching me.

A door opened. A man in black stepped out. Then another. Then another.

They weren't looking for a taxi.

I walked quickly the other way, heels striking the pavement. Behind me, footsteps matched mine. I walked faster. So did they.

"Okay," I whispered. "This isn't funny."

I cut down the side of the building, hunting for the main road, and two men stepped out in front of me. I turned. The others had already closed the gap.

Surrounded.

"What do you want? Who sent you?"

No answer.

"If this is a joke, it's not funny. I don't have any money..."

A hand reached for my arm. I twisted free and drove my elbow back into someone's ribs. I got three steps before another man caught me. I fought, kicked, and screamed, until a hand clamped over my mouth and the world became a blur of rain and muffled sound.

The night swallowed my voice.

Then everything went black.

XANDRA'S POV

The first thing I noticed was the bed.

Soft. Too soft. The sheets were expensive, the room smelled faintly of something clean and unfamiliar, and pale curtains hung beside enormous windows.

I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then I sat up.

This isn't my apartment.

I looked down. I wasn't wearing my white dress anymore. Someone had changed me.

My stomach turned over. "Oh, no."

I scrambled off the bed and went for the door. The handle turned.

It opened.

That was unexpected.

I crept into the corridor. The house was enormous, with polished floors and towering walls, more mansion than home. Everything was spotless. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

I found a staircase and went down, gripping the rail, into a grand hall with a huge front door at the far end. Hope flared in my chest.

I grabbed the handle and pulled.

Nothing.

I pulled harder. Locked.

"No. No, no, no."

I threw my shoulder against it as if that might change something. My breathing turned ragged.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

My voice echoed through the empty hall. I pounded the door.

"Can somebody please open this?"

Silence. Tears gathered before I could stop them. I'd done stupid things in my life. I'd made mistakes. I'd walked away from home without explaining myself. But what could I possibly have done to deserve this?

"LET ME OUT!"

Footsteps sounded behind me, slow and deliberate.

I turned. A man in black stood a few feet away, watching me with no expression at all.

"Who are you? What is this place?"

He said nothing and kept walking toward me. I backed up. "Stay away from me."

He reached me before I could move. I tried to push past him, but he caught my arm, and a handkerchief pressed over my nose and mouth. A sweet, chemical smell flooded my head.

Not again.

That was my last thought.

XANDRA'S POV

The next time I woke, I was somewhere else.

A wide, dark, almost empty room. A single bulb hung overhead, throwing long shadows. I was tied to a chair, with two men gripping my arms and two more guarding the closed door.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Nobody reacted.

"Can someone explain what's happening? I went to work, did my job, and now I'm here! I don't even know what I supposedly did wrong!"

One of the men pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and tied it over my mouth.

I stared at him. Seriously? Apparently silence was their solution to everything.

I glared at each of them in turn, composing insults that would have made my friends proud.

Then the man at the door straightened. "The boss is coming."

The atmosphere shifted at once. Backs straightened. Nobody moved a finger.

The boss. Good. At least I'd finally meet whoever was responsible.

The door opened, and four men walked in. Two had bodyguards' postures. The other two had the ease of people who'd never been refused anything. One wore sunglasses in a room that was barely lit. He took them off and handed them to the man beside him.

Then he looked at me, and smiled.

My blood ran cold. I knew that face. The sharp features, the maddeningly calm expression. The man from the club. The one I'd spilled a drink on.

Of all the people in the world.

The same man who'd looked at a crowded room as though he owned it. The same man who'd frightened everyone near him without raising his voice. And now, apparently, a man who thought kidnapping was a fine way to spend an evening.

He crossed the floor slowly, studying my face as if I were something he'd been waiting to see. Then he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I jerked away. He raised an eyebrow.

I glared at him so hard that, under different circumstances, he might have caught fire.

He pulled the handkerchief from my mouth.

"Read my lips," I said, low and sharp. "Fuck you."

One of the men behind him shifted. He only smiled.

"Why am I here? Why did your men drag me off the street? I know I spilled a drink on you at the club, but it was an accident. Is that really why you're doing this?"

He said nothing. He snapped his fingers, and the men holding my arms let go, and I stood and rubbed my wrists, refusing to let him see my hands shake.

"Now let me go."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

A disbelieving laugh slipped out. "You can't be serious."

He looked perfectly serious.

I marched up until I was a breath from his chest. "Why not?"

"Because I have questions."

"Then ask them!"

"I will."

"Great. Ask, I'll answer, problem solved."

"Not quite."

My jaw tightened. "What do you want from me?"

His gaze traveled over my face with an attention that made my skin prickle. Then he stepped closer.

"I want you."

For a second I couldn't believe I'd heard it.

Then I spat in his face.

The room went dead silent. One of the bodyguards took a sharp step forward. Without even looking, the man raised a hand, and the bodyguard stopped.

He slowly wiped his cheek with a handkerchief.

I folded my arms and lifted my chin. "Congratulations. You've met someone who doesn't care how powerful you think you are."

He looked at the handkerchief, then at me. The amusement had gone out of his face, and what replaced it was colder. Something I couldn't read.

I swallowed and didn't look away.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, "what you've just involved yourself in."

"Funny. I was about to say the same to you."

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then he turned to the men. "Leave."

They hesitated.

"Now."

The room emptied. The door closed, and I was alone with the most infuriating man I'd ever met.

"Whatever game you're playing I want no part of it."

Wyatt. One of his men had said it when they came in. It was the only thing I knew about him.

He walked to a table at the far end and poured a glass of water as if he hadn't just had me dragged into a locked room. "You'll learn that wanting something and getting it are two very different things."

"And you'll learn I can't be controlled."

He turned. The slow, dangerous smile came back. "We'll see, Xandra."

The way he said my name made my stomach tighten.

I never told him my name.

"How do you know my name?"

He set the glass down. "Sit."

"No."

"That wasn't a request."

"I'm not one of your men."

Something like real interest crossed his face. He studied me, then gave a small nod, as though I'd just confirmed a suspicion. "Interesting."

I hated that word. I hated the room, the locked doors, his unreadable eyes, and how much he seemed to know about me while I knew nothing about him. Most of all, I hated that I was afraid.

I wouldn't let him see it.

"Tell me why I'm here. And how do you know my name?"

His gaze darkened. "Because, Xandra, your life got a great deal more complicated the moment you crossed my path."

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

And I understood, with terrifying clarity, that this had never been about a spilled drink. Not entirely. Whatever Wyatt wanted, he had no intention of letting me walk away until he got it.

Xandra POV

His eyes were the first thing I noticed, and the last thing I wanted to see. Dark. Patient. A smirk sat on his mouth like it had been there for years.

Home. I just need to get home. I need Kade. I hated how much I needed him.

The stranger dragged a chair to the center of the room and sat as if the room belonged to him. It did. That was the thought that snapped something in me. I'd trained for years. I wasn't going to sit here shaking.

I crossed the floor, fisted his collar, and said, low, "Let me out."

He glanced at my hand, then at me. His smile widened. "Of course. The door's right there."

He stood. I stepped back. He stepped forward. The wall met my shoulders before I understood I'd been backed into it.

"Imagine," he murmured at my ear, "a boy and a girl, no blood between them, alone in the dark. What do you think happens?"

I shoved him. He didn't move. My breath came fast and shallow, and my heart hammered so hard I thought he could hear it.

Then something in his face changed, as if he'd looked at a map and found the point he'd been heading for. He pulled back. The door opened on its own, or someone opened it. He walked out without a word.

I slid down the wall until the floor held me up. My eyes were wet, and I hadn't given them permission.

Xandra POV

The helper never said a word. She walked half a step ahead of me, a silent shadow in a grey uniform, and pointed instead of speaking: this is your room, this is the bathroom, this is what you'll wear. Her eyes never met mine. Even her footsteps seemed to have been trained.

I counted doors as we passed. Eleven. Every one locked. Every window sealed with a latch that wanted a key.

So not tonight, then.

The shower ran hot enough to turn my skin pink. The food was good, which made me angrier. The bed was soft and the sheets smelled of lavender, as if I were a guest and not a prisoner.

I lay in the dark and made myself a promise.

I'm never crying in front of him again.

Then I slept.

Xandra POV

Sunlight woke me, warm across my face. I squinted at the ceiling, then at a strange shape by the foot of the bed. A wooden frame. An easel.

A shadow moved at the window.

He stood there with his arms folded, watching me as though he'd been doing it for hours. I dragged the blanket up to my chin and scrambled back against the headboard.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hm?" He tilted his head. "I could ask you the same. It's my house."

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to learn you sleep with a fist closed." His smile came slowly. "I've decided to take up painting."

"Good for you. Do it somewhere else."

"I'd like a model." He lifted a flat box from the chair and crossed the room. "I bought this for you."

Inside, tissue paper hid a black gown, glossy as oil. Thin as a rumor. I could see my own fingers through the fabric.

I dropped it on the mattress. "No."

"Fine." He said it so easily that my stomach tightened. He settled into the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and thumbed a message on his phone. "Then don't wear it."

That was the moment I should have run. But I was still thinking about the door, and the door was behind him.

Two men came in. They didn't speak. They took my arms, lifted me off the mattress as if I weighed nothing, and carried me to the wall. I kicked. One of them grunted. A panel slid open in the plaster, and steel cuffs clicked shut around my wrists, then my ankles, until I hung there, arms and legs spread wide.

Whoever built this house had planned for this.

He lifted two fingers. The men left. The door closed, and the silence afterward was worse than shouting.

He laughed softly, as if I'd said something charming. "Look at you. Such a pretty girl. I do wonder why you make things so hard for yourself."

He crossed to a drawer and came back with a pair of scissors. The blades caught the light.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out thinner than I wanted.

He knelt and took the hem of my nightgown between two fingers. "It's a pity. I was so careful choosing the dress."

"Please, what are you-"

"You said you wouldn't wear it." The scissors bit into the fabric with a dry, unhurried snip. "So you won't wear anything. That's the choice I'm giving you."

Cloth whispered down my side. Cold air followed it. He cut the second side, then the straps, and the gown slid off my shoulders and pooled around my feet.

I stared at a hairline crack in the ceiling and did not look at him. I held my jaw so tight my teeth ached.

Not one tear. Not one.

Behind him, I finally saw the canvas on the easel. It was already sketched. A woman's outline, a face I recognized.

Mine. And the sketch looked weeks old.