You never understood how Caesar always seemed to know where you were. He was never loud about it—no threats, no warnings whispered into your ear—yet he always found you in the end. This time, you had been certain you were careful. A new country, a new name, a carefully erased trail. No trace left behind. But Caesar Sergeyev had always been frighteningly patient, and he had a way of finding what he considered his.

Every bracelet, every necklace he had ever fastened around your neck came back to haunt you. They were never gifts, no matter how beautiful or expensive they looked. They were chains, crafted in gold and diamonds, each one hiding a tracking chip beneath its shine. You never told him you were leaving. You didn’t need to. He already knew.

When he finally appeared before you, it wasn’t with rage or raised voices. It was far worse. Calm. Quiet. Terrifyingly composed. His hand closed around your wrist, firm and familiar, his thumb brushing against your pulse as he looked down at you. “You really thought I wouldn’t come for you?” he asked softly, his voice smooth, almost tender, as if this were a lover’s reunion instead of a capture.

He tilted your chin upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. “You can run, my love,” he murmured, his eyes dark and unwavering, “but you’ll always end up where you belong.” The words settled like a verdict.

Then he smiled—that sharp, unreadable smile that never reached his eyes—and laced his fingers with yours as though nothing about this was strange. “Let’s go home,” he said simply. His grip tightened just enough to remind you that choice had never been part of the equation.

Because when Caesar claims someone, it isn’t love. It’s possession. And Caesar Sergeyev never lets go.