HER PRISONER

Ziva's POV

The silence in the hallway felt suffocating. Thick. Like secrets clinging to the wallpaper.

The assistant hadn't said much—just that Mr. Drevault would like to meet her now. Apparently, he always met the new girls. Though none of the others had ever spoken about it, at least not to her. Maybe they were too afraid. Maybe she should've been too.

I wasn't sure what I expected. But it wasn't this.

The door opened without a sound, and for a moment, I thought the room beyond was empty. Shadows clung to the walls, tall windows veiled by thick curtains that let in just enough light to breathe by. Then I felt it—like a ripple across my skin.

He was already watching me.

Sitting in a chair like a king on his throne. One leg crossed over the other. Pale fingers wrapped around a crystal glass that looked untouched. The man didn't move, didn't blink. His presence was the kind that made air too heavy to inhale properly.

He was... beautiful. In the most terrifying way.

Ruthless jawline. Hair dark like midnight storms. A mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. And those eyes—

Grey, icy, inhuman.

The longer I stood there, the more familiar he seemed, like a face from a fever dream I once had. But I couldn't place him. Didn't want to. Something told me that remembering might hurt.

"Ziva," he said, voice smooth and cold. Not deep, but sharp—like the whisper of a blade just before it cuts.

I hated that he knew my name. Hated more how my stomach reacted to the way he said it. Like he'd owned it for years and I was only just realizing.

"You know who I am?" he asked, rising slowly.

I shook my head, suddenly unsure of anything. His height towered, his presence devoured. The way he walked toward me was slow—deliberate. Like he was hunting, and I'd already been caught.

He stopped just in front of me, and his hand rose—brushing a strand of hair off my cheek with the kind of care that made it more threatening than a slap.

"You don't remember me," he murmured. Not a question. A fact. And it burned with disappointment.

"I don't—" My voice faltered. "Should I?"

Something dark flashed in his gaze. Possessive. Bruising.

Then suddenly—

He grabbed me.

One hand gripped my chin, tilting my face up. The other around my waist like iron. And before I could blink or breathe—

He kissed me.

Not softly. Not kindly. Like a punishment. Like a warning. Like he was claiming something he believed was already his.

And maybe I should've screamed. Maybe I should've pulled away.

But I didn't.

Because in that moment, I remembered the feeling of being watched.

And I knew—

This man had never stopped.

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