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Mine.
Mikhail’s.
It’s where everything is kept, behind walls, and behind hidden doors.
It’s a secret, and it’s ours.
I glance over at my brother, his expression unreadable, sensing the same tension in him that I’m feeling too.
Neither one of us speak as we approach the place, the one that holds something valuable. It’s part of the stone wall, nobody would ever think otherwise, but as Mikhail reaches out, tapping a specific pattern on the smooth surface, a low click sounds.
The door, hidden seamlessly in the architecture, slides open slowly.
The wall, and the space behind it, is a well-guarded secret, one which has been designed to be opened by the right hands only, and we’ve never doubted its security.
We’ve never had a reason to.
After stepping inside, the air shifts as the door closes behind us. It’s a narrow space, a little similar to a passageway, so Mikhail walks in first, and I follow behind him. We walk down the spiral stairs, reaching the basement level, as we come face to face with the second door. The same mechanism opens it, and we continue walking beneath the mansion, only stopping when we come across the third door.
All that matters to us is behind this.
Chiara.
We unlock the door, and I can't help but think back to the first time we brought her here, how she seemed so lost, so fragile. Now, she’s settling in well, finding herself in a place where she’s not quite so sure what’s real any more, but is content enough to be with Mikhail and myself.
Chiara is lying on the bed, her focus solely on the book in her hands, the pages flipping quietly under her fingertips.
I remember the way her face had lit up—so damn bright, so damn happy—when we gave her all the things she had asked us for, and some more things too. To us, it was something so small, something so insignificant. But to her, it waseverything.
She was hesitant to make the request at first. We saw it in the way that she had bit down onto her plump bottom lip, andthe way that she had fidgeted with her fingers. We saw it in the way that she had refused to meet our eyes.
After being taken, she never begged us. Sure, she cried a few times, and she leaned into our touch even when she knew better than to, but she never outright asked us for anything. Even now, when there’s only a little left to do before she can belong to us in every sense of the word, she still holds onto those last shreds of defiance, and of pride.
That day, only a few days after she had made that video, and kissed us in return, she had faltered.
Just a little.
She didn’t hesitate to step forward, her arms crossed over her chest, her voice softer than usual.
“I would like a few things. Something to keep me busy when you’re both gone. I get lonely here, and a little bored too.”
My brother and I watched her carefully, studying the way she avoided our gazes.
“What sort of things?”
I asked, wondering what she meant.
She shifted on her feet, finally raising her eyes to look at us both, before she swallowed.
“I would like some books. Maybe a sketchpad, and some pencils. Some paints too.” She paused, and then, in a quiet whisper, she said something that made my chest tighten, and my heart race. “I want a few things to make this place feel more like…home.”
Home.
The word had struck something deep in me, something I wasn’t prepared for.
And neither had Mikhail.
We glanced at each other, saw the burning desire reflecting off of our gazes, and we felt that same sense of pride surging through us both.