Page 22 of Bound Vows (Empire City Syndicate #3)

Maya

My plan seemed foolproof: Continue amplifying my real symptoms to appear defeated while secretly preparing for escape during the shift change.

What I didn’t account for was attempting to shimmy through a cracked window while battling genuine vertigo and splitting headaches that make coordination nearly impossible.

Glass explodes around me as my body weight shatters the reinforced pane, and I hit the rocky slope outside his fortress with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.

Real pain shoots through my arm where jagged shards slice deep into my flesh, and my ankle twists at an unnatural angle that makes me bite back a scream.

Blood pools under my arm where the glass opened veins, and I force myself to roll behind the nearest boulder before his security team spots me.

The headaches plaguing me are genuine enough, but I’ve been exaggerating their severity to appear defeated and compliant.

Now, actual dizziness from blood loss mingles with the symptoms I’ve been dramatizing.

Twenty yards from the house, my ankle gives out, and I collapse behind a fallen log with a strangled cry that I pray doesn’t carry back to the compound. The cuts on my arm burn like fire, and warm blood soaks through my torn sweater.

“Brilliant plan, Maya,” I whisper as I assess the damage. “Escape through a window you can barely fit through while you can barely see straight. What could possibly go wrong?”

The headache that’s been building since yesterday detonates beyond anything I’ve been pretending to experience. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and I press my good hand against my temple while I fight waves of nausea that are definitely not part of my act.

Movement in the distance catches my attention as flashlight beams sweep across the mountainside.

Andrei’s men have begun their search, and I have maybe ten minutes before they reach my hiding spot.

In my current condition—genuinely dizzy, legitimately bleeding, and sporting a twisted ankle that throbs with each heartbeat—continuing deeper into the wilderness would be suicide.

The nearest town is hours away on foot through terrain that would challenge a healthy person. Attempting the journey while experiencing symptoms that make walking straight nearly impossible would guarantee my death from exposure or blood loss before dawn.

“This is not going according to plan,” I breathe as the flashlights move closer.

I consider my options, which are limited and uniformly terrible.

Surrender and face Andrei’s fury while revealing how much of my recent behavior has been a performance, or continue fleeing and probably die in the mountains before sunrise.

Neither choice appeals to me, but bleeding to death alone definitely loses to facing my furious husband.

The irony cuts deeper than the glass. I’m about to voluntarily return to the man I was desperately trying to escape, and I’ll have to do it while genuinely experiencing the breakdown I’ve been faking.

“Here!” I call out as loudly as my damaged lungs allow. “I’m over here!”

Two security guards reach me first, and their tactical gear makes them look like military operatives rather than household staff. They assess my injuries before radioing for backup and medical supplies.

“Boss is going to want to see you immediately,” one informs me as he fashions a makeshift splint for my ankle. “He’s been searching since he heard the window break.”

“I’m sure he has.” I wince as they help me stand, and pain shoots through my leg. “Nothing ruins a perfectly good kidnapping like an escape attempt.”

The walk back to the house takes forever, with guards supporting me on either side while I fight dizziness that’s no longer part of any performance. Blood from my arm drips in the snow, leaving a trail behind us.

Andrei waits in the main entrance, and his face cycles through relief, fury, and concern as he takes in my battered condition. He’s thrown on jeans and a sweater, and his hair is disheveled from what was probably restless sleep before my dramatic exit.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demands as the guards help me into the house. “You could have been killed attempting something so reckless.”

“I was thinking that dying in the wilderness seemed preferable to slowly losing my mind in your mountain prison.” I slump against the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, no longer able to distinguish between genuine exhaustion and the weakness I’ve been faking.

“Clearly, my risk assessment skills need work.”

Andrei kneels beside me and examines the cuts on my arm with gentle fingers that belie his angry tone. “You’re bleeding all over my floor. Some of these are deep enough to require stitches.”

“Sorry about the mess. I’ll be sure to bleed more considerately next time I throw myself through your windows. Though there probably won’t be a next time, since I’m apparently too sick to execute even the simplest escape plan.”

He lifts me carefully, cradling me against his chest as he carries me toward his office.

I rest my head against his shoulder despite myself, breathing in his familiar cologne mixed with worry sweat. “Everything hurts, Andrei. My head, my body. I can’t even think clearly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I’m calling Dr. Morrison. These cuts need professional attention, and you need proper medical evaluation.” He sets me down on the leather sofa and begins gathering supplies from his emergency kit. “Why didn’t you tell me how bad things were getting?”

“Because I thought I could handle it. I thought I could manage the symptoms while staying strong enough to escape when the opportunity arose. Turns out I’m not as resilient as I thought.”

“You’re more resilient than you realize. Most people would have broken under these circumstances.” Andrei applies pressure to the worst cut on my arm, and I gasp at the sharp pain. “How much of your recent behavior has been performance?”

“Some,” I admit. “The severity, maybe, but not the symptoms.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m too hurt and too tired to control anything.” I close my eyes as another wave of dizziness hits. “The performance is over, Andrei. This is what your protection looks like.”

Before he can respond, his phone goes off with Dr. Morrison’s call. While Andrei explains the situation and requests an emergency house call, I lean back against the sofa cushions and chuckle to myself at how spectacularly my escape plan has failed.

Not only am I more injured than when I started, but I’ve also revealed the extent of my deception without gaining any advantage. Worse, the symptoms I’ve been dramatizing feel increasingly real, which means whatever’s happening to me is progressing beyond my ability to fake or control it.

“The doctor will be here within an hour,” Andrei announces as he ends the call. “In the meantime, we need to control this bleeding and keep you conscious.”

“Consciousness is overrated. I was having such lovely dreams about freedom and fresh air. Though I suppose unconscious prisoners are easier to manage, and I don’t want to give you that satisfaction.”

“You’re my wife, who’s recovering from a serious injury sustained during a moment of desperation.” He sits on the edge of the sofa and continues applying pressure to my wounds.

“The difference is semantics. I’m still here against my will, still isolated from everyone I care about, and still suffering from symptoms that seem to worsen every day. The fact that I hurt myself trying to leave doesn’t change the fundamental problem.”

“The fundamental problem is that you’re not safe anywhere else. Your brother’s coalition will lead to violence that could destroy both our families. Keeping you here protects you from becoming collateral damage in a war you didn’t choose.”

I reach for his hand with my uninjured arm. “Look at me, Andrei. Really look at me. This is what your protection looks like .”

Dr. Morrison arrives one hour later, a distinguished man in his sixties with silver hair. He examines my injuries with professional detachment, asking questions about pain levels and range of motion without showing curiosity about how I acquired them.

“The glass needs to come out immediately,” he announces after his initial assessment. “Local anesthetic should be sufficient, but you’ll need stitches and careful monitoring for signs of infection.”

“Do whatever’s necessary,” Andrei says from his position near the door. “Money is no object.”

“The patient’s consent matters more than your financial resources,” Dr. Morrison replies, shocking us both. “Maya, are you comfortable proceeding with the extraction here, or would you prefer hospital facilities?”

“Here is fine. I doubt Mr. Volkov would appreciate the exposure of taking me to a public hospital.” I settle back on the sofa where they’ve positioned me and try to relax. “Though I appreciate you asking for my opinion.”

Dr. Morrison prepares his instruments and medication, but I notice how he glances between Andrei and me with growing concern. When he administers the local anesthetic, he leans closer and speaks quietly.

“How are you feeling overall, Maya? Beyond these specific injuries, I mean. Are you eating well, sleeping regularly, experiencing any unusual symptoms?”

I consider lying, but something in his kind eyes makes me want to tell the truth. “Severe headaches, dizziness, fatigue, and difficulty concentrating. The symptoms started after we arrived here and seem to be getting worse.”

“How long have you been experiencing these symptoms?”

“Since we arrived three days ago. Getting progressively more severe.” I glance at Andrei, who’s listening to every word. “I don’t know what’s causing them.”

Dr. Morrison nods and begins the delicate process of removing glass from my arm.

“Isolation can have significant psychological and physical effects, especially for people accustomed to active social lives and personal autonomy. The human mind and body need stimulation and choice to function properly.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” Andrei asks from across the room.

“That’s a medical fact. Women like Maya require mental engagement and some degree of control over their environment to maintain both psychological and physical health. Cage a wild bird, and it will eventually stop singing. Sometimes, it stops eating as well.”

The analogy hits closer to home than I’d like to admit. I have been eating less, sleeping poorly, and finding it difficult to concentrate on anything beyond my immediate physical discomfort.

“What would you recommend?” I ask as he moves to examine my ankle.

“Increased activity, social interaction when possible, and meaningful choices about daily routines. The mind and body need purpose and agency to remain healthy.” He manipulates my ankle gently and nods.

“This is sprained, not fractured. Rest, elevation, and ice should resolve the swelling within a few days.”

“And the other symptoms?”

“Will likely improve with environmental changes that restore some sense of personal control and social connection.” Dr. Morrison looks directly at Andrei.

“Isolation therapy works only if the goal is psychological breakdown. If you want a functional partner rather than a broken victim, she needs autonomy.”

I watch Andrei’s face, noting how his features transform from defensive to thoughtful. When he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear it.

“What kind of autonomy?”

“Choice in daily activities, access to books or entertainment, perhaps supervised outings to break the monotony.” Dr. Morrison packs his instruments and stands. “The mind is like any other organ; it requires proper care to function at its best.”

“And if she tries to use that autonomy to escape again?”

“You’ll have to decide whether her cooperation is worth the risk of granting her some freedom. Though I suspect a woman who throws herself through windows is already beyond the point where additional restrictions will improve compliance.”

After Dr. Morrison leaves with promises to return in two days to check my stitches, Andrei and I sit in uncomfortable silence. My arm throbs despite the pain medication, and my ankle feels swollen and hot.

“Piccola… I want you safe, healthy, and eventually willing to build something meaningful with me.” Andrei sits on the edge of the sofa and studies my bandaged arm. “Seeing you hurt like this makes me question whether my methods are achieving those goals.”

I sputter and shake my head. “Your methods are achieving what they’re designed to achieve.

I’m dependent on you for medical care, physically weakened from injury, and experiencing symptoms that make independent thought increasingly difficult.

The question is whether you’re satisfied with a broken wife or if you want a partner. ”

“I want you. Not some hollow version of yourself that I’ve created.” His hand moves to cover mine. “But I also need to keep you alive, which means protecting you from the war that’s coming.”

“Then find another way to protect me. Because this approach is destroying me in ways I don’t understand, and you’ll end up with neither a wife nor a partner. I’m stronger when I have choices, Andrei. Trust me enough to let me prove that.”

For the first time since our wedding, I see genuine fear in his eyes. The man who kidnapped me and forced me into marriage is also the man who’s terrified of losing someone else he cares about, and that someone, for reasons I can’t possibly begin to comprehend, is me.

“I’ll consider what the doctor said,” he promises. “But any changes come with conditions designed to ensure your safety.”

“I understand. Just… please consider them soon. I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

As Andrei helps me settle back against the pillows, I realize that my failed escape attempt might have accomplished something my compliance never could. It showed him the cost of his protection and forced him to confront whether love means holding tight or letting go.