Page 16

The room is too quiet.

I pace in slow, measured circles, the soles of my feet soundless against the marble tile.

Every detail in here is expensive—opulent, even—but it feels cold.

Lifeless. Like a museum curated by someone who values power more than comfort.

Gold accents catch the low light from the chandelier above, throwing sharp reflections onto polished surfaces.

I could count the corners of the room, the seams between panels, just to give my hands something to do.

Instead, I clench them at my sides.

This is for my father.

I repeat it like a prayer, over and over, until the words hollow out in my mouth.

If I give Andrei what he wants, my father will live.

He has to. That’s the deal, isn’t it? The unspoken, unconfirmed bargain I’ve let myself believe exists.

That I can offer myself in exchange for mercy.

That I have anything left to offer at all.

It should feel like control.

It doesn’t.

My heart beats so hard it stutters. I sit for a moment on the edge of the velvet chaise, fingers trembling as I reach for the robe I left draped nearby.

It slides over my skin like water—useless, sheer.

I tie it tightly, twice around the waist, like it might hold me together.

The knot feels clumsy. My hands won’t stop shaking.

I tell myself this is survival. That I’m choosing to do this.

That I’m not walking into his room like a lamb—but the lie is thin, stretched too tight to believe.

Something inside me fidgets beneath the surface, something sharp and humiliated.

Not from the fear. From the shame of how my skin tingles when I remember his hands on me.

From the way I don’t completely hate the way he looks at me.

Like I belong to him. Like he already knows I won’t resist.

My feet move before my thoughts do. Down the hallway, slow but deliberate. The house is quiet. His men keep their distance, and that makes it worse. Like they already know what’s about to happen. Like it’s already decided.

I stop in front of Andrei’s bedroom door.

My breath catches. Not from fear. Not entirely. There’s something heavier than fear, settled low in my stomach like heat or guilt, I’m not sure which. I could turn back. I should. But I don’t move. The betrayal isn’t in what I’m about to do. It’s in knowing I won’t stop it.

I press my hand to the door and push.

The room inside is dim, lit only by a single lamp on the dresser. It smells like leather and expensive cologne. Everything in here is controlled—dark wood, clean lines, not a thing out of place. Just like him.

I don’t sit. Don’t touch anything.

Instead, I walk to the window and stare out. The glass is cool against my fingertips. Outside, the night stretches long and endless, the shadows below reaching across the floor like they want to pull me in.

The door creaks open behind me.

I stiffen, fingertips pressing harder against the windowpane, but I don’t turn.

I hear him before I see him—measured steps on hardwood, deliberate and slow, like a man who knows exactly how much space he commands.

Each footfall seems to pull the walls tighter, the room shrinking with every inch he claims without effort.

He doesn’t speak.

The silence is heavier than his presence. I focus on the dark beyond the glass, on the faint shimmer of distant streetlights blurred by the fog rolling off the river. Anything to avoid the knowledge that he is watching me, studying every line of my body with those cold, calculating eyes.

My spine locks straight. I refuse to move. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Seconds pass. They stretch long and thin, until finally, his voice breaks the stillness.

“Changed your mind?”

The amusement curling around the words makes my stomach knot. My hands ball into fists at my sides, nails biting into the tender skin of my palms, but I keep my voice steady.

“You said you wouldn’t kill him.”

I hear the shift of his weight, the soft pull of leather as he crosses the room. I don’t need to look. I can feel the grin he wears, the slow, knowing smile that tilts the edge of his mouth when he believes he has already won.

“I won’t,” he says easily.

There is no promise there. No comfort. Just a statement, casual and absolute, like everything else about him.

A breath catches at the back of my throat when he steps closer.

The heat of him hits first, radiating off his body in waves that prick against my exposed skin.

He stands just behind me, close enough that I can feel the slight disturbance of the air between us, but he doesn’t touch. Not yet. He doesn’t have to.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Try to build a wall inside myself, some last defense that hasn’t already been stripped away.

Then his fingers brush my bare arm.

The touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sparks something electric beneath my skin. My body betrays me before I can think—shuddering once, a small, involuntary tremor that rushes up my spine and leaves me feeling naked even under the thin fabric of the robe.

I hate that he notices.

I hate the smile I hear in his voice when he murmurs against my ear, low and warm, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

The words coil around my ribs, tightening until I can hardly breathe. Pretend. As if he sees through every layer I’ve tried to armor myself with. As if he knows that deep inside the fear, buried under the desperation, there is something else. Something darker. Something shameful.

I keep my eyes on the window. On the reflection of myself in the glass—small, fragile, already caught.

He moves without warning.

His hands settle on my shoulders, firm and sure, and then he turns me to face him.

The robe shifts against my skin, the knot slipping slightly under the movement.

I don’t resist. I should. Every muscle should lock in protest, but they don’t.

I just let him move me like a piece on a board he already owns.

Andrei stares down at me, his face so close I can see the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, the scar slicing clean beneath it. His eyes are dark, bottomless, searching mine with a focus that strips away any illusion I have left. There’s no gentleness in him, but there’s no cruelty either.

Only raw, unrelenting intent.

One calloused hand lifts to my cheek. His thumb brushes the skin there—slow, deliberate—before tracing down to the corner of my mouth.

I flinch at the contact, a small jerk of my head he probably feels rather than sees.

Not because I’m afraid. Because I want to lean into it.

Because part of me, the part that still remembers what it means to be touched and wanted, aches to close the distance he hasn’t even allowed yet.

His mouth crashes against mine, all force and possession, like he’s daring me to push him away. There’s nothing tentative, nothing sweet. His lips are rough against mine, demanding, shaping the kiss into something brutal and consuming.

I gasp against him, the sound breaking free before I can stop it.

My hands find his shirt without thinking, clutching the material so hard it pulls taut across his chest. For a moment, it feels like a fight—my fingers digging in, his mouth coaxing a war from mine. For a breath, it teeters on the edge of resistance.

Then it doesn’t.

Then I’m kissing him back.

Heat floods through me, fast and reckless. I don’t even feel him pushing me until my back meets the wall with a muted thud. My head tips back on instinct, the cold wood grounding me even as his mouth trails down my throat, setting every nerve in my body on fire.

I should be thinking about survival. I should be reminding myself that this is a deal, a transaction, nothing more. That my father’s life hangs in the balance and I’m just a pawn.

Instead, my thoughts spiral wild and helpless: this is wrong—this is survival—but why does it feel like something else?

The air between us grows heavier, thick enough to choke on. I can barely draw breath, barely think beyond the overwhelming sensation of him everywhere—his hands at my waist, his mouth against my skin, the weight of his body caging mine against the wall.

Somewhere between a gasp and a breath, I whisper his name.

“Andrei.”

Not a plea. Not a demand.

A warning.

Or maybe something worse. Maybe a surrender.

His hands slide down my sides, deliberate and unhurried, until they find the back of my thighs.

Before I can catch a breath, he lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing.

My legs instinctively clamp around his waist, holding on to him because the floor is no longer beneath me and something inside me thrills at the loss of control.

I could tell him to stop.

The knowledge sits heavy between my ribs: solid, real. If I told him to, Andrei would let me go. Would set me back on my feet, no questions, no anger. He would obey.

Knowing that—truly knowing it—makes my pulse flutter harder. Makes my thighs tighten around him instead of pushing away. Somehow, that choice, that power, makes me weaker than any force he could use against me.

He carries me across the room with slow, sure steps.

Every shift of his body rocks against mine, every movement another reminder that I’m pressed flush to him—bare under the flimsy robe, separated by nothing but thin barriers of fabric and willpower.

His hands grip me securely, like I’m something precious—or something claimed. I can’t tell which feels worse.

The bed comes into view: massive, untouched, dressed in dark, cold sheets that catch the dim light like polished stone.

He lays me down without a word.

Not rough. Not tender either. Like a king laying down his tribute—a possession placed exactly where he wants it, knowing it already belongs to him.