Page 19

I wake slowly.

The sheets cling to my skin, still tangled from restless sleep, and for a moment I lie still, eyes closed, hoping my body might forget before my mind remembers.

It doesn’t.

The thoughts come fast, unrelenting. It’s been a week since we had sex, and still I can’t stop thinking about him.

His hands. The weight of them. The heat of his mouth on my skin. The hunger in his eyes when he looked at me like I was something he’d earned, not taken. It replays in perfect detail—each touch, each gasp, each moment when I stopped pretending it was survival.

The shame hits hard and fast, like a bruise pressed from the inside.

I tell myself—again—that it was for my father. That I did what I had to do to keep him alive. That I gave in to protect something more important than pride.

Even I don’t believe it anymore.

The lie used to be a shield. Now it’s just a weight. Useless. Hollow.

I remember the moment I stopped fighting.

It wasn’t when he kissed me. Not when he laid me down, not even when he touched me like he already owned every part of me.

It was when I wanted it.

When I looked up at him and didn’t feel fear. When I reached for him instead of pulling away. When I gave in not out of defeat—but because I craved the way he looked at me. The way he touched me like I was his.

That thought alone makes my stomach twist.

Something inside me cracked that night. I feel it now in the silence—the silence that followed, that still follows. He hasn’t spoken to me once since.

Not the next morning. Not the days after. Not once.

He’s gone before I wake. Sometimes the sheets beside me are still warm, but he’s never there. When I finally fall asleep again, he doesn’t return—at least not where I can see him. It’s like he’s erased himself from the space between us, leaving only shadows and silence in his place.

That burns worse than the shame.

Worse than guilt.

It eats at me in quieter ways, whispering things I don’t want to believe.

Did he not want me after all?

Was I just leverage, a game he’s already won? Did he use me and decide that was enough?

The thought slices deeper than I expect. Not because it surprises me—but because of how much it hurts.

I throw the sheets off, the sudden chill of the room biting at my bare legs as I stand. I need space. Air. Something that doesn’t feel like a cage built from my own thoughts.

The door creaks when I push it open. For a second, I expect resistance—a guard posted, a voice telling me I’m not allowed. But there’s nothing.

Two men stationed at the end of the hall glance up, then look away just as quickly. They don’t stop me. They don’t even seem to care.

My bare feet move soundlessly over the marble floor as I step out, wrapping a thin robe tighter around my frame.

The floors are cold beneath my feet as I wander, robe whispering around my ankles with every step. The halls stretch on like a labyrinth—marble and polished wood, gilded frames, doors that never seem to open. Everything in this place is expensive and impersonal, designed to impress, never comfort.

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking.

My mind runs faster than my feet, but I’m numb to the sting in my heels, the ache in my calves. The silence is oppressive, pressing down from the high ceilings like it’s meant to crush thought. To keep girls like me quiet.

Then—air.

A door left ajar, thin white curtains stirred by a breeze. I push it open and step onto the terrace.

The night greets me in a rush. Cool air wraps around my body, a clean, bracing relief after days of stale quiet. I exhale, letting my hands grip the stone ledge as I lean forward, finally—finally—alone.

Until I hear it.

Laughter. Glasses clinking. Voices—low, amused, dangerous.

I blink, heart hitching.

Below me, the mansion’s lower terrace sprawls in golden decadence.

A private gathering. Not a party—something worse.

Sleek cars gleam beneath the outdoor lights, lined like a showroom.

Men in tailored suits sip aged liquor and speak in hushed tones that still carry weight.

Glittering women drape themselves over them, mouths painted and perfect, diamonds catching the light like shattered stars.

Everything shimmers with wealth and violence.

In the center of it all—him.

Andrei.

He stands with one hand in his pocket, a cigarette dangling from the other, the smoke curling lazily around his jaw. His head tips back slightly as someone speaks beside him, and he gives a smile—detached, bored, utterly composed.

Like nothing touches him.

Like I never happened.

My stomach turns, the bile rising so fast I have to grip the railing to steady myself. How can he look so calm? So polished, so fucking untouched, while I lie awake night after night, burning with shame and silence?

I step back, already turning to leave.

Too late.

His eyes find me.

They lock on to mine across the space between us. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t call out.

He lifts a single finger. A command. A summons. Like I’m something owned. Something trained. A dog he expects to come when called.

Rage crashes into me. Humiliation follows. My throat tightens until it aches, but my feet move anyway.

Down the stone staircase, slow and mechanical. I feel every stare as heads turn. Eyes rake over me—this girl in a robe, barefoot, fragile and exposed, bleeding pride with every step. They judge me without words. I feel it in their silence.

Andrei doesn’t flinch.

The celebration sprawls out under soft amber lights, a brutal display masked in elegance. This isn’t just a party—it’s a statement. The Bratva has seized a cartel production facility. Not defended their turf. Not negotiated. Taken. This gathering is the victory lap, and everyone here knows it.

The air stinks of dominance.

Vodka flows in cut-glass decanters. Cigars glow at the ends of thick fingers.

Laughter is too loud, conversations too sharp, always tinged with the promise of violence.

This isn’t about enjoyment. It’s about control—territory carved into every exchange, every glance.

The suits are tailored, the smiles are rehearsed, but the undercurrent is unmistakable: the Bratva doesn’t play defense.

Andrei stands beside me.

Close enough that I feel his presence in every breath, but not close enough to touch. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t so much as look at me. He simply exists beside me—solid, imposing, a shadow with teeth.

I don’t know if it’s better or worse than the silence of his bed.

Around us, conversations buzz and flare, but no one addresses me.

I’m not introduced. I’m not acknowledged.

I’m a curiosity, a rumor made flesh. I see it in the sidelong glances, the way some of the men’s eyes linger too long, calculating.

The way some of the women glance at me, lips twisting, eyes cool with subtle contempt.

To them, I’m not a person. I’m a possession.

A girl who was taken and kept.

A symbol of power—not my own, but his.

Still, I stand where I’m told to stand. I keep my shoulders back, my chin up, pretending I don’t feel exposed.

The robe I threw on has been replaced—someone must’ve laid out a dress for me while I wasn’t looking.

Deep green silk. Expensive. Impossibly soft.

I look the part now. Pretty. Controlled. Silent.

Andrei still hasn’t said a word.

Then—he’s gone.

One moment he’s beside me, anchored like stone. The next, he’s melted into the crowd, laughing at something one of his lieutenants says, that cold, easy smirk sliding over his face like it belongs there.

I’m left abandoned, drowning in luxury I can’t touch, surrounded by danger I don’t understand. The hem of my dress brushes against marble. A glass is placed in my hand without my asking. I don’t drink from it. I don’t trust it. I don’t trust any of this.

I want to run.

The silk dress does nothing to shield me from the cold marble or the colder stares.

My feet are still bare, skin sensitive to every chill, every grit of stone.

I don’t belong here among men who wear their power like tailored armor, who speak in half-truths and territorial threats while women laugh like nothing matters.

I feel raw in comparison. Too aware of my skin. Too aware of my shame.

Then, someone steps into my peripheral vision.

A man—young, maybe early thirties. Clean-cut. American accent when he speaks.

“Looks like you missed the dress code,” he says lightly, holding out a fresh glass of champagne. His suit is sharp, but there’s no menace in his posture. His smile is easy, his eyes bright with something that isn’t hunger or violence.

Reluctantly, I take the glass.

“Thanks,” I murmur, unsure if it’s gratitude or caution guiding me.

“Jackson Waters,” he says, as if we’re somewhere civilized. “You’re… well. I think I already know who you are.”

His smile is too smooth, but it isn’t leering. Not yet. I let myself believe, for just a moment, that this might be harmless. That he might be harmless.

We talk.

He asks questions—harmless on the surface. Where I’m from. Whether I like Moscow, my original home. How long I’ve been with Andrei. His interest feels polite, not predatory. My answers are measured, vague. He doesn’t press, at first.

He flatters me. Tells me I have an elegance that doesn’t belong to the chaos of this world. It’s cliché, but it makes me smile despite myself. When I laugh—just once—it’s genuine. Brief. Almost human. For a moment, I forget what I’m standing in the middle of.

Then something shifts.

His tone drops. His posture doesn’t change, but the air around him tightens.

“I know about your father,” he murmurs. Soft. Dangerous. “Richard Carter. The billionaire.”

My stomach drops.

The name, it’s too specific. Too deliberate. My fingers clench around the stem of the glass. I feel it tremble. He’s not just some curious outsider. He came here with a purpose.

He’s not a guest.

He has an agenda.

“What did you say—”

I don’t get to finish.

Suddenly, Andrei is there. No sound. No warning. Just a weight at my back, solid and cold.

Jackson goes rigid. His mouth opens, closes. He forces a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, nods once like a man who knows the odds have turned.

“I should… find my cousin,” he mutters as he slinks off.

Andrei doesn’t touch me.

Doesn’t say a word.

He stands behind me, silent and immovable, but his presence roars. Not loud—never that—but absolute. It bleeds into my skin like heat. Like pressure. Like ownership. The air shifts around us, thick with a tension that wraps around my throat and squeezes.

My chest rises too fast, breath stuttering out in shallow bursts I can’t control. I stare straight ahead, into the golden glow of the celebration, but I feel him. Every inch. Every breath. The distance he keeps is more intimate than closeness. He doesn’t need to touch me. He doesn’t need to speak.

Everyone knows.

I can feel it in their eyes—curious, sharp, wary. No one approaches me now. The moment Andrei appeared, it was like a wall dropped between me and the rest of the world. No one dares cross it.

The message is clear.

I belong to him.

I hate him for it.

I hate the way he uses silence as a weapon, how he lets me flounder in the void of his attention until I’m dizzy with it.

I hate how he shows up not to comfort, not to see me, but to mark his territory.

I want to turn and scream at him—to ask why he ignores me until someone else dares to come close.

Why he pretends I don’t exist until he senses a threat.

He leans in, just enough that I feel the whisper of his breath at my neck, a warm shiver racing down my spine before I can stop it.

“You don’t talk to anyone,” he murmurs, his voice a ghost beneath the noise, “unless I say so.”

The words are soft, almost kind in tone—but they hit like a slap. I tense, every nerve suddenly raw. His meaning cuts clean. No negotiation. No room for interpretation.

A rule. A command.

The edge of humiliation sharpens in my gut. He’s not just making a statement to me. He’s making it to the entire room. I’m no guest. I’m no equal.

I’m something kept.

Exposed. Claimed. Powerless.

Yet God help me—part of me thrums with it. The attention. The focus. The possession. It burns through the shame, through the confusion, straight to something dark and shamefully alive inside me.

I don’t know if it’s need or madness, but I can’t deny it.

His mouth is still close, the heat of him coiling around my shoulder. “You’re mine,” he murmurs, voice silky. “Tonight, I’ll remind you.”

The crowd moves around us, a blur of voices and motion I barely register. Andrei’s breath still lingers at my neck, ghosting over skin too warm, too exposed. I don’t turn to face him. I don’t trust myself to.

I stand perfectly still, shoulders tight, jaw clenched—trying not to react, even as everything inside me coils and burns.

You’re mine.

Tonight, I’ll remind you.

The words echo through me, impossibly loud, even though he said them like a secret. Like a promise.

My fingers tighten around the delicate stem of my champagne glass. I haven’t tasted it. I don’t want to. My mouth is dry for other reasons—rage, shame, heat. None of it makes sense. Or maybe it makes too much sense, and that’s the problem.

I can feel his eyes on me, even as he steps back, vanishing into the crowd again like he was never there at all. He doesn’t need to linger. He’s made his point.

Everyone saw.

My skin prickles under the weight of their attention. No one meets my eyes. No one dares. They look past me, around me, but never at me. Not now. Whatever curiosity they had has been burned away by Andrei’s claim. I’m not untouchable—I’m owned. And no one wants to touch what he’s laid claim to.

I take a step back, then another, retreating toward the edge of the terrace. The night air is cooler here, cleaner, but it does nothing to quiet the storm under my ribs.

I should hate him.

I do hate him.

Except, I also can’t stop thinking about his hands. His voice. The way he made me feel things I shouldn’t—can’t—want. I don’t know who I am anymore, wrapped up in this nightmare in silk.

I close my eyes and press my palm to my chest, trying to slow the pounding beneath it.

It doesn’t work.

Somewhere inside me, something dangerous stirs. Something that isn’t fear. It’s need.

I don’t know if it’s mine or his, if it’s born of desire or desperation, but it’s real. And it terrifies me.

The night stretches out in front of me, glittering and endless.

Andrei’s promise hangs in the air, thick and invisible.