Page 6

I lean back in the leather chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, the glass in my hand catching the amber light from the fireplace.

The whiskey swirls lazily with each motion—measured, unhurried.

Its burn is low and familiar on my tongue, something I’ve come to appreciate more for its patience than its sting.

The security feed flickers on the monitor in front of me. Grainy, colorless footage washing the screen in dull gray light. No sound. Just movement. Shadows.

There she is. Alina Carter.

Small, fragile-looking, but not fragile at all. Not really. There’s something inside her that refuses to be soft. I saw it the moment she screamed in that foyer. The moment she ran.

Now I see it again.

She’s in the bedroom I gave her, crouched at the door with her fingers wrapped around something delicate. A pin. Something pulled from her hair, likely. She works the lock with surprising care. Her breath is shallow. Controlled. Her movements tight and methodical.

Clever girl.

The door gives with a click she can’t hear, not with how fast her heart must be pounding, but I hear it. I see the moment her shoulders shift, the brief tremor in her exhale. Relief.

Did she really think escape was that easy?

I watch her slip into the corridor, bare feet ghosting over the polished floor. She doesn’t know she’s walking through a house that sees everything. There are eyes in every corner. Systems I built long before she ever became useful.

Yet I don’t stop her. I want to see where she goes.

She moves through the hall like a ghost—quiet, hesitant, alert. She hugs the walls, checks corners. A rabbit in the wolf’s den, but one that knows the wolf is watching.

She pauses by the den, the firelight washing over her legs. Her profile flickers into view as she turns her head, drawn in by the sound, the warmth. The tension in her body loosens slightly. Not trust. Nostalgia, maybe. A reminder of something she once thought was safe.

That hesitation will be her undoing.

She steps inside. Just one foot. A pause. A second of stillness too long. She stares at the fire like it’s speaking to her, like it might burn away the rest of her fear. I sip my drink and wait.

Then she’s moving again.

I flip through the feeds as she begins her descent. Her figure appears again on another screen—narrow staircase, right side camera. She’s careful. Too careful. Not the panicked stumbling I expected. She’s thinking. Plotting.

Good.

Fear without intelligence is useless. It burns hot and quick and dies without effect. But fear laced with thought? That’s power. That’s what reshapes a person.

Another feed. She passes the second den. Then the foyer. Then the hall that leads to the east wing.

She’s searching for the front door.

I finish my drink. Set the glass aside.

The feed flickers, following her as she bolts into the eastern wing.

She’s quick—surprisingly so, for someone with no shoes, no bearings, and no idea just how many dead ends this house offers.

She keeps low, tight to the wall, checking behind her every few seconds like she knows she’s being watched but still hopes she might beat the eye that watches her.

I let her go.

She darts past the dining room. The gallery. Pauses once at a locked exit. Pulls at it. Swears, even without sound, I can see it on her mouth. Her breath fogs the glass. Her fists pound once, twice. Futile.

I don’t move. I don’t call anyone.

I let her run. Let her think there’s still a choice left to make.

She won’t find a way out, but I want her to try. I want her to taste the illusion of control—just enough to feel the full weight of it when it vanishes.

On screen, she slows. She’s lost again, deeper now. Her hands tremble slightly as she tests another door, one that creaks open instead of resisting.

The smaller study. Dark wood, huge desk. Low ceilings. No windows.

She hesitates in the doorway, then steps in.

I don’t follow her with my eyes. I already know what’s inside.

Nothing.

Nothing for her, at least. No keys. No weapons.

No maps or escape routes. No secrets. Just a wall of mismatched books, a worn leather armchair no one uses, and a desk that hasn’t held importance in five years.

She’ll find that out quickly. The moment the drawer sticks.

The moment she sees nothing inside but ledgers in Russian she can’t read.

She’ll stand there and realize she’s trapped. Not by force, but by design.

“She’s quick,” Dima says as he appears beside me, voice low.

I glance at him. He stands with arms folded, dark eyes fixed on the screen like he’s watching a game play out. In some ways, he is.

“What’s the plan?” he asks.

His tone is neutral, but I know the question buried underneath it. He’s been with me long enough to sense the shift. To know that this—she—wasn’t meant to matter.

She was meant to be leverage. Collateral. A pawn.

The sharp edge that would twist the knife deeper into Richard Carter’s chest the moment he learned what had been taken. The final insult. The ultimate humiliation.

Now? Now I’m not sure.

Something changed. Not when I first saw her, not even when she screamed and kicked and tried to run.

It was when she looked at me with those wild, green eyes—terrified, yes, but unbroken. When she screamed like a cornered animal and still found enough strength to fight. When she held herself like she might shatter, but wouldn’t let herself.

She wasn’t supposed to matter.

I reach for the decanter, refill my glass. Take a slow sip before answering. Then, “I’m still deciding.”

Dima exhales through his nose. A soft sound, like amusement or warning—could be either.

“You sure that’s wise?”

“No.”

We watch as she moves around the study. Her hands skim the shelves. She pulls open drawers. Finds nothing. Her shoulders slump. Her back bows slightly. She’s starting to feel it now.

“Want me to go get her?” Dima asks.

“No, I quite like watching her flail.”

Her fingers pause on the desk. She lingers there. The light catches the side of her face. The way she presses her lips together, just tight enough to keep from trembling.

“She looks like him,” Dima says suddenly.

I glance sideways. “Carter?”

He nods. “The mouth. The eyes too. Not the color—just the way she looks at people. Like everyone’s a problem she’s already solved.”

I stare at her a little longer.

She doesn’t know what her father is. Not really. She doesn’t know what he did, who he betrayed. The blood he sold to protect his own empire.

Still, I don’t hate her for wearing his name. Not the way I thought I would.

“She’ll try again,” Dima says, stepping back from the monitor. “Sooner or later. They always do.”

“She should.”

“You want her broken?”

I don’t answer.

She’s valuable if she bends. Interesting if she resists. Except, if she breaks—if she shatters—I don’t know what I’ll be left holding. A girl I can use, or just another ruined thing in a long list of them.

I finish the second glass. Set it down. “Let her sit there awhile,” I say. “Then bring her to me.”

Dima nods once, silent. He leaves without another word.

I turn back to the screen, watching as she lowers herself slowly into the desk chair. She folds her arms over her stomach and pulls her legs up, trying to make herself smaller.

The fire crackles behind me, the sound soft and distant, like memory.

I wonder for the first time—what it would feel like if she chose to stay.

I rise from the chair slowly, letting the creak of old leather fill the silence behind me.

The fire snaps once more, its glow casting long, shifting shadows against the stone walls.

I roll my shoulders as I walk toward the comm panel embedded in the side of the bookshelf—an old design, discreet and wired to the private channels that don’t show up in the main logs.

Two guards are on the rotation in this wing tonight. Mikhail and Rolan. Reliable. Silent.

I press the button and speak calmly. “She’s in the study. East hall. I want eyes on her.”

Mikhail’s voice answers almost instantly. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep distance,” I add, pulling on the edge of my sleeve to adjust the cuff link. “Don’t approach her yet. Let her think she’s alone.”

A beat. Then Rolan’s voice comes through, quieter. “You want her watched but not touched?”

“Exactly.”

The connection clicks off with no further question. That’s why I keep them—no questions.

I pace slowly to the side window and glance out into the woods. The trees sway gently in the breeze, moonlight streaking pale silver across the lawn. Beyond them, the road is long gone. No lights. No traffic. Just wilderness.

No way out, but she doesn’t know that yet.

That’s the fun of it.

Let her feel like she has a chance. Let her breathe a little easier.

Let her taste the illusion of safety, just enough to begin plotting again.

I want her to walk circles in that room, to run her fingers along the bookshelves and wonder if one of them hides a mechanism, a trigger, a key.

I want her to search the desk again. Check the drawers. Try the handle.

Only for it to be locked when she finally tries to leave.

She needs to feel clever first. Empowered. Free.

That’s the part I enjoy.

The part where they believe they’ve beaten you—right before they learn you’ve been letting them play all along.

It’s not just about control. Not really.

It’s the game.

She has no idea she’s already surrounded. That every hallway she moves through has already been mapped, every blind turn accounted for, every light calibrated to disorient and distort her sense of time. She doesn’t realize yet that the silence in the house isn’t neglect—it’s curated.

The way she looks over her shoulder? Beautiful.

The way her breath hitches every time a floorboard creaks beneath her feet? Exquisite.

The moment she starts to believe no one’s watching? That’s when she’s the most alive.

I lean one shoulder against the stone wall and close my eyes, listening to the hum of the surveillance feed running low in the background, the faint buzz of the house alive and aware.

I imagine her now, curled in that old leather chair, knees pulled to her chest, lips pressed tight, eyes sweeping the room again and again.

She’s fighting to stay composed. I saw it in the way she moved.

Like every part of her body is made of wire—delicate but strung tight.

She doesn’t break easily.

That’s what makes this interesting.

Finishing off my drink, I stand. Then I turn, and go in search of Alina. I want to see the look on her face in person, when she realizes she’s trapped.