Page 7

The house is too quiet.

Each step I take is measured, deliberate, my breath held between clenched teeth. The floor beneath me is polished wood, slick under bare soles, and it muffles the sound of my movement just enough to give me a sliver of confidence. But not enough to settle the sick, pulsing fear in my chest.

Shadows twist along the walls, stretching long and strange with every antique lamp I pass. The air feels too still, like it’s been holding its own breath since the moment I opened that study door. Like the walls know I’m not supposed to be here. Like they’re watching.

I keep moving, out of the study and back down the hallway.

The halls go on forever. Endless corridors lined with doors I don’t dare try. I don’t have time to guess what’s behind them—more locked rooms, maybe guards, maybe worse. Every second I waste could be the difference between freedom and….

I swallow hard, and I don’t finish the thought.

My hands tighten around the edge of the banister as I round another corner, eyes darting from painting to curtain to hallway ahead. Then—just as I’m starting to feel dizzy from the repetition—I see it.

A vast room. Dimly lit. Marble floors and high ceilings. At the far end—framed by towering windows—a grand staircase.

Leading down.

My breath stutters. Hope cracks through my ribs like lightning.

It might be a foyer. An atrium. The kind of place designed to impress guests before they’re ushered into lies. Right now, it looks like salvation.

My steps quicken, the soft pad of my feet turning into frantic taps as I race for it.

My pulse hammers so loud I barely hear the footsteps until it’s too late.

Then I collide with something solid. Hard. Unmoving. Human.

A gasp leaves my throat before I can catch it.

Not a wall. A body.

Strong hands clamp around my wrists before I can react, forcing them to my sides. Firm. Unyielding. The scent hits me next—smoke and spice, whiskey and cold leather. Familiar now. Terrifying.

I tilt my head back, slowly. Dread curdles in my stomach.

Andrei.

His face is calm. Too calm. His eyes catch the faint glow of the chandelier overhead—dark, unreadable. His mouth doesn’t move. His jaw doesn’t tense. He looks at me like this moment was inevitable. Like he’s been waiting for me to come to him.

Like he knows exactly what I’m going to do before I do it.

“No,” I whisper, twisting hard in his grip. “Let go of me.”

He doesn’t.

His hands stay exactly where they are—tight around my wrists, holding me like something he owns. Something he intends to keep.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not ready to leave.”

My heart pounds so loud it makes me dizzy. “I wasn’t going to leave,” I lie, voice low and sharp. “I was just—”

He raises one brow. “Exploring?”

I scowl, jerking back again. “You can’t keep me here.”

His grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t soften either. “I can.”

I want to hit him. Scream. Something. Anything. The way he looks at me—too steady, too in control—makes my skin crawl.

He’s not angry. He’s amused.

“You were watching me.”

“I always watch,” he says.

“Why?” I breathe. “To see when I finally break?”

His gaze flickers briefly down to my mouth, then returns to my eyes.

“No,” he says. “To see how long you last.”

I go still. His voice—it’s not mocking. Not cold. If anything, it’s curious. Calculated. Like I’m a puzzle he’s taken apart and is now wondering whether to put back together.

“I’m not your experiment,” I whisper.

His head tilts slightly. “No. You’re something else entirely.”

His hands release me, slow and deliberate. I step back fast, putting as much distance between us as the hall allows. My skin burns where he touched me. I rub at my wrists, though the pressure is already fading.

“You should be asleep,” he says, as if the thought just occurred to him.

I shake my head, breath ragged. “I can’t sleep. Not in a place like this. Not when I don’t know what you’ve done to him.”

Silence stretches.

“You want to know about your father,” he says. The look in his eyes shifts—just slightly. “He’s alive,” he continues. “That doesn’t mean he’s whole.”

I flinch. “Where is he?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”

I clench my fists. “I’m not your toy. I won’t play your games.”

Andrei steps forward once, and I instinctively take a step back.

“You are playing,” he says, voice low, velvet-edged. “Every time you run. Every time you lie. You think you’re the only one making moves?”

My spine straightens. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He smiles—just faintly. “No,” he says. “You’re afraid of what you’ll do when I let you choose.”

I shake my head, throat tightening. “You’re sick.”

“Maybe,” he says. “I don’t lie, Alina. Not like him.”

The way he says it, my father’s name might as well be a curse.

“I will find out the truth,” I say. “With or without your help.”

“I expect you to,” Andrei says, already turning away. “That’s the point.”

I don’t move. Can’t. My back is already against the wall, my lungs tight in my chest, and my heartbeat won’t slow.

He comes closer. Deliberate. Silent. Like a storm you feel before it hits.

Then he’s there—right in front of me. Towering, sharp-edged, too composed. His presence is overwhelming, impossible to ignore. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, warm and heady and laced with something deeper. Woodsmoke. Spice. Something old. Something dangerous.

I try not to flinch as he raises his hand.

Fingers brush my jaw—not harsh, but possessive. Tracing the line of my throat until his palm settles there. Not squeezing. Just resting. Heavy. Certain.

His thumb presses beneath my chin, lifting it.

My breath catches.

His eyes lock on to mine. They’re dark, but not empty—no, there’s color there. Flecks of green threaded through the shadows. Subtle. Unexpected. Beautiful, if I didn’t hate him so much.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice like a low growl that vibrates down my spine. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The words hit me like ice water.

I shake my head, but it’s the smallest motion—barely more than a tremor. His grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t allow movement either.

“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper. “You don’t own me.”

His eyes narrow, and his thumb slides slightly up the curve of my throat, just enough to remind me that I’m not the one in control.

“I do,” he says. “I took you, and I keep you breathing. Every second you’re still alive is because I let it be so.”

The room tilts, just a little. My knees feel unsteady.

I hate that my body reacts this way. That his nearness makes my pulse stutter and my skin prickle with fear, adrenaline—or something worse. Something I don’t want to name.

“You think you’re strong,” he murmurs. “And maybe you are, but strength won’t change what’s already been decided.”

His fingers trace lightly along the side of my neck. My throat tightens around each breath. I try to speak, but nothing comes.

“You hate me,” he says, almost like he’s amused. “Good. Keep hating me. That’s better than fear. Fear fades. Hate stays sharp.”

My vision flickers at the edges. Black spots threatening to bloom. The weight of his hand, the intensity in his gaze—it’s too much. I can’t breathe.

“You’ll learn,” he continues, his voice softer now. “What it means to be mine. Not because I want to hurt you—if I did, I would have already. But because I need you to understand what’s real. What matters.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I manage to choke out.

His smile is subtle. Cold, but there’s something else beneath it. Something raw.

“You belonged to your father,” he says. “And he sold you without even looking back. I’m just collecting what he put on the table.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not in front of him.

“Let me go,” I whisper.

“No.”

That one word is final. Brutal.

My legs shake. I feel lightheaded, like I might pass out. I press both palms to his chest, trying to push him away. He doesn’t budge.

“Please,” I say, though I hate myself for it. “You’re scaring me.”

His brows draw slightly together. The smallest crease in his otherwise perfect composure.

Good. Maybe I can get to him.

His hand falls away from my throat slowly. Not a release—more like a pause. A promise.

I stumble a half step back, gasping for air I hadn’t realized I was missing. My hands stay raised, shaky between us, useless.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice hoarse. “Whatever this is. You don’t have to be him.”

He blinks, just once. The mask slips for a heartbeat. Then it’s back.

He steps in again—closer than before, crowding me into the wall until I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“I’m nothing like your father,” he says, deadly calm. “That’s why you’re still standing.”

I don’t understand what that means, but I know he means it.

The worst part is that he believes it.

He turns his back on me again, and this time he does walk away, vanishing down the hall before I can say a word.

He leaves me pressed against the wall, lungs burning, heart hammering like a warning bell in my chest.

I slide to the floor, knees tucked to my chest, hands pressed over my mouth.

I don’t cry, but I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together.

I sit there on the floor for what feels like forever, my back pressed to the wall, legs curled beneath me like I’m trying to vanish into the architecture.

My body feels hollow, my skin too tight, my chest aching with each shallow breath.

I don’t know if I’m shaking from fear or rage—or both—but I can’t move. Not yet.

The sound of footsteps breaks the silence. Heavy. Slow. Measured.

I look up just as the figure rounds the corner. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black with a presence that feels less like a man and more like a storm given shape. He doesn’t draw his weapon. Doesn’t bark an order. Just stops a few feet from me and studies me with cool, unreadable eyes.

“You’re Alina,” he says. His voice is deep, calm, not unkind. “I’m Dima.”

I don’t answer, but I don’t think he expects me to.

“I’m here to take you back to your room,” he says after a pause.

I clench my jaw. “Is that what we’re calling it now? My room?”

His expression doesn’t change. “It’s where you’ll be safest.”

Safe. What a fucking joke. Still, I don’t argue. My legs are stiff and sore as I stand. I try not to wobble, try not to show just how weak I feel. Dima waits patiently, saying nothing, his posture relaxed but unmistakably ready. Like if I tried to bolt again, he’d be faster.

I don’t test it.

He leads me through the hall in silence. Not dragging me, not even walking too close. Just enough to ensure I don’t disappear.

At the foot of the stairs, he pauses. “You shouldn’t have come this far,” he says, glancing back at me.

“Tell your boss to lock his doors better,” I snap.

He actually chuckles. Just once. It’s low and fleeting but real. “He did. You picked the lock.”

I look away.

We reach the hallway I recognize, and my heart sinks as we near the door. The one they assigned me. The one I hate.

Dima stops in front of it and opens it for me. Doesn’t push me in. Just gestures.

I hesitate. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He studies me for a beat longer. “Being cruel wouldn’t stop you.”

Then he turns and walks away.

The door closes behind me, and for the first time in what feels like hours, I’m alone again.

The room is still. Still too clean. Still too perfect. I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the door.

And I whisper into the silence, “I’m not done.”