Page 11

ANISSA

I have a sister.

A sister.

The revelation circles my head like a vulture waiting to swoop. Another secret. Another twist.

This is the strangest turn of events I could have imagined. Just when I think I have control of the situation, even the tiniest little modicum of control, he throws me another curveball.

And now his family. His parents are assholes. I’ve seen his mother’s type, the kind of shallow, brittle woman who goes to charity galas for the accolades but hides her venom behind the glitter.

Yet another thing we have in common.

Great . We could start a club. Children of monsters.

I have a mother too? And I'm going to meet the man whose life I apparently destroyed in a matter of hours. I didn’t think I could ever get back to a place where I was insecure or afraid. I run head-on toward fear, toward discomfort, because I’ve found that’s what makes me stronger. But now, my mind is spinning with the most mundane question: What am I going to wear?

And why is he not really afraid of me running anymore?

I also heard him loud and clear when he told his mother—that catty excuse for a mother anyway—that I would be the mother of his children. Dear god. Children .

Ha . I’ll have the last word on that one.

“Hmm. With no real time to go shopping," I say, working my lip. "I can't exactly go to the shop wearing the elephant-sized T-shirt."

I don't normally mind standing out, but this is different.

He nods, scowling, thinking.

"I'll call Rodion."

I know that Rodion is his cousin—Rafail's younger brother. Maybe they're close.

"Rodion's going to have women's clothes?"

"No, but his wife probably will."

His wife.

Maybe choosing ignorance over the Kopolov Bratva wasn’t my smartest strategy.

I nod, thinking.

"That's probably the best option. I don't even think the clothes I brought will be ready in time."

I look down at my nails—short, chipped, clean because of the shower, but barely presentable.

I washed my hair, but it dried into a frizzy mess. I have no makeup, no jewelry. I don’t even have a razor.

What am I thinking? Since when have I cared about this bullshit?

Since now.

Since I’m back in Russia with women who dress well and take pride in their appearance, that’s when.

I get up to use the bathroom. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“There are four. Closest is here, off the kitchen.”

This is a nice home. The Bratva do take care of their own.

I walk to the bathroom and splash water on my face. It’s a start. My reflection stares back at me—bare-faced, no makeup, no jewelry.

No armor.

For the first time in years, I’m just Anissa.

And I hate it. I hate it so much.

Matvei’s voice echoes behind me. I hear him talking to Rodion, filling him in, asking him for a solid.

There’s that little pang again—the one I pretend not to feel. The reminder that I never bothered to wonder what kind of man Matvei is when he’s not hunting me. Turns out, he’s the kind who has family dinners and inside jokes.

And yet, he’s barely afraid of me running anymore.

That’s what keeps twisting the knife. What’s given him so much confidence?

I’m losing my edge—or worse, he’s getting inside my head, rearranging my instincts until the sharp edges dull and the exits blur.

I feel Matvei behind me before I even see him. “Any luck with Rodion?”

He shakes his head. “They're out of town. I forgot.”

“Well, I can’t exactly meet them in this.”

Matvei’s gaze drags down my body, slow and heated. Not even trying to hide it.

“We’ll figure it out.”

That’s the difference between us. I survive by planning ten steps ahead. He survives by deciding no plan is necessary—because he is the fucking plan.

I grip the counter, forcing myself to breathe. My reflection stares back at me, daring me to break first.

“You’re still in trouble,” he says.

“Mm. So you say.” I manage to keep my voice coy even as my pulse thunders.

I can’t decide if I want him to punish me—or if I want to make him bleed first.

Maybe both.

Hmmm.

I stand in front of the mirror and pull my shoulders back. I guess a little bit of makeup or something couldn't hurt. "So do you always let your parents talk to you that way? You didn't seem the type."

"What's the type?" he asks.

“The type to let your parents control you. And you didn't answer my question."

"My parents are ruthless, mean. But they're the reason why I'm here, so…yeah.”

I catch his eyes in the mirror and narrow my gaze at him. That is not the answer, and we both know it, but I'm not going to pry. Eventually, I'll understand the truth about him.

And eventually, he'll know the truth about me too.

Because at this point, I know for a fact that what he said about chasing me is true. And even if I could erase my existence—disappear off the face of the earth, never to be found—I know that’s not what’s tethering me to him right now either.

Deep down, I’m intrigued. Curious. No one has ever made me feel as alive as he does, even when that feeling is laced with danger.

And I can’t help but wonder—have I finally met my match?

I was interested in the Irish, only inasmuch as what they could offer me. But I didn't like any of them. They're too old-fashioned, too set in their ways.

And I thought I actually didn't have a romantic bone in my body.

Maybe I was wrong. Even now, when he tells me that he's going to punish me, excitement curls in my belly. Will he hurt me again? I want him to. It's strangely cathartic in a way I can't explain, and I’m not sure I would want to, even if I could.

"I'm going to get my clothes and wash them," I tell him softly, then mumble under my breath.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

“I just wish I had my… clothes and things.”

“Your disguises?” he asks, eyes cold.

“I like to dress up.” I shrug. “So maybe I like a little cosplay.”

When he crosses his arms on his chest, his eyes grow colder. “Maybe you like to hide.”

My heart thumps. I get the message loud and clear: There is no hiding here.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear, Anissa. You could walk around in a fucking sack for all I care, and it wouldn’t matter. My parents will still hate you because you’re mine. And Rafail won’t forgive you for what happened, but he’ll eventually forget.”

How does he see right through me? How do I see right through him ?

I freeze as our eyes lock. This is fucked up and inevitable, and I don’t know how to handle it. This is some kind of freaky soulmate-level shit I’m unprepared for.

I shake my head, feeling uncomfortable.

We’re wasting time.

“Where’s your washer and dryer?”

"I might as well give you the tour."

“Yeah.”

He doesn't touch me but stands so close I can feel his heat licking up my spine. My hands are eager to touch him, to ground myself in the reality of Matvei, the man who… owns me.

I could lean into this.

My heart beats faster, and I hate myself for it. I've been dragged through hell by the men who thought they owned me. I've been beaten, abused. It forged me into who I am today.

I won’t think of that now.

I look away because I don't want him to somehow read my mind. I'm afraid that if he meets my eyes again, he'll see the replay of that night over and over and over again… just like I do when I close my eyes to sleep. When I run my hands over the scars on my belly.

I follow him as he points to the kitchen, the entryway that leads to the garage, a large sitting area, and a paved patio on the other side of glass doors, barely visible now that it’s dark out.

And as he gives me the tour, he looks over his shoulder at me from time to time.

It’s unsettling. No one’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m a challenge and a prize, an answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking. And I know then that if somehow I did manage to escape tomorrow, he would burn down the world to find me.

For better or for worse…

“Since you live here now?—”

"I live here?" I interrupt. My voice is dry and mocking because if I don't make it a joke, the truth might slip out—and I can’t have that. "Bold of you to assume."

He doesn’t blink. "It’s a fact, and you know it, you little brat."

"You’re very bold, Mr. Cliché. She’s going to have my babies; she’s mine ,” I mock. “Yeah, I got you ever since the time you wrote on my wall in that red." I tip my head to the side. "How did you get rid of it so fast anyway?"

He shrugs. “A magician never shows his hand."

I point my finger in the air with a dramatic flourish. "So you admit you did it.”

His eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. Any other motherfucker did that, I’d kill him."

I swallow. He’s telling the truth.

There’s no bravado, no need to raise his voice. His control is a blade pressed to my throat, and the worst part is… I crave pressing back. Feeling the metal scrape my skin.

I want to see if he’ll cut me. I want him to bleed for me too.

This is not how this is supposed to go.

"The tour," he rasps.

I nod, hyperaware of the fact that I’m naked under this ridiculous T-shirt and we’re somehow standing toe to toe. "The tour," I repeat.

I trail after him, cheeks flaming no matter how hard I try to control my reaction as he moves through the house, my bare feet silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. The house is exactly what I’d expect from him—dark wood, expensive, brutally elegant. Not a single soft edge anywhere. Maybe I’ll be the soft edge. Once I get my hands on one of his credit cards, I’m getting some fucking pink in here. Maybe even some witchy crystals—a little rose quartz to soften his edges and some obsidian to give me some goddamn protection.

He opens a door off the hall, revealing a laundry room—modern, spotless, efficient. Shelves are stacked with neatly folded clothes, softener and detergent lined up like soldiers. Even his damn laundry room looks like it’s ready for war.

“Housekeeper?"

I just want to fill the silence, but I also want to know who’s going to come in and see me half-naked because that’s definitely what’s going to happen. Some people drink to relieve stress. Others take drugs.

Maybe Matvei is a drug.

He shrugs. "Sometimes, yeah. Mostly, it’s just me. I’m not here a lot."

“Oh?”

“But that’s going to change."

That throws me. I look down at his massive hands, the same ones that pinned me down and held me, and imagine him carefully folding… towels. It’s disturbingly intimate. Domestic. Because now I can’t stop imagining those hands back on me, peeling my clothes off instead of washing them.

I swallow hard and wish I had a pile of dirty clothes to wash, suddenly eager for distance. I need a break from the intensity already. His gaze drops, dragging down the curve of my back, and I feel it—his desire, a little hum between us.

"I’m surprised you care as much as you do," he says suddenly, his voice low, cutting.

I straighten slowly and turn to face him. "About what?"

Don’t tell me he’s seen through my fake nonchalance already.

He takes a step toward me, closing the space until my back hits the dryer. "About how you look. About what my family thinks. About what I see when I look at you."

Fuck .

"Okay, get over yourself, Matvei,” I snap, but my voice betrays me. "I don’t really care about any of that."

He bares his teeth at me, and it would be a smile if it didn’t look so much like a threat. "Liar."

So what if I do care? So what if I like the disguises because they feel like armor? So what if I like the fact that I can move from place to place without ever putting down roots—because when I do, if I do, someone always comes along and rips them up again.

So what?

How does he flay me open without even trying?

And the scariest part? Why do I like it?

He leans in, one hand braced beside my head. His eyes are stormy and beautiful. My heart beats faster. I want him to touch me, and I don’t want him to be gentle.

He smells like vodka and soap. I lick my lips.

"Why do you think I’m not afraid of you running anymore?" he asks in a whisper.

The truth is, he should be.

He should be waiting for me to slip up, but instead, he watches me.

The air between us snaps like electricity.

I roll my eyes to hopefully hide my reaction to my pounding heartbeat. "Because you know how to track me."

He touches my chin, tracing the line of it. My breath hitches for a second.

"Yeah, little ghost. But we both know that’s not the truth. Not all of it anyway, is it?"

He’s just as fucked up about me as I am about him.

He’s supposed to hate me. Even his parents hinted at that.

I can’t look away. I can’t stop myself. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt, dragging him to me. His body presses up against mine, and I crave being closer, connected. Flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth, tongues tangled. Because I’ve never been more attracted to someone in my life.

I don’t know what the hell that says about me.

His hands skate down my sides, rough and possessive, leaving a trail of heat behind.

"How long is the wash cycle?" I whisper.

His low, dark chuckle makes my nipples harden. "Long enough."

I sigh and close my eyes as his lips meet mine.

His kiss isn’t soft—too much wanting, too much need. His hands fist in my messy hair, keeping my mouth locked to his, and I feel it… I feel it.

The way he’s holding back.

The way his control slips through his fingers like sand.

Fuck it. I want to make him lose control. I want to see exactly what happens when Matvei Kopolov snaps.

"The tour," I tell him. "You going to finish giving me the tour?"

“Right.”

I feel a giggle bubbling up because—god help me—he’s kind of cute when he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“So this is the laundry room. Down the hall are some guestrooms, and upstairs is the bedroom. Our bedroom,” he says in a rush of words.

"That’s great, but I hope you know I’m gonna buy something pink. Maybe lots of pink.”

He makes a face. "Pink?"

"The ultimate feminine color, and it’s my favorite. Don’t judge."

"I don’t want pink in my bedroom." His nose crinkles.

“Challenging your fragile male ego? I thought it was our room?”

He growls and pinches my ass.

“Fine then. Creams, golds, neutrals. Is that better? Your whole house is like some kind of control freak manifesto."

He shakes his head. "You’re unbelievable."

I smile at him sweetly, and my stomach growls. Still starving.

Something buzzes between us.

"Either you’re packing a vibrator or someone’s calling you."

"Option two."

He answers his phone, lifts it to his ear, and, with his other hand, keeps me pinned against the wall, holding me there like I might vanish if he doesn’t keep a grip.

I watch his eyes while he talks, and for no reason at all, I lick my lips. His fingers tighten on my shoulder, a silent don’t you fucking start .

Yum .

I swallow hard.

"Yes. No problem. Yeah, she knows because my mother’s got a big mouth, so we need to get together soon. Of course, yeah. Bye."

He hangs up and looks at me. He shrugs, all nonchalant, but his hand is still on me. "Guess they’re not coming after all."

My stomach knots. I don’t know what to do with the swirl of conflicting feelings.

On one hand, I’m disappointed. I have a sister, and I wanted to meet her. Surely no one can be as bad as his mother?

On the other hand, I have exactly zero desire to see Rafail anytime soon, so yeah—relief.

And I’m still starving.

"I guess I have a little more time to get some clothes."

“Or not.”

My pussy throbs.

"And some food," he says. “I’m about five minutes away from throwing shit."

He pushes away from the wall, but his fingers lace through mine.

He’s holding my hand.

I’m not a hand-holder. I’m not a cuddler. But I like holding his hand.

"Here," he says, handing me his phone. "Order what you want."

I take his phone in my right hand while he leads me down the hall.

"Anything I want? What if I want a pony?"

He grunts.

"A pink pony?"

"Guestrooms," he mutters, jerking his chin toward a few doors. "Bathroom. This one’s nice—it’s got a waterfall… thing. Whatever you call it."

He speaks with quiet pride. This is his house, one he crafted in some way for himself, one that’s all his—away from his parents’ suffocating bullshit. Even if they’re still circling, waiting to pull him back under.

"And I really don’t give a fuck what you order. Just get me some food. Fast."

I pull up the app, scroll, and place an order for the greasiest takeout I can find. I throw in a side salad to appease my conscience.

I press the button. "Are you a big tipper?"

"Of course. They’re bringing me food, and I don’t have to cook. Tip them whatever the hell you want."

I like that.

I tip big and hand him the phone back.

He opens a door at the very end of the hall. “And this room here, it’s?—"

He stops. I do too. Instead of moving forward, I stare.

Inside, the walls are lined with shelves. Books—old, worn, their spines cracked with use. It smells of varnished wood and aged paper.

A framed quote hangs over the desk.

"Even in the grave, all is not lost."

I freeze.

"Edgar Allan Poe?" My voice comes out soft.

Matvei shrugs, but there’s something guarded in the set of his jaw. "Yeah. So?"

I stare at him, heart racing. "You know I like Poe."

His head tilts. He doesn’t respond. Did he put this here for me? Or…

My skin crawls, that familiar flash of how long has he been watching me bubbling up. Of course he knows. Of course he’s been in my shit.

Except—

I haven’t read Poe in years.

Years.

But when I did, I didn’t just read, I consumed. Memorized. It was all I read because, for the first time in my life, I felt seen. Someone else understood the complex emotions of being human, of wanting to live and sometimes hating every second.

But how would he know?

I didn’t leave that trail for him to follow. I didn’t post it, didn’t leave a book lying around, barely thought about it… until right now.

"So how did you know?" I whisper.

His eyes darken. "I didn’t. Are you giving me shit?”

I shake my head.

We stare at each other, and the air between us shifts. Not just hunger. Something stranger. Older.

"Maybe you’ve been stalking me ," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

My breath catches. “Is that a joke?” I laugh to cover the way my pulse spikes. "You wish."

But my hands tremble when I touch the book lying on the desk. My fingerprints have never been on this one—but it still feels like it’s mine.

Or his.

Or ours.

“ And so being young and dipped in folly …” My voice trails off.

“ I fell in love with melancholy ,” Matvei finishes.

My head snaps up.

Something behind his gaze flickers. Sharp. Knowing.

Vulnerable.

My pulse beats faster. Maybe he’s been watching me longer than I thought? But no, that doesn’t make sense…

I glance down at another page, my voice quieter now. “ Deep into that darkness, peering, long I stood there …”

“ Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams …” His voice trails off. I mentally complete the line.

… no mortal ever dared to dream before.

The doorbell rings, soft and delicate, like wind chimes. It doesn’t belong in a house like this, too pretty for all this dark wood and sharp edges. I glance at him, curious.

He shrugs. "Food."

Oh. Right. I almost forgot. I’ve been too distracted by him—his hands, his voice, the weight of his attention.

Our shared madness.

He locks the door behind him and double-checks it like a man who’s never been safe a single day in his life. And when we head for the living room, his hand finds mine again… like it belongs there.

"Sit on the couch," he orders. "Hands in your lap, where I can see them."

He tries to sound sharp, but some of the bite is gone. He’s not as angry anymore—just possessive. Watchful.

I nod like the obedient little brat he thinks I am and give him mocking servitude. “Yes, sir."

He doesn’t trust my obedience. I can feel his eyes drilling into my back as I walk to the couch, which means—he’s exactly where I want him. I wink over my shoulder, and his jaw ticks.

He checks the peephole. Checks the cameras. Touches the gun at his hip before unlocking the door. He doesn’t trust anyone—not the delivery guy, not the air, not the night itself.

It should be sad, and it is, but mostly, it’s familiar. Too familiar.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting cross-legged on his couch, a spread of food in front of us. Greasy, messy chicken wings, hot, salted fries, and sticky rice. None of it belongs together, but I want all of it.

"Hands off,” he says.

I blink at him. "What?"

"Put your hands behind your head."

I stare at him, but his face is pure control. Cold, quiet authority. I do it. My fingers are laced behind my head like I’m under arrest, my chest arching just a little. His eyes flick down and back up.

“You just want my nipples pushing against this tee, don’t you?”

With a noncommittal grunt, he picks up a wing.

I expect him to pass it to me. He doesn’t. He holds it up to my mouth, and for one long second, we both just breathe.

"Open."

I do.

He slides the meat between my lips, slowly, watching every second like he’s committing it to memory. I take a bite, tongue flicking out to catch the sauce, and his pupils blow wide.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

Mmm. I like that.

He wipes his thumb along my lower lip, collecting a streak of sauce, and holds it up like a dare. Without thinking, I lean forward and lick his thumb.

His breath hitches.

My tongue flicks along the calloused pad, tasting salt and grease. I mean to pull back after, but his free hand tangles in my hair and holds me there—his thumb slipping deeper, just past my lips.

"Messy little thing," he mutters.

I bite down on his thumb, just enough to make him feel it—and his control slips, just a crack. He drags it along my tongue before pulling away.

"You like teasing me," he says, low and dark.

"You like feeding me," I shoot back.

His smile is sharp enough to cut. "You’ve got no idea."

He picks up a fry next, dragging it slowly through the pool of ketchup, and brings it to my mouth. I take it—lips brushing his fingers, sucking the salt right off his skin. He watches, transfixed.

"More," I whisper.

He feeds me rice next, and I take it from his fingers, deliberately licking the grains off his skin one by one, my tongue tracing each knuckle. His breathing turns rough, his jaw tight. It’s messy and raw, and I’m loving every second.

"Careful," he warns.

"Or what?"

He shakes his head in response. “I won’t be able to hold myself back anymore, and we’ll have to skip dessert.”

His voice is all gravel and promise.

"Depends. What’s on the menu?"

I didn’t order dessert.

He grabs my ankles, dragging me down the couch until I’m sprawled beneath him. My shirt rides up, and his hand slides along my bare thigh, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles.

Oh.

He bends his head and kisses me hard, licking into my mouth like he’s still feeding me—like he’s tasting the salt and grease and hunger right off my tongue. I moan into him, fingers curling in his hair, dragging him closer and closer.

His mouth leaves mine, sliding down my throat, teeth grazing my pulse before he drags my thighs apart and settles between them.

"Hands back behind your head again,” he growls. "And stay fucking still."

I obey, but my breath is ragged. My pulse races under his mouth as he kisses lower.

"You gonna lick me like you did the fries?" I whisper.

He flashes a wicked smile. "I’m gonna do a lot more than that, little ghost."

And then his mouth is on me, and I forget all about food.

He spreads my thighs, slow but deliberate, fingers digging into my skin just enough to make sure I know who owns me now.

"You were teasing me," he murmurs, lips trailing fire down the inside of my thigh. "Licking my fingers like you wanted to be fed something else."

My breath stutters, my hands aching to touch him. He notices.

"Keep them there," he orders, his voice sharp. My hips jerk, moving close to him, desperate for pressure, for him to taste me.

I let out a shaky exhale, arching slightly against the couch. He’s still fully dressed. I’m half-naked.

His mouth ghosts over the crease of my thigh, where the skin is sensitive. He bites, just enough to make my legs jerk. Enough to leave marks. I stifle a moan.

Matvei hums against me, as though he likes the way I react… like he’s already memorizing it.

He licks right next to where I want him, teasing. I feel my arousal dripping.

I won’t beg. Nope.

But oh my god, in my mind, I am screaming. I want his tongue, I need pressure, I need?—

Ahhh.

His tongue flicks over the bite—soft, soothing, making me shiver—and then lower, pressing wet heat right where I need him most.

I moan. I can’t help it. My god, it feels like heaven.

Matvei groans against me, his grip on my thighs tightening like he wants to bruise me there and keep me spread open forever.

He works me over slowly at first, with long, lazy, torturous licks, his tongue flat and unyielding. I want to grab his hair and force him deeper, rougher. I want to make him lose control.

I know he’s waiting for me to break first.

He flattens his tongue and drags it up, slow and deep, one hand moving between my legs so he can curl his fingers inside me.

Oh fuck.

I whimper.

"That’s it," he praises, and fuck, his voice alone is enough to ruin me. "That’s right, little ghost. Let me hear you."

He wraps his lips around my clit and sucks, and I don’t just moan this time—I cry out.

Matvei growls in approval, pressing me down when my hips jerk. He’s holding me open for him, keeping me there so he can take his time.

I don’t want time. I want him to devour me.

"Matvei—"

He bites me again. Punishing.

It’s harder this time, right on the inside of my thigh, where no one else will ever see. Where only he will know.

I swear I almost black out. The pain, the pleasure, the possessiveness of it—it’s all too much and not enough.

He licks over the bite, soothing it, then moves back between my legs, tongue flicking, teasing, circling.

"More," I beg.

He groans like he’s the one unraveling, and then he gives it to me.

He eats me like a man starved.

The suction, the flick of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth—it’s all too much. My back bows, my fingers knotting together behind my head, my body straining toward him as heat coils low, tighter, tighter…

"That’s it," he rasps against me, his voice dark and wrecked. "Come for me, little ghost. Come on my mouth."

And I do.

Hard.

He doesn’t let up. He keeps working me through it, lapping and sucking until I’m sensitive and boneless.

“I can’t—it’s too much. Too much. Please stop, I can’t— Please?—”

Then, finally, he pulls back, his gaze on me wicked and cruel. “I told you to stay in that room, didn’t I?”

Oh shit.

His lips are slick, his breath heavy. But his eyes—those dark, greedy eyes—stay locked on me as he licks his lips.

“Maybe you did,” I say in a small voice. He bends and licks my sensitized clit. I cry out.

“No maybe,” he growls, biting the inside of my thigh. “I told you to stay, and you didn’t. Naughty, naughty little ghost.”

And then his teeth are on my clit again, scraping against the sensitive skin, and I know intuitively that moving my hands will compound my punishment. I jerk my hips, trying to squirm out of his grip, but he holds me tight, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks.

“Bad girls get punished.” He breathes against my thigh before he plunders my pussy. He licks my core, groaning as he laps up my arousal, then drags his tongue to my clit again, suckling hard.

My hips arch. It’s too much, too sensitive, bordering on painful.

Releasing my clit, he licks lazy, slow circles over and over, and now… now I want more. Now I need more. I can feel another climax rising. I whimper, a spasm of ecstasy rippling through me until he licks me again, and I fall apart.

This time, when I come, I shatter, breathless. Ecstasy floods my limbs. I scream until I’m hoarse, and still, he licks and sucks until I fall, slumped against the couch.

“Did you learn your lesson?” he growls, his breath hot between my legs. He gives me one more warning swipe of his tongue. I stifle a scream.

“Yes, yes, god, okay,” I say in a rush of words so he doesn’t decide to push my body to the point of breaking. My god.

“Good,” he says. “Because it’s bedtime.”

I nod my head.

Bed. Yes. Bed.

We walk up the stairs to his bedroom. I’m boneless as he holds me, pressed up to his chest, carrying me as if I weigh nothing at all.

It’s dark, but for some reason, bright lights illuminate one corner of the room. Are those… fairy lights? In Matvei’s room?

But as we draw nearer, I see. I shake my head and huff out a laugh.

“Aw. Just like old time’s sake.”

“Just like old time’s sake,” he repeats as he kicks open the cage he first used to capture me and lays me on a soft, thick mattress. “Sleep well, little ghost.”

The metal door clicks with an audible snap. The lock is the last thing I hear before I close my eyes to sleep.

* * *