Page 6

Pain has a way of making time stretch, turning seconds into minutes, minutes into hours. I don’t know how much time has passed since I woke up in this hell, but it’s been long enough for the ache in my arm to settle into something relentless, something sharp and unyielding.

More than a day. More than a day, and I’ve barely moved, barely spoken, barely breathed. I can’t afford to stay still any longer.

I don’t know what they plan to do with me. I don’t know what Mikhail Sharov wants, what he expects, what kind of twisted game he’s playing. I do know enough to realize that waiting around, doing nothing, isn’t an option.

My body protests as I sit up, my left arm pulsing with pain, the bandage still wrapped tightly around my wound. I glance down at my right wrist, at the cold metal cuff keeping me tethered to the bed. I inhale through my nose.

I can do this.

With my free hand, I reach into my hair, fingers fumbling slightly as I pull out one of the small pins securing the loose strands. My arm shakes from the strain, but I push through it, gritting my teeth as I twist the pin into the lock.

It takes longer than I want it to. Every motion sends a fresh wave of pain up my arm, sweat forming along my brow as I try to steady my grip. The cuff digs into my skin, cold and unforgiving, and for a moment, frustration surges inside me.

Then— click .

The cuff pops open, the weight of it falling away from my wrist. For a second, I just stare at it. Then I move.

I push the covers back and ease off the bed, my bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. The air in the room is heavy, thick with something oppressive. The silence feels too deep, like the entire house is holding its breath, waiting for me to make my next move.

I tiptoe toward the door, pushing it open with careful fingers. The hallway is dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the walls. My heart pounds as I slip out, my breath shallow as I move down the corridor.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know what I need—an exit.

The house is massive, with endless doors and hallways that twist and turn, unfamiliar and imposing. Every step I take feels like a risk, every creak of the floorboards a warning.

Then, finally I see it.

A door. My pulse quickens as I rush toward it, hands shaking as I reach for the handle. I twist, pull—locked.

A sharp breath leaves me, frustration clawing at my chest. My head whips around, scanning for another way out. Then—a window.

It’s slightly open, just enough that I can pry my fingers under the edge. Hope flickers inside me as I grip the frame, forcing it upward.

A cool gust of air brushes against my skin. Freedom is so close, I swear I can taste it.

Except, a hand emerges from the darkness, gripping the window frame and shutting it firmly.

Ice spreads through my veins. My breath catches, my pulse skittering wildly as I freeze in place.

There’s someone behind me.

The air feels too thin, my body locked in place as I force myself to turn around.

Mikhail towers over me, his presence a wall of dominance, his broad frame covering each side of me like a trap I never saw closing. His dark eyes gleam with something unreadable, something cold, something cruel.

“You really thought you could get away, Julie?”

His voice is low, almost teasing, but there’s something dangerous lurking beneath it. It sends a shiver down my spine, not just from fear, but from the realization that he wanted this to happen. He was watching me, letting me believe for a fleeting moment that I had a chance—only to snatch it away.

The game was never about escape. It was about control.

I press my back against the window, my pulse hammering in my throat. He steps closer, each movement deliberate, drowning out the space between us.

“You don’t understand,” I whisper, my voice shaky but firm. “I’m not Sophia. I don’t belong in this mess. I didn’t do anything to you.”

Mikhail sneers, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. “Is that what you keep telling yourself?”

“I—”

“Your family played a role in my uncle’s death. Do you think your innocence means anything to me?”

His words slice through me, sharp and unyielding. My breath catches, anger flaring beneath the fear twisting in my gut.

“I didn’t know anything about it,” I snap, forcing my voice to hold steady. “I was never part of their world. You—you kidnapped me, shot me, and you’re keeping me here like some kind of—”

I don’t get to finish.

Mikhail moves fast. Too fast.

His hand wraps around my throat again, pressing just enough to silence me, to make my body tense in panic. His grip isn’t tight enough to choke, but it reminds me—he could if he wanted to.

“You don’t dictate the rules here,” he murmurs, his face inches from mine. “I do.”

My fingers fly to his wrist, gripping hard, trying to pry him off, but he doesn’t budge. My pulse thrums wildly beneath his palm, my chest rising and falling with each shaky breath.

“You don’t want to test me,” he continues, his voice calm, controlled, deadly. “Because I promise you, Julie, whatever fear you’re feeling now? I can make it so much worse.”

A tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t sob. I refuse to give him the satisfaction. My body betrays me—the slight tremble in my fingers, the way my knees weaken beneath me.

Mikhail watches, taking it all in. Then, he lets go.

I gasp for air, stumbling slightly against the window, my entire body shaking.

“Go back,” he says, his voice hollow. “Walk yourself into that cold little room you came from.”

I hesitate, my pride screaming against it. Then I see the way he’s watching me—waiting.

So I do the only thing I can do. I walk.

The walk back to the room is silent.

I move first, my steps slow, reluctant, but I move. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that if I hesitate, if I resist, he’ll remind me just how little control I have here.

Mikhail follows, close enough that I can feel him behind me, a presence that dominates the space, pressing against my senses. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t force me forward, but the weight of him is enough.

I can feel the heat of his body at my back, the way his movements are measured, unhurried—in control.

The hallway is dim, and with every step, the floorboards groan softly beneath my bare feet. I refuse to turn my head all the way, refuse to look at him, but from the corner of my eye, I see him.

Tall. So much taller than me. Broad shoulders that fill the space like a shadow I can’t outrun. The black shirt he wears fits him perfectly, stretched over his chest, tucked neatly into dark slacks. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, exposing the intricate tattoos that snake across his skin, inked lines of history, violence, power.

I swallow hard.

I should be disgusted. He kidnapped me. He shot me. He’s playing some sick, twisted game, and I don’t even know the rules yet.

Except my body—my traitorous, stupid body—reacts differently.

The closeness, the heat of him—it does something. It coils something deep in my stomach, a slow, simmering tension I hate.

I hate that he’s beautiful. I hate that, despite my fear, there’s a tiny part of me that notices him, that wonders how someone so cruel can look so good. I hate that my body responds before my mind can remind me that this man is my captor.

I take a sharp breath, forcing myself to focus, forcing myself to ignore the way my skin prickles with awareness.

We reach the room. The moment I step inside, I feel the shift—the inevitable crash back into reality. The cold emptiness, the reminder that this space isn’t mine. That nothing is.

I turn, just as he moves to shut the door.

The words slip out before I can stop them. “What are you going to do to me?”

Mikhail pauses. His fingers rest against the doorframe, his head tilting slightly, as if considering the question.

Then, slow and deliberate, he grins. The expression is lazy, knowing—dangerous.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The sound of the door clicking shut is deafening.

I stare at it, my breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. The air in the room feels heavier now, as if the walls have closed in around me, suffocating me with the weight of my reality.

He locked it. I knew he would, but that doesn’t stop the rush of desperation that floods through me.

I lurch forward, grasping the handle and twisting hard. It doesn’t budge. I yank at it again, pressing my weight against the door, shaking it, hoping, praying—but it doesn’t move.

Of course not.

Mikhail is smarter than that. He won’t make the same mistake twice.

A strangled sound escapes my throat, frustration, fear—hopelessness. “Let me out,” I whisper, then louder, “Please, let me out!”

Nothing.

I slam my palm against the door, my wounded arm screaming in protest, but I don’t care.

“What are you going to do to me?” My voice cracks. “At least tell me that!”

There’s no response. No footsteps. Nothing.

My hands tremble as I step back, my chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The silence is worse than if he’d stayed to mock me, to toy with me, to tell me all the terrible things he has planned.

This? This is a different kind of power. He doesn’t need to answer. He knows my own mind will do the job for him.

I press my back against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor, my arms wrapping around my knees as I try to slow my breathing. I can’t be here, can’t be trapped like this. My body shakes as the reality sinks in deeper. Does my father even know I’m gone?

Does anyone? Sophia, Elise—would they even be looking for me? Would they care?

A lump forms in my throat, bitter and suffocating. My father barely looked at me before I left for the party that night. Sophia dismissed me the second she had bigger things to worry about. Elise—she’d notice, wouldn’t she? She’d see that I didn’t call, didn’t text, that I disappeared without a word.

What could she do?

Mikhail Sharov isn’t some common criminal. He’s a kingpin, a man who operates in the shadows with the kind of power that makes people disappear permanently.

No police. No authorities. No one is coming to save me. The thought is like ice in my veins, numbing me from the inside out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against my knees as a tear slips down my cheek. I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to know what he means when he says I’ll find out soon.

***

I must have fallen asleep.

It’s the only explanation for how time passed, how the sheer exhaustion finally drowned out my panic and forced me into restless, uneasy dreams.

The sharp creak of the door jolts me awake.

I bolt upright, gasping as pain shoots through my arm. The movement is too fast, too sudden, and the reminder of my injury slams into me like a fresh wound reopening.

For a second, my mind screams at me to run. To fight. To do something. Then I see him.

Not Mikhail, the man who steps inside is different. Older.

Neatly dressed, carrying a worn medical bag in one hand. His expression is neutral, unreadable, the kind of practiced indifference that tells me this isn’t the first time he’s treated an injury like mine.

Mikhail stands just outside the door. Watching, waiting.

I can feel him there without having to look. His presence fills the space, even from the hallway, thick and oppressive.

I swallow hard, my throat dry, my heart pounding as the doctor walks toward me.

“Let’s get this taken care of,” he says simply, his voice calm, detached. He doesn’t ask how I got hurt. He doesn’t offer reassurance.

Because he already knows.

I don’t move as he sets his bag down, methodically pulling out supplies—gauze, antiseptic, a needle and thread. The sight of it makes my stomach twist violently.

“I need you to stay still,” he says as he unravels the bandage on my arm.

The fabric peels away, sticky with blood. I can’t help the sharp hiss that escapes my lips as air rushes over the exposed wound.

It looks worse than I imagined.

Angry, bloody. A deep, raw line of flesh that screams in protest the second it’s touched.

I turn my head sharply, looking at the opposite wall. I can’t see this. I won’t see this.

“Don’t look if it makes you sick,” the doctor says, his voice matter-of-fact. “You’ll feel it either way.”

I already do. The first touch of antiseptic stings so badly I nearly jerk away, a strangled whimper catching in my throat.

“Stay still,” he warns.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I breathe through the pain.

And then—the needle. I feel the first puncture before I can prepare for it. A sharp, burning pull as the thread slides through my skin. My nails dig into the mattress beneath me, my entire body stiff as I try to suppress the nausea rising in my throat.

It hurts. God, it hurts. It feels like it takes forever, every second stretching endlessly. The doctor works quickly, efficiently, but it doesn’t matter—I feel every stitch pulling me back together.

When he finally leans back, I’m shaking.

“It’s done,” he says, his voice still impassive. He wraps fresh gauze around my arm, securing it tightly. “Keep it clean. Don’t disturb the stitches. They’ll dissolve on their own in a few weeks.”

I exhale shakily, nodding once, though I don’t know if I can even process what he’s saying.

He gathers his supplies, his job finished, and without another word, he steps toward the door.

Mikhail is still there, still watching. His eyes are unreadable as the doctor slips past him, exiting without a glance back.

I meet Mikhail’s gaze, searching for something—anything—that might tell me what’s coming next.

He simply locks the door, and leaves me alone.