“Then what?”
“For you to see clearly.”
“I see clearly.”
“Not yet.”
My temper flared again.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Probably.”
I shook my head and moved back inside, but I felt his gaze follow me, burning holes at the back of my head. I went into the guest bedroom to sleep away from him, but that night, I ended up dreaming of the masquerade. Of masks and dim lights and the way his hand had felt at my waist. When I woke up after a fitful sleep, he was already up, making me wonder if he had even slept at all. I could hear him moving outside while I lay there staring at the ceiling, my heart betraying me in quiet ways.
I hated him and what he’d done. I hated the arrogance and the control he embodied and the way he believed he knew best. But beneath all of it, something softer pulsed stubbornly as I was reminded how he had not forced himself on me even once. He had not shouted, nor had he humiliated me. He had not tried to break me; instead, he was giving me space. He let me rage and be mean with him while he silently endured it.
And the romantic, foolish part of me, the one that believed in intensity and inevitability, kept whispering that he had chosen me.Not as leverage. Not as bait. But as his wife instead. I pushed that thought away every time it surfaced because I knew choice without consent was still coercion, and desire without permission was still violation.
And yet when he walked into a room, my pulse still shifted. When his voice dropped lower in conversation, heat still curled low in my stomach. When he stood too close, I still remembered exactly how it felt to be kissed by him. Anya caught me watching him from across the room, and she smiled faintly.
“Be careful,” she murmured.
“Of what?”
“Of your own heart.”
I stiffened at her observation.
“I don’t—”
“You do,” she said gently, cutting me off.
I turned away before she could see the truth in my expression, because despite everything, despite the cage, the war, and the anger, something inside me was no longer purely defiant. It was, in fact, conflicted and that terrified me more than captivity ever could.
I still knew my brothers would come. They had to.
But as the days stretched on, a new fear began to whisper beneath the surface. What if, when the door finally opened, I didn’t want to leave as much as I should?
Chapter 12 - Fyodor
“Lock it down.”
The command was quietly given because it didn’t need to be any louder than that. Viktor Petrov nodded once from across the conference table. Former Spetsnaz. Head of internal security. He understood economy, in words, in violence, and especially in mistakes.
“To what degree?” he asked.
“Full perimeter sweep every six hours. Rotate exterior teams irregularly. No patterns.”
Mikhail Orlov, who handled surveillance and digital intelligence, tapped a tablet and projected feeds onto the wall screen. I watched as dots moved across a city grid.
“Chernykh assets increased movement in Brickell and the Port,” he said. “Two black SUVs tailed our supply route yesterday. I think they are onto us and will go to any lengths to find out more.”
“They were allowed to go after us,” I replied.
Viktor’s gaze sharpened slightly. “So you wanted them to see?”
“Yes.”
