I moved casually at first, stretching like the meal had made me sleepy. Dmitry didn't turn around, just kept washing dishes with methodical precision. I drifted toward the living room, then angled toward the door, each step calculated to seem aimless.
The locks were even better up close. Medeco cylinders, pick-resistant but not pick-proof. The kind of locks that told you the owner knew about security but wasn't completely paranoid. I could work with this. My fingers traced the first lock, feeling for the basic structure, memorizing the shape.
The second lock was different—electronic, probably. Which meant there might be an override, a backup key somewhere. I pressed closer, trying to see the mechanism, my fingers working at the cylinder to test how much give it had.
"Going somewhere?"
His hand appeared above my head, palm flat against the door, and I hadn't even heard him move. No footsteps, no warning, just suddenly there like he'd materialized from shadow. Hisbody caged me without touching, heat radiating from him in a way that made my skin prickle.
"Anywhere but here," I said, still working at the lock because what did I have to lose?
"That's not how this works." His voice came from directly behind me, close enough that I felt his breath stir my hair. "Step back from the door."
"Make me."
"I could." His free hand came up to rest on the door near my other shoulder, completely boxing me in. "But I'd rather not. So here's your choice: corner time for attempted escape, or I break one of your fingers to make lock picking impossible. You decide."
I actually laughed. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of it—corner time, like I was five years old and had drawn on the walls with crayon.
"What are you, my kindergarten teacher?"
"You prefer the broken finger?" His tone stayed conversational, like he was offering tea preferences. "Pointer finger would be most effective. You'd still be able to function but lock picking would be off the table for at least six weeks."
The casual specificity of it chilled me. He'd thought about this, calculated exactly which injury would incapacitate without completely destroying. This wasn't a threat made in anger—it was a business decision he was letting me participate in.
"Corner time," I said, hating how small my voice sounded.
"Good choice." He stepped back, giving me space to move. "Living room, far corner by the window. Nose to the wall."
"You're seriously going to make me stand in a corner."
"Yes. Unless you'd prefer the finger. Offer's still available."
I walked to the corner he'd indicated, each step feeling like surrender. The walls met at a perfect ninety-degree angle, cream paint so clean I could see my reflection in the slight sheen. Therewas nothing here—no furniture to lean on, no window to look out despite being near one, just two walls meeting in an empty space.
"Nose to the wall," he repeated. "Don't move, don't turn around, don't speak. Five minutes."
"This is fucking ridiculous."
"Movement or speaking adds time. That's six minutes now."
I pressed my face to the wall, close enough that my breath bounced back warm against my skin.
Behind me, I heard him return to the kitchen. Water running again. The soft clink of dishes being put away. Then footsteps to another part of the apartment, the distinctive sound of a laptop opening, fingers on keys. He was working. Doing business while I stood with my nose to a wall like a punished child.
The humiliation of it burned hotter than any slap would have. At least violence would have let me be an adult, an enemy, someone worth the effort of physical confrontation. This—this was dismissal. I was a child throwing a tantrum, managed with the same bored efficiency as his spreadsheets.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
"That's movement," he called out, not even looking up from whatever he was doing. "Seven minutes now."
Seven minutes. It was nothing. I'd hidden in dumpsters for hours, had endured things that would make standing in a corner look like vacation. This shouldn't have bothered me.
But it did.
The position made me hyperaware of everything. The sound of my own breathing. The slight texture of the paint under my nose. The way my legs started to ache from standing perfectly still. The humiliation crawled over my skin like living things, making me want to claw at myself just to feel something else.
Four minutes in, my eyes started burning. Not from pain—there was no pain. That was the problem. This wasjust . . . consequence. Simple, logical, absolutely maddening consequence.
