A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek to drip off my chin. Then another. Then I was crying silently, shoulders shaking, trying so hard not to move because I couldn't bear the thought of him adding more time. Crying because I was standing in a corner like a naughty child. Crying because it was working.
"Almost done," he said at the six-minute mark, and there was something in his voice that might have been gentleness. Or pity. I couldn't tell which was worse.
When he finally said "Done" at seven minutes exactly, I couldn't move. Couldn't turn around and face him with tears streaming down my face, with the knowledge that his kindergarten punishment had broken me more effectively than any beating could have.
"Eva." His voice was closer now, maybe a few feet behind me. "You may leave the corner."
I turned slowly, keeping my eyes down, not wanting him to see the tears. But he probably already knew.
"Rule one," he said simply. "You don't leave without my permission. Not because I own you, but because there are five hundred thousand dollars on your head, And the people who want to collect that will do things that make corner time look like a vacation."
I wanted to argue, wanted to scream that I'd rather take my chances with the Morozovs than stand in another corner. But the truth was uglier—I wasn't sure anymore.
"I need to give Bear his medicine," I said instead, voice rough from crying.
He nodded, stepped aside. No comment on the tears, no mockery, no satisfaction. Just acknowledgment that I'd served my time and could now return to caring for the puppy.
I went to Bear, who lifted his head sleepily, tail attempting a weak wag. The medical supplies were laid out precisely—syringes, pills, the Russian instructions I couldn't read. But I knew what to do now. Dmitry had taught me, patient and thorough, making sure I understood each step.
"Yankov will be back tomorrow," Dmitry said from somewhere behind me. "He wants to check your wounds too."
"I'm fine."
"You have an infected cut, malnutrition, and what he thinks might be a lung infection. You're not fine."
The fact that he knew this, that he'd cataloged me like evidence, should have enraged me. Instead, I just felt tired. So fucking tired of fighting, of running, of pretending I could survive on my own when my body was literally falling apart.
"Why do you care?" The question escaped before I could stop it, surprising us both.
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. I focused on drawing medicine into the syringe, finding the right spot on Bear's scruff, delivering the injection that would keep him healing. The puppy barely flinched, already trusting me completely.
"I don't know," Dmitry said finally, and the honesty in it was somehow scarier than any lie would have been.
Chapter 6
Dmitry
SevendaysofcatalogingEva's rebellion had turned me into something I didn't recognize—a man who watched security footage of my own property like other people watched Netflix.
The kitchen destruction count stood at two, though she'd gotten creative with flour the second time, turning my imported marble counters into what looked like a cocaine processing facility after a DEA raid. Twelve escape attempts in total, each more inventive than the last, each teaching me something new about how her mind worked.
And yes—that’s almost two a day. I didn’t get the feeling that she really wanted to escape, it was more like she just wanted to let me know she was angry with me.
The biting incidents had dropped to three, and the last one barely broke skin. She was learning my patterns the way I'd learned hers, timing her attempts for when I was on calls with suppliers, in the shower, pretending to sleep.
Today's footage showed her latest innovation. She'd managed to partially disassemble the bathroom window frame with a butter knife she'd hidden—not stolen, hidden, because she'd asked properly for it at breakfast three days ago and I'd forgotten to count it back into the drawer. The girl had played a long game, waiting seventy-two hours to use a utensil she'd acquired legitimately.
I rewound the footage, watching her work. She'd wrapped toilet paper around the handle for better grip, used my expensive face cream as lubricant for the screws. The whole operation took forty-three minutes of patient, methodical work while I was on a call with our concrete supplier about a shipment delay. She'd almost gotten the entire frame loose before the knife slipped, cutting her palm. Not deep, but enough to bleed.
The fascinating part was what happened next. She'd cleaned up the blood with the efficiency of someone who'd hidden injuries before. Reassembled the frame well enough that a casual glance wouldn't notice. Returned the knife to the kitchen, washed it, put it back in the drawer. Then she'd bandaged her hand and sat on the couch with Bear like nothing had happened, reading one of my books when I finished my call.
She thought she was being clever.Shewas being clever. But every camera angle was covered, every room monitored. I'd watched her clean that cut, saw how she'd checked to make sure the bandage wouldn't show under her sleeve—my sleeve, technically, since she'd taken to wearing my clothes.
That was another development worth cataloging. She'd claimed all her clothes were dirty, which was bullshit since I'd bought her a week's worth of everything. But she wore my t-shirts to sleep, my henley when she made breakfast, even found a pair of my track pants that she'd rolled up four times at the ankles. She looked ridiculous and somehow perfect, drowning in fabric.
The weight gain was subtle but noticeable. Maybe five pounds, enough that her cheekbones didn't look like they could cut glass anymore. The shadows under those impossible eyes were fading from purple to faint blue. Her hair was longer now that it was clean and cared for, falling past her shoulders in waves she kept trying to contain with elastic bands she'd found in my bathroom drawer.
I switched cameras to the current feed. She was in the living room with Bear, who'd recovered remarkably well. The puppy followed her everywhere, his loyalty absolute and unquestioning. She'd taught him commands in some made-up language only they understood.
