My mind flashes back—the masked ball, the feel of his hand at my waist, the scent of smoke and vetiver, the steady ice-blue eyes. All this time, the shadow in my world was a man I’d already met.
He takes a step forward, unhurried. “Do you understand what’s happening now, Sera?”
My throat is too tight for words. I nod once, the gesture small and stiff.
He studies me, almost curious. “You must have known, on some level. You’re too smart for ignorance.”
I try to keep my voice steady. “What do you want from me?”
Miron smiles, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the question. “That’s what I like about you. You always want the answer, even when you’re terrified.” His gaze is merciless, pinning me in place. “I want your loyalty, Seraphina. I want your silence. The files you found? Those are mine. So is your next move.”
My skin prickles. I force myself not to look at the dagger, not to betray the flicker of hope I feel in its weight. “You can’t threaten me. I’ll go to the police. The FBI—”
He laughs, low and dry. “You think they can help you? The same men who called you, who told you to meet them tonight? That was me, Sera. My voice. My arrangement. You were never speaking to the Bureau.”
A crack runs through my resolve. The world tilts. “You’re lying.”
He shakes his head. “You know I’m not.” His expression softens, almost pitying. “You’re in this now. The only way out is through me.”
One of his men steps forward, crowding me. I realize, finally, how complete the trap is.
Miron watches my face, reading every tremor, every shudder of breath. “Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his. “We have a lot to discuss.”
I stand frozen for a heartbeat longer, then cross the room on unsteady legs, the dagger hidden and useless at my side. When I sit, he leans in, lowering his voice until it’s just for me. “From now on, you belong to me, Sera. And you’re going to prove you’re worth keeping alive.”
The room feels too small, the air too thin. Every exit is blocked. I stare at him, heart pounding, knowing that for the first time the predator in the shadows has stepped into my world completely.
I am trapped, and he knows it.
Chapter Eight - Miron
I watch her process it all: the shock, the realization, the flush of terror that sends a tremor through her body. Even now, she tries to mask it.
Her jaw clenches; her spine snaps straight. There’s pride in her, a refusal to let me see her fear, but I see everything. Every flicker of her eyes, every tremble in her fingers.
She moves before I can finish the thought, hand diving into her bag. For a moment, I let her believe she’s fast enough. The dagger glints. It’s small and sharp, trembling in her fist as she whirls and points it at Anton, who doesn’t so much as flinch. Her knuckles are white around the hilt. The sight is almost endearing.
“Stay back!” she snaps, voice shaking but pitched to wound.
I can’t help the smile. “Brave,” I murmur, gesturing to my men.
They don’t hesitate. Anton closes the distance in two strides, his hand snatching her wrist, twisting until the dagger clatters to the floor. The other catches her elbow, pinning her arms behind her.
She fights, wild and desperate, nails raking skin, teeth flashing. There’s fire in her—more than I’d hoped for. She spits curses, writhes against their grip, but two of my men outweigh her three times over.
Anton binds her wrists with practiced ease, thick rope biting into pale skin. She kicks at his shins, landing one sharp blow that draws a grunt of pain.
Her rage only amuses me. I sit back, crossing one leg over the other, fingers steepled beneath my chin as I watch her struggle.
“You poked into shadows, little raven,” I say softly, my tone almost indulgent. “Now you belong to me.”
She spits at my feet, her eyes narrow and burning. “Go to hell.”
“I’ve made myself quite at home there already,” I answer, voice cool.
She twists, arching against the ropes. For a split second, her shoulder slides free, and she wrenches from Anton’s grasp. The move is clumsy but determined. She bolts, lunging toward the door, her breaths ragged and fast.
I don’t move. My men are already in motion. The chase is brief: three strides and the taller of the two, Pavel, snatches her by the waist, hauling her back as she claws at the wall, nails catching on the paint. Her cry is wordless, part fury, part panic. The sound sends a pulse of pleasure through me. I admire her spirit even as I relish her helplessness.
