I try to stretch, try to shift the pressure, but all that earns me is a fresh wave of fire down both arms. The metal frame of the chair digs into my spine. My jaw aches from clenching, refusing to let so much as a whimper slip.
His men stand guard, silhouettes looming at the edges, silent and impassive as statues. Their presence is another lock on the door.
My thoughts scatter and recombine, looping through every mistake, every chance I had to run, every sign I ignored. I can’t keep track of time. The room is windowless, lit by an overhead bulb that never flickers. Maybe it’s been hours, maybe days. My head swims with exhaustion and the sick knowledge that no one’s coming for me.
Somewhere in the blur, I realize I’m quiet. Not from defeat, but because the pain is all-consuming, more than I can outshout. I bite my tongue to keep from begging. I focus on the heat of my wrists, the pins and needles crawling up my fingers.
Miron watches. I feel his gaze slide over me, as heavy as the ropes.
At first, I don’t even notice he’s moved until I hear the scrape of a chair. He stands, smooth as a shadow, and crosses to my side. I expect gloating or mockery, but his expression is unreadable: cool, calculating. He crouches beside me, hands reaching for the knots at my wrists.
I flinch. Reflex. I can’t help it. He ignores the reaction, eyes never leaving my face as he works the knots loose. His fingers are deft, careful. The rope falls away, and for a split second, relief is sharp enough to make me gasp. The skin beneath is angry and red, flesh swollen and ridged where the fibers pressed too deep.
Miron’s hand hovers at my wrist for just a moment—gentle, not soft. His grip is clinical, the same way a doctor might examine a wound before stitching it closed. I brace myself for some fresh humiliation, but his voice is steady, low, as he speaks.
“Test me again, and I’ll put them back tighter.”
The warning cuts through the fog in my head, slicing straight to the bone. His tone brooks no argument, no bravado or defiance. Something about it—the certainty, the unshakable command—locks my tongue. I want to spit something back, some sharp little victory to remind him I’m not beaten. The words won’t come.
My hands are free, but it doesn’t feel like freedom. I sit, staring at my wrists, flexing fingers that barely want to move. Tremors run through me, small but undeniable. I try to hide them, crossing my arms over my chest as if that could mask my fear. The rope burns sting, but it’s the look in Miron’s eyes that really undoes me. He knows. He sees every vulnerability, every weakness, every ragged breath.
I pull my legs up, curling them beneath me on the chair, shrinking as small as I can. My chest heaves, once, then again. I stare at the floor, jaw set, hating how my body betrays me. He kneels in front of me, still watching, still silent. I wait for him to gloat, to lecture me about loyalty, obedience, all the things he thinks I owe him now.
Instead, he just says, “Drink.”
He gestures, and one of his men brings a glass of water. My throat is so dry it hurts. I grab the cup with clumsy fingers, careful to avoid contact. Water spills down my chin as I gulp, but I force myself to swallow it all. I won’t let him see how grateful I am. That would be another defeat.
When I finally set the glass down, Miron sits on the edge of the table, arms folded, still blocking my view of the door. His expression is different now—satisfied, maybe, or just assessing how much fight is left in me.
My voice comes out ragged, barely more than a whisper. “What now? You want a confession, maybe an apology?”
He shakes his head, as if amused by the very idea. “You’re not here for punishment, Sera. You’re here because you matter. You’ve proven your worth. I want you to use that mind—the one that nearly brought my house down. Work for me, and you’ll have comfort, freedom, maybe even respect.”
I look at him, anger flickering back to life. “You want a traitor. Someone who’ll do your dirty work. I’m not that desperate.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, looming above me. “You’ll become what I need, one way or another. Pain and isolation break people. You’ll learn.”
I hug my arms tighter, fear snaking through the anger. The truth is as clear as the ropes’ marks on my skin. He’s not just the man who hunted me. He owns me now, piece by piece, and I have nothing left to bargain with except my pride.
I force myself to meet his gaze, holding on to the one thing I have left. “I’d rather die fighting than live as your puppet.”
He almost smiles. “We’ll see, little raven.”
His hand reaches out—gentle as before—to tilt my chin. His thumb brushes my jaw, just a touch, but it leaves a trail of heat and dread. He stands, signaling his men, and they melt away, leaving us alone.
I sit in the silence, pulse skittering, rubbing my wrists in a futile attempt to erase the evidence of what he’s done. Each markis a reminder: no matter how clever, how stubborn, how defiant I am, I’m his prisoner now.
There’s no easy escape from a cage this carefully built.
Chapter Ten - Miron
The knife glides through roast duck, skin crisp, juices pooling as I portion the flesh with practiced ease. I take my time. Power lives in patience.
Sera sits across from me, wrists bare now, but I’ve seen the marks that still circle her skin. She won’t forget them soon, nor the message they carry. I have no need to raise my voice; her silence is worth more than a hundred shouts.
She watches every movement, eyes sharp, hands curled in her lap. Her posture screams defiance even as she sits perfectly still. The hunger in her gaze is not for food, but for an opening, some hole in my armor she might exploit. I almost smile. If she thinks I’m careless enough to provide one, she underestimates me.
The table is set with fine china, silver polished to a knife’s gleam, candles burning low and steady. Shadows play along the walls. I carve another piece, balancing it on the fork, and hold it out.
