The venom in her voice would curdle lesser men. I let it wash over me, every syllable another proof that I haven’t broken her. I smile. It’s a real, unhurried smile that only deepens the flush in her neck and the tension in her jaw.
“You enjoy this,” she hisses, the words shaking, brittle with loathing.
“Immensely,” I answer, letting the truth rest between us. There’s no sense pretending otherwise. She glares, hands twisted in her skirt, every knuckle white with fury. It would be so easy to snap that fire, to show her how helpless she truly is.
I resist the urge. I want her like this: alive, bristling, every ounce of will aimed at me. There is no finer beauty than defiance that refuses to die.
She stiffens whenever I draw near, shoulders squared and back ramrod straight. I lean closer, not touching, only letting my presence crowd the space until she has no choice but to feel me. The catch of her breath, the minute tremor in her arms—these are the small victories I claim.
She tries to hide it, tries to layer sarcasm and contempt atop the fear, but I see everything. I see how her eyes never quite leave mine, how she tracks every movement as if anticipating a blow I will not deliver.
There is a rare satisfaction in this stalemate. Her resistance is a living thing, a challenge I accept each time she bares her teeth. She could scream. She could beg. Instead, she fights with words and glares, never silence. That matters more than she knows.
***
Days later, the candles guttering low, I let her think herself alone. She retreats to the small chamber I’ve given her, slamming the door in a way that tells me she wishes it were my face. I linger in the shadows of the hallway. I can just imagine how, in private, the mask slips: her mouth softens, anger giving way to something rawer—doubt, perhaps, or grief.
I memorize it. The image will haunt me. The sight of her vulnerable, alone in the room I’ve made into her cage, stirs something dangerous and unfamiliar. Affection has no place here. I remind myself of that, even as I ache to cross the distance and ease the trembling in her hands.
I give her time. Minutes, maybe more. When I re-enter, she doesn’t hear me at first. She’s at the window, staring out at darkness, unaware of my approach. I clear my throat, and she stiffens, spine straight, defenses sliding back into place. Her head snaps around, eyes blazing.
“What do you want now?” she demands.
I step forward, slow, careful not to touch her. “You left your glass on the table,” I say, voice deceptively gentle. “Were you hoping to poison me?”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty—did I notice something she didn’t? “If I was, I’d make sure it worked.”
I almost laugh. “Your honesty is refreshing.”
She lifts her chin. “I have nothing else left.”
For a moment, we hover there, two adversaries locked in the hush of midnight, neither willing to retreat. The city’s lights spill through the window, painting shifting gold across the carpet and her face.
She’s beautiful, I realize, not despite her rage but because of it. I want to touch her, to see if her skin would burn beneath my hand, but I hold myself back.
Instead, I whisper her name. Just once, low and private, for no one but her. The sound pulls a gasp from her, so soft I almost miss it.
She turns away, fighting the tremble in her breath. For a heartbeat, I am undone by it. A dangerous tenderness coils in my chest, an urge to claim and protect her that I barely recognize.
I leave before I act on it. The game is not finished. She is not ready to yield, and I am not ready to stop savoring the battle.
Before I close her door behind me, I glance back. She’s still staring out at the city, shoulders rigid, but I know the moment will return to her later—when the silence is thick, when she’s counting every breath in the dark. I hope she remembers the way I said her name, the way I lingered a little too long. I hope it haunts her as much as her defiance haunts me.
Down the hall, I sit alone in the deep armchair, thinking of every exchange, every spark. Control is a careful art. She is learning this too: it isn’t always about pain or terror. Sometimes it’s in the promise of gentleness, withheld and then offered, that true obedience is born.
I want her will bent, not broken; I want her spirit fierce, but turned toward me. Breaking her would be a small victory, the work of a night. Taming her—making her want to yield, making her need the safety of my hand—that is the conquest worth drawing out.
Tomorrow, I will test her again. A new question, a new choice. Every refusal is another invitation to the dance. Every moment she resists is another proof of how close I am to winning.
Chapter Eleven - Seraphina
The nights stretch long and heavy, but they’re never truly silent. Even when Miron leaves me alone in my room, I hear the low hum of machinery, the shudder of distant doors, footsteps moving with purpose on the floorboards above.
Sometimes I press my ear to the wall, straining for voices. Most of what I hear is just the pulse of his world—ceaseless, mechanical, utterly controlled.
I’ve started noticing details beyond the bars of my invisible cage. My room isn’t far from his office: I discovered that the second day, listening as he paced and muttered, the door left ajar just wide enough for slivers of lamplight and the blurred syllables of Russian and English.
Every so often, I’d catch a flicker of screens through the crack—more than I could count, each one showing a different piece of the world outside.
