Sleep is no escape. The moment I close my eyes, I fall into dreams where Miron’s touch lingers like a brand—his breath hot against my throat, his hands rough on my skin, the impossible heat of his body caging mine. I dream of the dark, of the wall pressed hard against my spine, his mouth skimming my jaw, his voice—a velvet snarl—whispering threats and promises in equal measure. I thrash awake, tangled in blankets, sweat slick down my back.
For a moment, it’s impossible to breathe. I stare into the darkness, heart pounding, his name a curse and a plea burningmy lips. Shame scorches me more than the terror, more than the anger, shame that some part of me—traitorous, unbidden—aches for more. I press the heel of my palm to my mouth, willing the feeling away, desperate to smother it before it takes root.
By daylight, I force myself to remember who I am. I cling to every shard of determination. I am not his. I will not let him unravel me. The house is a maze of threats, but I wake with resolve thick in my blood. Today, I tell myself, I will find a way out.
I pace my room in circles, gaze flicking from window to door. My mind maps the exits, the blind spots in the camera angles I’ve memorized during stolen glances at his screens. Every plan is desperate, but not impossible. Maybe if I wait until the guards change shifts. Maybe if I slip through the servants’ stairs during the midday rush. I keep my dagger tucked under the pillow, feeling for its weight as a comfort, a promise.
I dress quickly, braiding my hair back, choosing quiet colors, blending in. If I look like a ghost, maybe I’ll move like one. I slide the dagger into my sleeve, the hilt cool against my palm, and crack the door, listening.
The hallway is quiet. Sunlight slants through a high window, gilding the dust in the air. I count to ten, heart hammering, then slip out. My feet barely make a sound on the runner, every step calculated. The front door is visible at the far end, a gleam of brass and glass. I keep to the wall, shoulders tight, glancing at every corner, every open door.
Before I make it ten steps, a man in black rounds the corner, arms folded, eyes flat and impassive. He blocks the way without a word, just a tilt of his head that says,“Don’t try it.”
I freeze, dagger hidden in my sleeve, breath caught. I try to slip past, but he steps into my path, impassive as stone.
“Back to your room, Miss,” he says, voice clipped, accent thick.
“I just needed some air,” I reply, letting my tone waver with false innocence.
He doesn’t budge. “The boss’s orders.”
The words settle like a shackle.Master. I want to scream. I want to drive the blade into something, anything, just to feel the world change under my hand. Instead, I nod, fighting to keep my face blank. I turn, slow and measured, each step away from the door a fresh humiliation.
I hear the faint buzz of a radio, the low murmur of men outside. No matter where I go, I feel the house watching me: cameras tucked into corners, eyes behind every curtain. I slip past the living room, the sun streaming in, the twins’ laughter from somewhere distant. I don’t want them to see me like this—trapped, desperate, already defeated.
My resolve starts to crack. I try the servants’ corridor next, moving quietly as the maids bustle with trays and linens. I wait until their backs are turned, then dart forward, only to be stopped by another guard—this one younger, bored, but no less unyielding. “Back to your room, Miss,” he echoes, as if the phrase is all the English he’s learned.
I want to shout. I want to throw something, to force them to see me as a threat, not just a guest under house arrest. I think of Miron’s mouth on mine, the way he left me trembling, and my face burns with a mix of fury and humiliation. Did he set this up? Is this just another part of his game—to let me try, to watch me fail, to remind me that nothing I do is unseen?
When I finally retreat to my room, I slam the door so hard the frame shudders. I lean against it, fighting tears, fighting the urge to collapse. The walls feel closer, the air heavier. I wantto destroy something, to rip out every camera, to tear the place apart with my bare hands.
Instead, I drop to my knees by the bed, fingers trembling as I draw the dagger free from my sleeve. I stare at the blade, at the shaky reflection of my own eyes. I am not powerless, I tell myself. Not yet.
As I press the tip into the palm of my hand, feeling the sharp sting, I know the truth. No weapon is enough when the world itself is a prison.
I force myself to think—really think. If I can’t fight my way out, I’ll have to outsmart him. I replay every encounter, every scrap of information I’ve stolen from his office. I remember the codes, the names, the shifting patterns of his men. There has to be a weakness. No fortress is perfect. Maybe, if I watch, if I wait, if I bide my time, I’ll find a way through the cracks.
But the day wears on. Every time I venture into the hall, every time I reach for an exit, the house tightens its grip. Men appear from nowhere. Doors lock. The maze shifts, closing around me.
Late in the afternoon, I hear footsteps outside my room. Heavy, unhurried. The door opens, and for a moment I expect a guard—a command to stay, a new threat. Instead, Miron steps inside. His gaze finds mine instantly, searching, measuring, the air between us taut with everything unsaid.
I rise, blade hidden behind my back, resolve flaring up one last time. I can’t show weakness, not now.
He studies me in silence, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. For a moment, I wonder if he sees it—how close I am to breaking, how hard I’m holding myself together. I lift my chin, daring him to make the next move.
If I can’t run, I’ll fight. If I can’t fight, I’ll survive—whatever it takes. He hasn’t won. Not yet.
“What are you doing?” he asks finally.
I’m shaking. I can feel the blade wobble in my hand. “Nothing,” I say finally, and I can only pray he doesn’t know what I almost did.
He studies me a second longer. Then, with a shrug, turns and leaves. So unconcerned. Either he had no idea or he did, and I’m simply not even a threat.
The sun sets behind him, shadows stretching long across the floor, and I promise myself: Tomorrow, I’ll try again. One day, the cage will crack.
***
I try again on Sunday.
