Night in this house is a different beast: quiet, dangerous, alive with the possibility of escape. I lie awake for hours, plotting in the blue glow of the moon, watching the shadows shift across my walls. The guards are most alert just before dawn, their footsteps steady and routines predictable.
After dinner, when the house is still humming with activity—when the twins are in bed, the staff cleaning up, Miron in his office or gone on business—that’s when the house’s rhythms falter. That’s when I plan to run.
Tonight, I wait until the corridors are nearly empty. My heart pounds so loud I worry it’ll give me away. I slip out of my room, shoes in hand, toes silent against the old wood floors. I move past the kitchen, the scent of bread lingering, and turn toward the side exit—a narrow door near the laundry, rarely used except by staff. I’ve timed the cameras, mapped their arc in my mind, counting the seconds I have between sweeps.
The first door yields with a gentle push. I slip through, pulse racing. My hands shake, but I force them still, focusing only on what’s ahead. Down the back stairs, past storage rooms, the shadows growing thicker, the hallway quieter with every step. I can smell freedom—the cold bite of night air, the faint tang of rain through the cracked window above the exit.
I almost laugh with relief. I can see the door, the battered push bar, a single security light flickering overhead. The rush of anticipation—hope, terror—fills my lungs so completely I feel almost lightheaded.
Then arms grab me from behind, hard and sudden, wrenching me backward so violently my shoes drop with a clatter. I twist, kicking, clawing at rough hands that close over my arms, pinning them tight to my sides. The hallway echoes with my protest, sharp and useless. A palm covers my mouth, stifling the words before they can become a scream.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a voice grunts in my ear, familiar, bored, the same as all his men. He drags me away from the door, steps heavy, not gentle.
I fight with everything I have. The blade I’d tucked into my sleeve falls to the floor, useless. My elbow lands against a rib, and it’s hard enough to make him grunt, but not enough to break free.
Another guard appears, rougher, grabbing my legs when I kick. I’m hoisted off my feet, half carried, half dragged, my heart pounding with panic and rage.
“Let me go!” I shout, the sound muffled by the thick hand on my face. “I swear to God, I’ll—”
They laugh. The sound is cruel, cold. “Not tonight, little one.”
I know, without seeing him, that Miron is watching. Somewhere, his eyes are on every screen, catching every flailing motion, every desperate glance I throw toward the nearest exit. He’s there in the smirk I can feel prickling on the backs of their necks, in the way they treat this like a sport, a simple, stupid game. It makes my blood burn—fury, humiliation, and, most shameful of all, anticipation.
What will he do next? How will he punish me this time?
They drag me back up the stairs, ignoring my curses, ignoring the way I twist and fight and threaten. The entire house is silent except for the rough scuffle of our bodies, the dull thud of my heels on the steps.
I imagine every security camera catching my struggle, every angle relayed back to him: Miron in his office, feet up, watching with that lazy, calculating smile.
They shove me into a room—my own, of course—slamming the door so hard the window rattles. The older guard leans in, breath sour.
“You don’t listen, you make things worse. He won’t be happy.”
“I don’t care,” I spit, but my voice wavers.
He grins, eyes cold. “He’ll care. You’ll see.”
The door slams, the lock clicks, and I’m left in the silence, lungs burning, body shaking with adrenaline and defeat. I slide to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, palms raw from the fight. Tears prick my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I hate this. I hate him. I hate myself most of all for the sliver of satisfaction I feel at the thought that Miron is watching, that he’ll know I’m not done fighting.
A screen flickers across the room: another camera, another pair of eyes. I glare at it, wishing I could smash everylens in the house. I can almost feel Miron’s gaze on me, the heat of it, the slow curl of his amusement.
He wants me angry, wants me wild, wants me to challenge his control so he can reassert it. The knowledge makes me burn—hatred twining with something far more dangerous, a hunger to see what he’ll do, what line he’ll force me to cross next.
I pace the room, rage fizzing under my skin, fingers itching for a weapon. My mind runs circles around itself, plotting and re-plotting escapes, ways to turn the game against him.
Every plan feels more impossible than the last. Still, I can’t help but savor the idea that he saw it all, that for a few breathless moments, I was a threat however small, however easily overcome.
My cheeks are flushed, heart pounding, skin electric with adrenaline and dread. I wonder if he’ll come to me tonight, or wait, letting the tension stretch until I’m desperate for any kind of confrontation. I brace myself, ready for his fury, ready for the next round.
Chapter Sixteen - Miron
The traitor is already on his knees when I enter. Two of my guards hold him by the arms, forcing him to look up as the heavy door slams shut behind us.
The air in the room is close—gunpowder, sweat, and the faint trace of iron from the tools laid out on the table. Overhead, a single bulb flickers, making shadows lurch across the walls.
I don’t speak at first. I simply look.
He’s younger than I remember—pale, shaking, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and fear. Blood trickles from his mouth, staining the collar of his shirt. His eyes skitter away from mine, but the guards jerk him upright, forcing him to meet my gaze.
