Fury, regret, something that feels too much like longing. I want to hate him. I want to want nothing from him. Instead, I burn with a need that refuses to die, no matter how many times I curse his name.
The day passes in fragments. I barely eat, barely speak. The maids avoid my eyes when they come to change the linens.
No one mentions the door hanging crooked on its hinges, or the red marks scattered across my neck and wrists. I want to scream at them, to demand they see me, but my voice fails. I am raw, scraped thin, holding myself together with both hands.
Late in the afternoon, Pavel arrives. He is careful, knocking before entering, and his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“Miss Hale,” he says, clearing his throat, “the boss wishes you to accompany him this evening.”
I freeze. My heart thuds hard enough to shake my whole frame.Accompany him?To be seen, to stand at his side? After everything?
My first instinct is refusal. I want to tell Pavel to go to hell, to tell Miron he can drag me out by my hair if he wants a show. Instead, something darker twists through me—a sick, uncertain curiosity.
Why me?Why bring me into his world, parade me before strangers? The thought terrifies me. Worse, it tempts me. The idea of stepping into that spotlight—of being seen as his—fascinates and repels me all at once.
I mutter a half-hearted agreement, and Pavel leaves with a respectful nod. Alone again, I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time, heart pounding. I run my fingers over the bruises on my thigh, the scratch along my collarbone. Evidence, I think. Proof. I hate how a part of me wants to see his mark, to trace it, to relive what happened.
I shower, scrubbing hard, watching the steam swirl up to erase the mirror. I spend an eternity washing my hair, running soap over my arms, my breasts, my thighs, trying to erase the memory of his hands.
Nothing helps. When I wrap myself in a towel, my skin still tingles with memory.
The maids return, carrying a gown the color of winter violets; deep, lush, the fabric cool and smooth in my hands.
“Wear this,” one says, setting it on the bed with careful hands. “The boss chose it.”
I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Rage and humiliation burn through me, but I slip the dress on anyway. I hate myself for how it fits, and for how it makes me look beautiful, howthe neckline sweeps low enough to show off the bruises he left behind.
I stare in the mirror, face flushed, trying to see myself as I really am. Survivor. Victim. Lover. Prisoner. I don’t know which.
My hands shake as I do my makeup. I force myself to keep it simple. Nothing flashy, just enough to hide the circles beneath my eyes, the red from where I’ve bitten my lips raw. I brush my hair until it gleams, pinning it up with trembling fingers.
Twice I stop, closing my eyes, telling myself this is only for survival. Not for him. Not for the way his gaze finds me in every room, the way my pulse skitters when I think of him seeing me in this dress.
Still, I check my reflection one last time. I want to look like I don’t care. I want to look like I belong. I want… I don’t know what I want.
When I finally step out into the hall, every muscle in my body is tight with nerves. Miron waits near the staircase, dark suit sharp against his skin, a wolf among sheep. His gaze sweeps over me slowly, drinking in every detail. A dark grin tugs at his mouth—the kind that makes my stomach flip, makes my heart race with something like anger and something dangerously close to pleasure.
“You look beautiful,” he says, voice low, eyes never leaving mine. “I picked the dress myself.”
Heat rushes through me: rage and thrill, shame and pride. I want to spit in his face, to turn and run, but my feet stay rooted to the carpet. I can’t tear my gaze away from him. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since that night, and every nerve in my body sings with memory. I feel bare, exposed, unable to hide the way his words land. My throat is tight; I can barely breathe.
He holds out his arm, waiting. I hesitate, forcing myself to look away first. I steal one last look in the gilded mirror by the stairs—at the red slash of my mouth, the wildness in my eyes, the gown that fits like it was made for me alone.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back. For a moment, I think I might want to.
Miron offers his arm without a word, and for a moment I almost refuse. The memory of last night—his hands, his mouth, the way I gave in—buzzes in my nerves, a silent warning.
I can feel Pavel’s eyes on us, waiting at the end of the hall, the cool night just beyond the door. I force myself to take Miron’s arm, my fingers light on his sleeve, not trusting myself with any more pressure. His warmth seeps through the fabric. He leans down, mouth close to my ear.
“Smile,” he murmurs. “Tonight you’re mine, and everyone will know it.”
The words crawl over my skin, half threat, half promise. My heart pounds, but I lift my chin and step out beside him into the waiting night.
Pavel holds the door open with quiet efficiency, nodding a silent greeting as we slide into the back seat of a sleek, black car. Miron settles beside me, close enough that our legs brush. My skin tingles with awareness: every inch, every muscle, every memory of the way he touched me just hours ago. I keep my eyes on my lap, tracing the seam of the gown, forcing my breathing to slow.
The city moves past in streaks of gold and neon. I sneak a glance at Miron—his face is calm, carved from ice, the lines of power and exhaustion etched deep.
Pavel drives in silence, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror just once, as if to remind me that he’s watching too.
