Her hands clench tighter. “That’s obsession,” she whispers, and the word is both horror and awe.
“To you,” I admit, “maybe. To me, it’s a form of love. Or the closest thing I have to it.” I watch her closely. “I don’t expect you to understand. I only expect you to accept that you belong to me. Now and always.”
The words hang between us, raw and brutal. I see fear flicker in her eyes. But there’s something else too. Something darker, something I’ve seen before, every time she challenges me instead of cowering. Fascination. Hunger. She cannot pretend she is untouched by it.
Pavel pulls up at the house. I wait for her to move, to run, to say something cruel and final. Instead, Sera holds my gaze. For a heartbeat, I see the whole game laid bare between us: hunter and hunted, lover and jailer, two people bound by need and by violence.
She says nothing, but her silence is an answer.
As we step out of the car, I put a hand at her back, guiding her forward. She doesn’t shake it off.
Inside, the house is dim and quiet, the world’s noise shut out behind us. I watch her climb the stairs, the gown trailing behind her, the line of her neck elegant and proud. She glances back, just once, as if daring me to follow.
Tonight, she knows the truth. Tonight, there is no illusion left. No kindness unshadowed, no threat softened. She belongs to me, and she knows it. The knowledge is both victory and punishment, and I cannot decide which I savor more.
Chapter Twenty-One - Seraphina
The next day dawns gray and close, the air in my room thick with old perfume and the faint scent of last night’s fear.
My heart hammers in my chest as I curl up on the window seat, a small phone hidden in my hand. I’d swiped it the night before, a moment of recklessness as we left the Sharov gathering—slipped it from a guest’s purse while no one watched. A desperate move, but desperation is all I have left.
I check the lock twice, listening for footsteps. The house is quieter than usual, but that doesn’t mean I’m alone. Miron’s men are ghosts, slipping through the halls, listening at doors. I hold the phone close, pressing my thumb against the smooth glass. I have one chance, maybe less.
My mind spins through possibilities. I could call home—my parents, my friend Izzy. But what would I say? What could they do against someone like Miron? Fear and shame knot in my stomach. They’d only get hurt.
I scroll through numbers, thumb trembling. There’s only one that makes sense—the FBI agent. The one who called after I first found the files. I memorized his number, just in case. I never thought I’d use it, but here I am, alone and shaking, with nowhere left to turn.
I dial, breath held tight, waiting for the ring. Once, twice, three times—and then the line clicks.
A man’s voice, calm and measured: “Agent Marsh. Who is this?”
I almost hang up. My voice sticks in my throat, but I force it out in a whisper. “I—I need help. Please. My name isSeraphina Hale. I’m being held by Miron Sharov. He’s keeping me here. I know things about the corporation, the laundering, the murders. I know too much. You have to help me.”
There’s a pause, a soft intake of breath. His voice changes, becomes coaxing, careful. “Sera, you’re safe. You did the right thing calling me. Can you tell me where you are?”
My relief nearly knocks the wind out of me. Tears prickle in my eyes, my hands shaking as I press the phone tighter. “Yes, I can. I’m at his estate. North of the city, outside the old industrial park. There are guards—so many guards. I’m on the third floor, east wing, big bay window. Please… please hurry, I don’t know how long I have.”
He’s quiet, typing quickly. “Stay calm, Sera. Help is coming. Is there a way out, if you need to run?”
I bite my lip, glancing at the locked door, the window that won’t open more than a crack. “Maybe. I’ll try if I have to. Please just come.”
“I promise. Don’t hang up. Just stay on the line.”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Okay. I won’t. Please hurry.”
My head spins, the adrenaline flooding my veins, mixing relief with a new edge of terror. I never thought I’d actually reach someone. That the nightmare might break. That I might have a chance.
Outside my door, floorboards creak in a slow, measured step. Voices, low and too close. My blood runs cold. Someone’s outside.
I press myself back against the wall, clutching the phone, breath silent as a held knife. The line hisses in my ear—Agent Marsh still speaking, promising safety, telling me to stay calm.
All I can hear now is the hush outside my door, and the certainty that I am not alone.
The door creaks again. My heart stutters, cold sweat breaking over my skin. I try to hide the phone, but there’s no time because he’s already inside.
Miron’s presence fills the room, all sharp angles and cold authority, but it’s the phone in his hand that makes my blood freeze. On its speaker, the voice that had just promised rescue echoes back in tinny, distant words: “…just stay calm. Help is coming…”
It takes a moment for the truth to land. Miron was theagentall along. He was the one coaxing me, drawing out every detail, listening to my fear, my hopes. There was never any rescue coming. My world narrows, a hard knot twisting in my gut. Betrayal is a bitter taste in my mouth. I can’t breathe.
