She finally succumbs, head tilted, hair falling into her eyes. Her lips part in sleep. I watch the steady rise and fall of her chest. My own breathing slows to match.
I stay there for hours. I watch the shadows shift across her face, the first hint of morning turning the curtains gray. No one has ever held my attention this way. No one has ever made me feel both powerful and exposed at once.
I know I’ll never let her leave. She’s not a prisoner anymore, not in the way people mean it. She’s become a fact of my existence, the thing I cannot do without. I could give her a thousand keys, and she would still belong to me.
She stirs in her sleep, murmurs something I don’t catch. I reach out, almost touching, but let my hand fall. Some lines, even I know not to cross. Not tonight.
I sit back, content to watch her, hunger and need knotted tight in my chest. There’s nothing else I want. Nothing else I’ll take.
She’s mine, whether she chooses it or not. I have never wanted anything more.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Seraphina
The morning is too quiet. I wake tangled in unfamiliar sheets, Miron’s scent heavy around me. For a few minutes, I lie still, listening for sounds of movement in the hall. Only faint footsteps and distant voices reach me, the world muffled as if wrapped in cotton.
Finally I push the covers away, climbing out of bed, every muscle sore from too little sleep and too much tension. The mark on my wrist aches. I rub it absently, staring at the sun slipping through gauzy curtains.
Downstairs, the mansion feels different. The staff moves with purpose, eyes lowered, movements clipped. Armed guards hover at the windows and main doors, their attention razor-sharp, every conversation held in hushed Russian. I count at least three more than usual—bigger men, heavier coats, eyes that track me as I cross the marble floor.
A knot tightens in my chest.
I stop a maid in the hallway, hoping for some harmless answer. “Has something happened? There seem to be more guards today.”
She bows her head, keeps her hands busy with a silver tray. “I’m sorry, Miss. Please ask Mr. Sharov if you need anything.” Her voice is soft, almost frightened.
She won’t look at me. I let her go, suspicion burning hotter. Even in the kitchen, the staff avoids my gaze. I sense it everywhere—the tension, the undercurrent of dread running beneath polished surfaces.
I drift through the day like a ghost, unable to settle, nerves prickling. Lunch is served in Miron’s study, but he barely glances up from his phone, voice clipped when he speaks. I watch his jaw tighten, the way he barks orders at someone in Russian.
When I ask what’s wrong, he tells me not to worry, his eyes shuttered and cold.
By evening, the mansion is a cage. I pace the halls, counting the guards at every turn, telling myself I’m being paranoid.
Still, when I slip outside for air, I slip the little dagger from my dresser into my pocket—a habit Miron taught me, meant for comfort. I walk the path through the garden, gravel crunching underfoot, moonlight washing the flowers pale.
The air smells of lilac and damp earth, fresh and almost sweet. I press my hand to the stone wall, breathing deep, wishing for quiet, for distance from the eyes inside. The world holds still, not a leaf stirs.
Then I see it—a flicker of movement, too quick, too dark. I turn, heart pounding. Shapes melt from the hedges, faces half hidden beneath hoods and scarves. My voice sticks in my throat. I step back, ready to run, but hands grab me from behind—rough, tight, crushing the breath from my chest.
I thrash, instinct taking over. My nails rake across skin, drawing blood. I bite, kick, scream, the dagger flashing as I stab at the nearest figure. Blood wells on someone’s arm, but the grip on me tightens.
My legs flail, feet scraping uselessly at gravel. I fight like hell, teeth bared, every inch of me wild with panic.
One of them clamps a hand over my mouth. I taste leather and sweat. The terror of being dragged, powerless, fillsmy lungs. My head snaps back and forth—I look for Miron, for help, for any gap to slip free. I manage to wrench a hand loose, slashing blindly, catching another arm, but there are too many. I’m losing.
I shout Miron’s name, raw and desperate. Even as I curse myself for it, for needing him, I can’t help it. His name rips out of me like a plea and a threat both.
Everything is chaos. I see the garden wall looming up, feel someone’s arms around my waist, hauling me off my feet. Then gunfire cracks through the night, splitting the air. A guard at the corner shouts something guttural. The hands on me hesitate, grip faltering.
Miron’s men storm the path, boots pounding, guns drawn. Muzzle flashes light the darkness. One of my captors jerks, then goes limp, dropping me hard onto the grass. Someone else curses, tries to drag me toward the wall, hand clamped around my throat. I claw at his wrist, heel slamming into his shin. Another shot. My attacker spasms, then collapses, dead weight pinning me for a heartbeat before rolling away.
I scramble up, knees raw, eyes wild. The garden is chaos: Miron’s men shouting, gunfire echoing, would-be kidnappers scattering for the shadows. Two guards grab me, one shielding me with his body while the other covers our escape, firing back at the men still fighting to get over the wall.
I see one last figure, smaller than the others, hands scrambling at the brick as bullets tear through the air. He nearly makes it, foot hooked over the edge, before a shot takes him in the shoulder. He tumbles back, vanishing into the hedges.
I sag against the guard, lungs heaving. The terror hasn’t faded; it’s just turned cold. My hands are bloody, knuckles torn. My dagger lies somewhere in the grass, useless now. Every inch of me shakes.
“Miss, inside. Quick,” the guard orders, dragging me toward the door. I stumble after him, eyes scanning the darkness for more movement.
