I call Miron’s name again, desperate, praying he’s alive, praying he’ll appear in the doorway with that familiar, cold fury in his eyes.
Inside, the house is a frenzy. Staff cluster at the windows, guards shouting into radios. The maid who wouldn’t meet my eye now rushes to press a towel to my bleeding hand. My teeth chatter, a sob stuck in my throat.
Miron appears at last, framed by the hall’s golden light, gun still drawn, face set in a mask of rage and relief.
For a moment, the world narrows to him alone. I don’t know if I want to run to him or run from him. My voice fails me. I just stand there, shivering, letting myself be pulled toward the only certainty I have left.
Miron shoves through his men, gun still warm in his fist. He grabs my arm, hard enough to bruise, and pulls me away from the open door, out of the glare of the kitchen lights, through corridors buzzing with panic. My pulse thrums against his grip. The guards part for him, silent, as if they feel the pressure rolling off him in waves.
We stop in his office. The door slams shut behind us, the heavy lock clicking. For a moment he just stares at me, chest heaving, eyes gone wild and dark. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping under the skin. I expect him to shout, but his voice comes out harsh and low: “What the hell were you thinking?”
I try to pull away. “I just wanted air—”
His fingers tighten, a warning. “You don’t get to go outside alone. Not after this. Do you even understand what could’ve happened?” There’s anger in every word, butunderneath I hear something rawer, like panic. I look for cruelty and only see fear.
He paces, hands raking through his hair. “You think I have extra men here for show? You think the world outside these walls doesn’t notice you?” He stops, eyes boring into mine. “You are not just a girl in my house. Do you get it now?”
My voice is a whisper. “Why… why would anyone come after me?”
He laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. “They can’t reach me. They can reach you. They know what you are to me.” His hand cups my chin, not gentle, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re not a hostage. You’re a target.”
A chill radiates out from my heart, settling in my bones. I want to argue, to push the blame back on him, but the terror hasn’t faded. I’m shaking. He releases me, only to drag me close again, arms crushing around my shoulders, his face buried in my hair. I feel the tremor in his body, the frantic beat of his heart. His breath is ragged, words murmured rough and Russian in my ear—words I can’t understand, but the emotion is clear.
After a minute, he pushes me back, holding me at arm’s length. “You stay with me now. No more gardens, no more wandering. You don’t leave this room unless I’m with you. You hear me?”
I nod. The fight’s gone out of me. There’s no point. I’m just as trapped by fear as by his rules.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. The staff patches my hands, whispers follow me through the halls. I see the marks I left on my attackers: blood on my nails, a deep scratch across my knuckle. Miron’s guards sweep the garden, find nothing but a blood trail vanishing into the dark. The house is locked down,every entrance watched, every phone call monitored. No one questions Miron’s orders.
He leads me to his bedroom, shutting the door behind us. The lock clicks. “You sleep here. With me. End of discussion.” He says it like a command, but I see his hands shake when he reaches for me. I let him pull me to the bed, too exhausted to protest. He sits on the edge, gun within reach, eyes never leaving the door.
I lie down, curled on my side, blanket pulled to my chin. Every inch of me aches. The adrenaline is gone; what’s left is raw and sick. Miron sits, unmoving, a silent sentry in the half-light.
It’s only then, in the hush between us, that it really sinks in. I’m not just some outsider caught in the wrong man’s web. I’m something else now. A piece of the game, a weakness and a weapon, all at once. My breath shudders out. For the first time, I feel the weight of what I’ve become.
Miron doesn’t sleep. He sits upright, arms folded, gaze flicking to me and then away, as if afraid I’ll disappear if he looks too long. He snaps at the staff when they knock. He sends two guards to sleep in the hall outside. All night, he checks the lock, the windows, his phone. He keeps me close, never out of reach.
I lie there, watching him, my mind a tangle. The danger was never just about me. They want him. They’ll use me to get to him. I’m leverage, a message, a liability. It’s not just about what I know or what I’ve seen.
The realization is its own kind of terror. I don’t know how to feel. There’s no comfort in his arms, only the sharp certainty of what I am now.
I replay the attack, the feel of hands grabbing, the pain of nails digging into flesh. I hear my own voice screaming his name. I remember the split second before the gunfire—knowingthat if I disappeared, he’d never stop looking. I don’t know if that makes me feel safer or more afraid.
Miron finally lays down beside me, but he doesn’t touch me. He lies on his back, hands folded on his chest, eyes open in the dark. I sense the storm inside him. He’s furious, afraid, and for once, not in control. We’re both trapped, both hunted, both waiting for the next move.
The city outside the windows is quiet, only sirens in the distance. I press my face into the pillow, wishing for sleep, for peace, for answers that never come. My body trembles, not just from shock, but from the knowledge that I can’t go back to being just a girl with a secret and a stubborn streak. I’m part of the war now, whether I want it or not.
Sometime near dawn, Miron turns toward me. His voice is raw, barely a whisper. “They won’t touch you again. I swear it.”
I want to believe him, I want to cling to the promise, but I know now that nothing he can say will make me safe. I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me, hoping the sun will bring a different truth. I lie awake until the morning, caught between fear and something dangerously close to belonging.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Miron
I do not wait for the sun. The city is mine, and tonight, I remind them why. The attack on Sera is not just a provocation; it is an act of war.
My men assemble in the dark, faces grim, rifles oiled, instructions clipped and clear. Every soldier in my house knows what’s at stake. I do not trust anyone else to deliver my answer.
By midnight, we’re moving. I leave Sera under the guard of men who would die before letting a shadow cross the threshold. I don’t kiss her forehead, do not whisper comfort. That is not what she needs from me, not now. She needs to know that the world is changing on her behalf.
