That terrifies me more than anything else could.
I lean forward again, my voice dropping, nearly a whisper. “I want you to live with it. I want you to know that no matter what power you hold, no matter how untouchable you believe you are, it’s rotten. You’re rotten, because of what you took.”
My hands tremble, but I don’t hide it. Let him see. Let him know what it cost me to sit here and say it.
“You think you’re in control, Alexei. You’re not. You’re carrying ghosts whether you admit it or not, and mine will never leave you.”
The cuff clinks faintly when I shift, a small reminder of where I am, what power he holds.
He still doesn’t speak. That silence, thick and waiting, tells me more than words ever could.
It tells me he’s listening. It tells me he’s thinking.
The moment he stands, the room feels colder. Alexei doesn’t slam the door or rattle the chain at my ankle as he leaves. He doesn’t even look back. He simply walks out, his silence pressed sharp into me like a blade that hasn’t drawn blood yet.
The lock clicks into place.
I sit there for what feels like hours, staring at the velvet drapes as the air turns heavy again. The interrogation was brutal, but the silence he left behind is worse. Silence leaves room for the mind to rot, for questions to coil tight in the chest.What’s next? Punishment? Exile? Something far crueler? I can’t guess. With Alexei, guessing is useless.
I stretch my legs, the chain clinking softly, and pace as much as the cuff allows. Seven steps to the window. Three to the door. I count them until I’m dizzy, until my jaw aches from grinding my teeth.
Eventually I give in to the exhaustion in my limbs. I strip the sheets from the bed and lie down, not to sleep—I’ve barely woken up—but to breathe. The fabric is soft, absurdly so, whispering over my bare arms, brushing against my throat. Luxury pressed over steel. A lie dressed as comfort.
Time slides by. Minutes or hours, I can’t tell. My body aches for release, for something other than waiting, so I rise and head toward the bathroom tucked behind a gilded door.
It’s no less extravagant than the bedroom. Marble floors, a clawfoot tub gleaming under dim light, gold fixtures that glint against the porcelain sink. Steam curls as I twist the faucet, water rushing hot, filling the room with the hiss of promise.
I undress slowly, peeling fabric from my skin, dropping each piece onto the tiled floor. My reflection catches me in the wide mirror: pale, tense, a woman bound in chains yet moving like she owns herself. I hold that image for a moment, needing to believe it.
The water is scalding when I step under the showerhead, and I welcome the sting. It races down my body, over shoulders tight with tension, down my spine, along thighs that have carried too much. My head tilts back, eyes closing, lips parting around a breath that comes ragged at first, then steadier.
Steam wraps me in heat, loosening knots in my muscles. I soap my skin slowly, deliberately, as if each stroke could wash away the memory of his questions, the weight of his silence, theghosts I dragged into the room between us. My hands linger at my throat, then slide lower, circling the ache in my chest, the heat coiling lower still.
I don’t let myself chase it far. It’s not release I want, not really. It’s distraction. For a few stolen minutes, I pretend the chain isn’t there, that the door isn’t locked, that Alexei Sharov doesn’t sit somewhere in this estate deciding whether I live or die.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged, my skin damp and flushed. I towel myself off, wrapping silk against bare curves, and push the bathroom door open.
He’s waiting.
Dimitri sits on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp under the dim light. He doesn’t rise when I enter, doesn’t look away.
The cuff at my ankle glints as I step back into the room. His gaze follows the movement, then flicks up to my face.
“Nice cage they’ve given you,” he says, his accent heavier than Alexei’s, his voice rough like gravel dragged across stone.
I grip the towel tighter around myself. “Do you usually watch women while they shower, or am I special?”
A corner of his mouth lifts, though it isn’t amusement; it’s something darker. “If I wanted to watch, I wouldn’t wait until you were finished.”
The air tightens between us. I force myself not to shrink, not to cover more skin than the towel already hides.
“What do you want, Dimitri?” My voice is steady, though my pulse isn’t.
He leans back, spreading his hands over his knees. “To tell you what happens to liars.”
My chest tightens, but I don’t let it show. I step forward, closer to the dresser, to my clothes folded neatly there. “Then tell me.”
His eyes track me as I move, slow and deliberate. “Some are beaten until they beg. Some are cut until they talk. Some vanish without a trace, their names swallowed by the ground. Alexei decides which.”
