"Thank you," I say, pitching my voice soft and warm. The princess, not the weapon.
Nothing. His jaw tightens, but his gaze doesn't waver.
"How long have I been down here?" I try again.
Silence. His hands clench at his sides.
"What's your name?"
He turns on his heel and leaves. The lock clicks behind him with finality.
His silence feels heavier than words. In my world, men who won't look at women are either saints or following orders backed by violence. This boy is no saint.
The way he kept his eyes so rigidly averted, the careful distance. Something about it reminds me of things I've overheard, patterns I've observed. Men afraid to engage usually have good reason. And in organizations like ours, that reason is usually their boss making the consequences crystal clear.
He's afraid. Not of me, but of what might happen if he's caught looking at me, talking to me. The rigid discipline speaks of strict orders, the kind that come with severe punishment for disobedience.
The thought makes my pulse race. Makes me wonder what else Alexei has claimed as his alone.
But I noticed the phone clipped to his belt. An older Android model, the kind with minimal security. The slight bulge of the case suggests he keeps it in the same spot always, probably pulls it out a dozen times during a shift. Habit. Predictable.
He also didn't check my restraints. Didn't notice the leather cuffs hanging empty, or that I'm sitting in the chair by choice now rather than force. He was so focused on not looking at me that he forgot to actually see me.
Sloppy. And exactly what I need.
I eat the tasteless food because my body needs fuel, though each swallow reminds me of last night. Alexei feeding me from his own hand, his fingers brushing my lips, the way he watched my mouth like he wanted to devour me. I count seconds between bites, estimate time based on the rhythm of footsteps I hear occasionally through the door. Guard rotations every two hours. Kitchen noise that must be meal prep around what feels like early evening.
By the time the compound has gone quiet except for the occasional footstep, I estimate it's well past midnight. The skeleton crew hours when even criminals sleep.
Time to move.
I unpin the lockpick from where it's tucked into my hair at the nape of my neck, covered by my loose tresses. The basement lock takes forty seconds. Less than usual because adrenaline makes my fingers quick and sure. The hallway stretches dark and empty, emergency lighting casting long shadows that could hide anything. Could hide him.
My body tightens at the thought, nipples hardening beneath the modified dress. Get it together, Sofia.
I know the route now. Up the stairs, through the main corridor, past the monitoring room where someone is definitely watching screens. But at this hour, watching gets boring. Eyes get heavy. Attention drifts.
His study door is locked, naturally. This one takes a full minute. More sophisticated mechanism, probably German-made. But locks are just puzzles, and I've always been good at puzzles. And Milo's hardware makes it easy.
Inside, darkness broken only by moonlight through bulletproof glass. My eyes adjust quickly, taking in leather and mahogany, and then his scent hits me. Amber clinging to everything like he's marked this room as his. I hate the way it makes my nipples tighten beneath the rough cotton. My body doesn't understand that he's the enemy. It only knows his proximity, his touch, the memory of his fingers in my mouth.
On his desk sits a bonsai tree, meticulously maintained. Didn't he say that Mikhail used to do bonsai? So why is this tree here? One of the branches has been recently trimmed. Something so careful, so patient about the gesture. The same hands that wrapped around my throat tend this delicate tree.
I'm looking for records, evidence, anything that explains why I dream of a Russian boy calling my name. His filing system is predictable. Alphabetical, chronological, color-coded by operation type. Shipping manifests, personnel files, financial records. All useful for understanding his organization, but nothing about children who knew each other eleven years ago.
Then I see it. A silver frame on the bookshelf, partially hidden behind leather-bound volumes.
The photo shows two boys on a boat, sun bright on water behind them. One is clearly Alexei, maybe sixteen, those pale eyes unmistakable even then, but softer somehow, unguarded in a way I've never seen. The other must be Mikhail. Darker hair, softer features, an arm slung around his younger brother's shoulders. They're laughing at something beyond the camera's view.
I pick up the frame with trembling fingers, studying Mikhail's face. Willing myself to remember. This younger Alexei, so different from the controlled predator holding me captive, makes something crack in my chest. He was just a boy who loved his brother.
A flash hits, sudden, violent. Sun on water, but different. A garden. A boy's voice, excited: "Sofia, watch this…" His voice, young and bright and alive.
Then nothing. The memory slams shut like a door in my face.
My chest cracks open with grief for a boy I can't quite remember loving. Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. How do you mourn someone you've forgotten? How do you carry guilt for a crime you can't recall committing?
My hand trembles as I return the photo to its spot, but not quite right. The angle slightly off, the frame turned a fraction. The tremor travels up my arm, making me clumsy. As I turn to leave, my elbow catches a fountain pen on the desk. It rolls, but I catch it before it falls to the floor.
