"I'm not most women."
"No." His gaze traces my face like he's trying to read a language he almost recognizes. "You're not."
The silence stretches between us, charged and dangerous. I can feel him trying to solve me, to fit me into a category that makes sense. Brave hostage. Broken princess. Someone with a death wish. I let him wonder.
"You're either very stupid," he says finally.
I meet his eyes. "Maybe I'm just tired of being afraid."
Something flickers across his face—not belief, exactly, but acceptance of a plausible answer. He settles back against the leather, but I catch the way his fingers tap against his thigh. Restless. Uncertain.
Good. Let him think I'm reckless. Let him think guilt over my actions almost getting Emma killed made me numb. Let him think anything except the truth.
My fingers find the clasp of my clutch, feeling the hidden weapons beneath designer leather. Tools I probably won't need, but their presence grounds me. Just like the memories that haunt my sleep ground me—fragments of Russian lullabies, the taste of black tea with jam, a boy's laughter echoing through marble halls.
The nightmares always end the same way: with blood and screaming and a child's voice calling for his sister. But maybe here, in this compound that smells like danger and secrets, I'll finally learn how they began.
The SUV slows, and through the windshield I watch the main building grow larger. It's a fortress disguised as a mansion, all clean lines and bulletproof glass.
"Everyone wants something, Mr.Volkov," I say, breaking the silence. "Even hostages."
"And what is it you want, kotyonok?" The endearment slips out, and I see him catch himself, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
The truth burns on my tongue: I want to know why I dream in Russian. I want to know why a silver bracelet with half a heart makes me cry. I want to know why your brother's name feels like a prayer and a curse wrapped in guilt I can't explain.
Instead, I give him a different truth: "I want freedom."
His laugh is soft and humorless. "Freedom comes with a price."
"Everything does."
The SUV stops, and I know this is it—my last chance to reveal this as the trap it is, to signal the men my family certainly has watching, to end this charade. The moment feels heavier than it should, like stepping off a cliff's edge knowing you can't fly.
I reach for the door handle myself, stepping out into the Chicago night that suddenly feels full of possibility instead of peril. The compound stretches before me, and somewhere inside are the answers I've been seeking for eleven years.
Behind me, I hear Alexei exit the vehicle, his footsteps deliberate on the gravel.
"Welcome to your cage, Sofiya Rozetti," he says.
The way he says cage makes it sound like a promise rather than a threat.
But cages only hold things that want to escape.
And I'm exactly where I want to be.
2 - Alexei
Sofia Rosetti hasn’t spoken since we left the museum. Eleven years of planning, and her silence is the one variable I didn’t account for.
She walks beside me into my house, cream silk dress still pristine despite the circumstances. The late afternoon wind gusts and toys with her hem, dress riding up just enough to reveal a flash of thigh. I force my gaze away, furious at my body's immediate response. This is about revenge, not the way summer light makes her skin glow like porcelain.
Her poise coaxes my anger into flames. I need to make her flinch.
"Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" I ask conversationally, leaning in until our shoulders almost touch.
Her chin lifts slightly, every inch the princess even now. Those blue eyes study me with an intensity that belongs to the predator, not prey. "I imagine you're going to tell me."
The insolence makes my blood sing. Good. I want her to fight. Breaking her will be so much sweeter.
