I find Maksim in the security office, monitors glowing in the darkness.
"The Rosetti woman. I want her moved."
He turns, weathered face carefully blank. "To where?"
"My quarters."
The silence stretches like a held breath.
"Your quarters, sir?"
"Tonight. Before dinner."
"Sir, the men will…"
"The men will do as they're told." Ice creeps into my voice. "She escaped last night. Met with her brother. I can't watch her from down the hall."
"With respect, there are other ways."
"Did I ask for alternatives?"
"No, sir."
I walk to my quarters alone. The hallway feels longer tonight, each step echoing with the weight of what I'm about to do. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the door handle. When did I last bring someone into this space? Never. Not since I claimed it as mine five years ago.
The room opens before me like a confession. California king bed with black sheets, military corners precise as the day I learned to make them. The walls are bare except for one painting, a landscape Mikhail did at sixteen, all bold strokes and unexpected color. He gave it to me the Christmas before he died.
I move through the space, seeing it suddenly through her eyes. What will she notice first? The bed that dominates the room like an invitation? The bonsai on my dresser that I've tended for three years, each tiny branch shaped by my hands?
My fingers trail along the dresser, pause at the top drawer. Inside, wrapped in black satin, is the Makarov pistol that killed my father's murderer. She could find it. Use it.
I leave it where it is.
I cross to the closet, run my hand along the neat row of suits. Everything in its place, measured, ordered. She'll destroy all of it just by breathing in here. Her scent will contaminate everysurface. I'll never be able to sleep without drowning in the ghost of her.
The bathroom draws me next. Black marble, glass shower that's seen me stroke myself to thoughts of her more times than I'll admit. I grip the sink edge, staring at my reflection. Dark circles under my eyes. When did I last sleep through the night? Before her. Everything was before her.
I turn the shower to scalding, strip mechanically. The water burns, but not enough to wash away the memory of her mouth, the way she looked up at me with my cock between her lips, taking her punishment and making it worship. My hand moves to my cock before I can stop it, already hard from just the thought.
No.Not now. She'll be here soon, and I need control.
But control is already lost. I'm inviting my enemy into my bed because I can't stand another night of her being three doors away. Can't stand the thought of her slipping out to meet her brother while I lie here imagining her beside me.
I shut off the water, dress in fresh clothes. Black slacks, white shirt. My hands shake as I button it. When did I become this man? This desperate creature who'll risk everything for a woman who should be dead?
Back in the bedroom, I notice things that need to be hidden. The photo on my nightstand: me, Mikhail, and our mother at his eighteenth birthday. Two months before he died. He was wearing the watch I gave him, grinning like he'd conquered the world.
I should put it away. She doesn't deserve to see him happy.
But I set it back down, angle it slightly so it's visible from the bed. Let her see what she destroyed. Let it haunt her the way she haunts me.
The knife collection in the bottom drawer stays.
I check the windows. Bulletproof glass, no access to the fire escape. The only exit is through the door, past the guards, past me. She's trading one cage for another, but this one is mine entirely.
A knock interrupts my spiral. "Sir? We're ready to move the prisoner."
Prisoner. The word feels wrong now. She's something else. Something I can't name without admitting truths I'm not ready to face.
