"Five minutes."
I stand in the center of my room, trying to slow my racing pulse. In five minutes, Sofia Rosetti will walk through that door. She'll touch my things with those deadly hands. She'll breathe my air, learn my secrets, exist in the space where I'm most myself.
The bonsai catches my eye. Three years of patient shaping, every cut deliberate, designed to create something beautiful through controlled destruction. Just like what I planned for her.
But she's not a tree to be shaped. She's the storm that will uproot everything.
I reach for the small shears, make one tiny cut to a wayward branch. My hands are completely steady now. The ritual grounds me, reminds me who I am. What I'm supposed to be doing.
Revenge. Justice. Blood for blood.
Instead, I'm preparing my room like a nervous bridegroom.
The thought makes me laugh, dark and bitter. Mikhail would find this hilarious. His brother, the one who never let anyone close, about to hand his entire life to the woman responsible for his death.
I set down the shears, move to the door. Time to face what I've done.
Evening falls like a curtain. I wait in the corridor, my pulse hammering despite my control.
The guards appear, flanking her. Another altered cotton dress, taken in at the waist, shortened hem. Even in punishment clothes, she remains herself.
She sees me. Stops.
"Problem?"
"Just appreciating the upgrade." That mocking edge that simultaneously enrages and arouses me. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"
"You should be silent."
But she's studying me, looking for the trap. The guards shift uncomfortably between us, feeling the electric tension.
They escort her to my door. She pauses at the threshold, one hand on the frame, claiming my space already. The gesture sends heat straight to my cock, and I see one guard notice my tension, quickly looking away.
"Your new cage," I manage, voice rough.
She turns back. I expect defiance, that sharp tongue.
Instead, there's something unreadable in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Recognition of what this means.
She holds my gaze for a long moment that stretches like eternity. My body responds to just her proximity. Muscles tensing, breath catching, that familiar heat building. The guards are eager to be anywhere else, feeling the charge between us.
Then she steps into my bedroom. Into my space. Her fingers trail along the doorframe as she enters, and the possession in that simple touch makes my hands clench into fists.
I remain in the corridor after the guards leave, heart pounding against my ribs. Behind that door, Sofia Rosetti is touching my things, breathing my air, learning my secrets. The thought of her hands on my belongings, her scent mixing with mine in that space, makes me grip the wall for support.
Through the door, I hear her moving. Soft footsteps on hardwood. A pause. She's found the photo. Another pause, the bonsai. The whisper of fabric that might be her fingers on my sheets.
Each sound is torture. Each sound is anticipation.
Welcome to the wolf's den, kotyonok.
The thought should be triumphant. I have her exactly where I want her.
Instead, as I stand here shaking with want and rage and something darker, I wonder who really walked into whose trap.
13 - Sofia
His bedroom smells like cedar and something darker. Smoke, maybe, or gunpowder. I’m not sure I want to know which.
