I step in front of her to make her stop and reach across the space between us, my hand finding her throat. Not squeezing, not yet, just claiming. Her pulse flutters beneath my palm like a trapped bird. Such a delicate neck. So fucking easy to crush.
"There's a room waiting for you," I tell her, thumb pressing against where her life beats closest to the surface. "Concrete walls that have heard a hundred men scream. A drain that's run red more times than I can count." My grip tightens just enoughto make breathing work for it. "I had it cleaned especially for you, printsessa."
Her pulse jumps, finally, something real, but then impossibly, it steadies. Like she's found her center despite my hand wrapped around her throat. Her fingers clench around her purse, knuckles white against the clasp, the only sign this costs her anything.
"By the time I'm done with you," I continue, leaning close enough that my breath stirs the hair at her temple, "you'll know every inch of that room. Every surface. Every way I can make you bend until you break."
She gasps when I increase the pressure, but her eyes never leave mine. There's fear there, yes, but something else too. Something that makes me want to either kill her or taste her, and I can't decide which urge is stronger.
"The basement has excellent soundproofing," I murmur against her ear. "You can scream as loud as you want. No one will come. No one will save you."
"Like no one saved Mikhail?"
The words hit cold in my veins. My grip loosens involuntarily, and she draws in a shaky breath, color flooding back to her face. I see her catch herself, realize she's shown too much, but it's too late.
"Is that what this is about?" she asks, voice not quite as steady as before. "Revenge for your brother?"
I sit back, studying her while my mind races. This isn't the script. She should be crying, begging, bargaining. Not meeting me word for word like we're sparring.
"Justice," I correct softly, pulling the photo from my jacket. "Look at him."
I shove the picture at her: Mikhail's body, blood pooling beneath him, eyes vacant. Her whole body flinches, and she tries to look away, but I catch her chin, force her to see.
"Eighteen years old," I tell her. "Killed by your psychotic brother because he dared to care about the wrong girl. Look what your family does to people who get too close."
A tear escapes down her cheek before she can stop it. Finally, something breaks through that porcelain composure.
"Then we understand each other," she whispers. "We've both lost brothers to this war."
The comparison makes me want to wrap both hands around her throat and squeeze until she takes it back. "Your brothers are alive."
"Are they?" She meets my gaze, and I see real pain there. "The boy who could sing lost his voice forever. The one who might have been something else learned to love violence instead." Her voice drops. "We all died a little that night."
"Don't." The word comes out as a growl. "Don't you dare compare your family's losses to mine. Mikhail is dead. Not metaphorically changed. Rotting in the ground."
"You're right," she says quietly, and the admission surprises me. "It's not the same. Nothing could be."
I grab her wrist, feeling for her pulse again. Still too steady. Even trained soldiers show more fear when facing death. My thumb presses against the delicate bones, and she winces but doesn't pull away.
"Why aren't you more afraid?" The question escapes before I can cage it.
She looks at where my fingers circle her wrist like a shackle, then back at my face. A tremor runs through her that she can't quite suppress. "What would my fear accomplish?"
"It would be satisfying."
"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you." But her free hand is clenched so tight around her purse that her knuckles are white as bone.
I step aside and walk ahead into the main house, letting her fall in behind me like a good hostage. As we pass through them, I listen intently, waiting for a sign she understands there's no escape from here.
Her breath hitches, just barely. But when I glance back, I see her looking around, studying the security measures with what looks like professional interest. Cameras at every corner. Guards at strategic points. Electronic locks that seal every exit.
"Impressive," she murmurs, and I can't tell if she's mocking me or buying time.
I've been inside her family's compound, walked the marble floors, and I know by comparison my home must look merely functional. We leave beauty to the women, not the architecture.
I'd planned to take her straight to the basement, to begin immediately while her fear was fresh. But something about our conversation has shifted my intentions. I want to unravel her slowly, understand what makes her tick before I take her apart.
"Your room," I tell her as we climb some stairs and follow a corridor, my hand finding the small of her back to guide her forward. She stiffens at the contact, and I feel the tremor run through her, finally, a crack.
