She pauses at the threshold. "Not the basement with the convenient drain?"
The dry delivery makes me want to laugh, which pisses me off. This woman should not be making jokes minutes after being taken.
"Would you prefer the basement?" I ask, calling her bluff, pressing my palm harder against her back, feeling the heat of her skin through her dress.
"I'm curious about the discrepancy between threat and execution," she says, but I catch the slight shake in her voice now.
I lean down, lips nearly brushing her ear. "The night is young, kotyonok. We have all the time in the world for both."
She shivers, and satisfaction floods through me. There she is, the frightened girl beneath the brave facade.
The suite I've prepared for her is on the third floor: barren necessity wrapped in security. Rough cotton sheets, basic furniture, a self-contained bathroom. And bars on the windows, electronic locks on the doors. A perfect room for an ex-Rosetti princess.
She takes it all in with that analytical gaze, but I see her hands shake before she clasps them together. "And here I thought you might try to seduce me."
The comment catches me off-guard, and my body responds to the word 'seduce' in ways it shouldn't.
“Maybe I still will,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
"Then why the sandpaper sheets?" She runs her fingers along the bedding, and I track the movement like a predator watching prey. "Or is this where the torture begins?"
Fuck. She noticed everything already. The woman misses nothing.
"Psychological warfare," I tell her, moving closer until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Remind you you’re not in your pretty castle anymore."
"Hmm." She moves to the window, testing the bars with fingers that don’t tremble at all. "Kind of defeats the purpose if you tell me about it. Or maybe you're not the monster you pretend to be."
My hand shoots out, spinning her around and pressing her back against the wall. She gasps, and I feel it in my chest. "I am exactly the monster your family created," I tell her coldly, caging her with my arms on either side.
She's breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in a way that draws my attention before I can stop it. "I know," she sayssimply, and despite the fear I can now see in her eyes, she reaches up and touches the scar along my jawline, the one from that night. "So am I."
The touch burns like acid, and I jerk back. She stays pressed against the wall, hand falling to her side, but something has shifted between us.
"Get comfortable," I tell her, backing toward the door because if I don't leave now, I'll do something I'll regret. Something that has nothing to do with revenge and everything to do with the heat building low in my spine. "Tonight, we begin properly."
"Begin what, exactly?" she asks, and there's a challenge in it despite the way her whole body trembles now.
I don't answer, can't answer. This is a dance, and somehow she knows the steps.
I leave her room, the electronic lock clicking shut with finality. But as I walk down the hallway, I'm off-balance in a way that has nothing to do with her unexpected poise and everything to do with the way she looked pressed against that wall, lips parted, pulse racing in her throat.
In my study, I pour vodka and let myself feel it: the satisfaction of finally holding the last piece of a puzzle eleven years in the making. Sofia Rosetti, caged in my home, awaiting my judgment. Mikhail would appreciate the poetry—the girl who got him killed, now completely at his brother's mercy.
I drink, watching the security monitors that show her room from multiple angles. She's moving through the space methodically now, testing every bar, every lock, searching for exits that don't exist.
Her fingers trace along the walls, pausing at corners, testing the give of the floorboards. Professional. Methodical. Not the panicked searching of a frightened captive, but something elseentirely. It makes me lean forward, studying her movements with new interest.
She moves to the vanity, sits down gracefully and begins removing the pins from her hair. The blonde waves tumble down around her shoulders, and she runs her fingers through them, staring at her reflection. Then she does something unexpected: she smiles. Small, private, but real. Like she's already won something I don't understand.
The smile unsettles me more than tears would have.
My phone buzzes. Ekaterina. I let it go to voicemail, focusing instead on the monitor where Sofia is now examining the simple tunics in the closet, running her fingers along the rough fabrics.
I'll listen to my sister's message later. Right now, I need to understand this woman who hasn't broken yet—and why that bothers me more than if she had.
I watch her for another hour, noting her every movement, every expression. She's methodical, careful, learning her cage with the patience of someone already planning her escape. Good. Let her search. There is no way out.
3 - Sofia
