The dates written in the corners make my stomach clench. The oldest photos date back three years. I would have been twenty-two then—when I started taking over certain family operations. When I became more than just the protected Rosetti princess. He didn't start watching me as a child. He waited until I became… what? A woman? A threat? A prize worth taking?
One photo in particular draws me closer—me at my bedroom window in our estate, staring out at the gardens. Three AM, based on the timestamp. Just another night. Another nightmare about Mikhail had undoubtedly torn me from sleep, left me gasping and guilty. I'd stood at that window often, trying to shake the feeling of blood on my hands that would never wash clean.
He was watching. Even then. Even in my most private moment of grief.
Another image stops my heart—me at fifteen, days before Mikhail died. Young, innocent, untouched by the blood that would soon stain us all. Did Alexei add this photo later, looking for signs of the girl who knew his brother?
My chest tightens as understanding crashes over me. This isn't revenge—it's obsession. Raw, consuming, terrifying obsession that makes my skin prickle.
Years of surveillance, of careful documentation. Learning my routines, my habits, my unguarded moments. Some of these photos serve no strategic purpose—just me existing, thinking, living my life unaware of the eyes tracking my every move.
My mind fractures into a thousand questions, each one more terrifying than the last. How many times did I smile, thinking I was alone? How many private moments has he collected like trophies?
I'm horrified. Disturbed to my core.
But beneath the revulsion, something else pulses. Dark. Dangerous. A recognition I don't want to name. The arousal that coils low in my belly makes me hate myself. Bile rises in my throat even as heat pools between my thighs. What kind of broken person gets wet from being stalked? My mother would be horrified. My brothers would lock me away to protect me from myself. But here in the dark, with his obsession laid bare on the walls, my body betrays every moral lesson I've ever learned.
He chose me. Out of all the ways to take his revenge, all the family members he could target—he chose me. Spent years studying me, learning me, wanting… what? To understand me? To possess me? To destroy me?
The surveillance room smells like stale coffee and electronic heat, but underneath—his cologne. Amber and smoke. He sits here, watching me, surrounded by his own scent like a predator's den.
Footsteps in the corridor—two sets, heavy boots on marble. No time to reach the door. I duck behind the bank of servers in the corner, pressing myself flat against the wall, making myself small and still. My breathing stops completely.
The door swings open. Two guards enter, speaking Russian. The words flow over me, and I understand fragments—another thing I've never let myself examine too closely. The ease of it disturbs me less than it should. Why do I know this language? Why does it feel as natural as breathing? The questions pile up with all the others I can't answer about that night eleven years ago.
"You hear about Sergei?" the first guard asks, settling into the chair at the monitors.
"Fuck. Yeah." A low whistle. "Jaw wired shut. They're flying in a specialist from Moscow for his eye."
My stomach tightens.
"Idiot. You'd think after five years he'd know better than to run his mouth."
"What'd he even say?"
A pause. The creak of a chair. "Something about the Rosetti girl. What he'd do if he got ten minutes alone with her." Another pause. "Said it in the mess hall. Didn't see the boss come in."
"Blyad." The second guard's voice drops. "And Gregor? I heard he's on the Siberia run now."
"Until spring. If he survives."
"What'd he do?"
"Brought her dinner. Apparently looked at her too long when she took the tray."
Silence. Then: "She must be worth something. Ransom? Trade?"
The first guard snorts. "You've seen him in here. Three, four AM, just… watching her screen. Not checking security. Just her. For hours."
"So what, we pretend she doesn't exist?"
"You want to end up like Sergei? Yeah. She doesn't exist. She's furniture. You look at the floor when you're near her, and you forget she has a face."
They continue talking, but my mind has gone white with this new information. Sergei—brutalized for suggesting they hurt me. Another guard essentially exiled for looking too long.
He isn't just keeping me captive. He's protecting me. Violently. From his own men.
The guards finally leave, their conversation drifting to other topics. I stay frozen for another full minute, processing what I've learned.
