The guard scoffs quietly. “He’s getting soft.”
A beat of silence follows.
“He’s focused,” the second-in-command says. “Don’t mistake the two.”
Their footsteps fade. I back away from the door, heart pounding. My hands shake, but the anger anchors me. Even they’re confused about what Lukyan wants. That doesn’t make me feel safer. It only proves how unpredictable this situation is.
I return to the window. Night has swallowed the gardens. The grounds stretch out in a dark sprawl, broken by patches of moonlight and the faint outlines of tall hedges. The air outside looks cold. Still. Empty.
If I scream, no one will hear. If I run, I’ll never reach the main road.
It takes everything in me not to slide down the wall in frustration, but I stay standing. I don’t want to give the cameras that image—me collapsing.
I search the ceiling until I find it: a small, dark lens in the corner near the molding. A faint red light glints each time I shift, catching the device at an angle.
He’s watching. Maybe not constantly, but enough.
The thought sends a shiver down my arms. I refuse to let fear take over, even as my skin prickles with the weight of unseen eyes.
I step closer to the window and rest my forehead against the cool glass. My breath fogs a small circle on the surface. The gardens outside look endless. I focus on the distant tree line until the blur of tears sharpens again.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper. My voice wavers, barely there. I hate that. I clear my throat and try again. “You hear me? I’m not afraid.”
Silence fills the room. My reflection stares back at me, pale and strained.
I look at the camera again, jaw tight.
“You can lock the door,” I say. “You can take my phone, and my bag, but you can’t make me afraid of you.”
The tremor sneaks back into my voice anyway, betraying the truth underneath the mask. Fear lives in my ribs, in the way my breath hitches, in the tightness around my eyes when I blink.
But I keep my gaze fixed on the camera. It’s all I can do. I need him to know I’m not broken. Not yet.
I don’t step away until my legs shake. I sink onto the bed, curling my fingers into the blanket. Everything feels too quiet again. Too heavy.
After a moment, I hear something faint through the wall. A footstep. A shift of weight. A voice, low and unreadable, as if someone is standing just outside the door again.
“You shouldn’t provoke him,” the second-in-command says. I think his name is Nikolai.
My heart stutters. “I’m not provoking anyone,” I call back, unsure if he can even hear me clearly. “I’m surviving.”
“Then stop drawing his attention.”
“Why?” My throat tightens. “What happens if I do?”
Silence answers.
I stand again and approach the door. “You think you’re protecting me?”
Another long pause. “No,” he says. “You’d still do well to listen.”
A chill runs along my spine. I step back from the door instinctively.
The hallway goes quiet again. I remain still, listening, but no more words follow. The house settles around me like a living thing—breathing, watching, waiting for something I can’t predict.
The night stretches on. I lie on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling, tracing every shadow that shifts in the corners. The barred windows catch pale light from outside. The camera glints once more.
I whisper into the darkness, more to myself than anyone else.
