At night, I lie awake and listen. Sometimes I hear footsteps outside, heavy and deliberate, passing my door at regular intervals. Sometimes they stop, as if whoever is out there is listening for me to make a sound. Sometimes I swear I hear breathing, quiet and close, blending into the low hum of the camera in the ceiling corner.
I start talking to the camera just to keep from going mad. Sometimes I whisper my name. Sometimes I recite facts I can still remember from my research. Sometimes I ask questions, half hoping someone on the other end will slip up and answer.
On the fourth—or maybe the fifth—day, the lock clicks open in the late afternoon. The door swings wide and Lukyan steps in. He fills the room with calm menace, dressed in black again, sharp lines and cold eyes.
I stand by the window, arms folded tight. My voice is steadier than I feel.
“How long are you going to keep me like this?” I ask. “Am I supposed to thank you for the books and the wardrobe? Is this some kind of twisted hospitality?”
He watches me for a moment, eyes unreadable. “You’re safer here.”
“Safer from what? You?”
His jaw clenches. He takes a few steps closer, stopping just short of the table. “Safer from people who’d do worse.”
“I’m not naïve,” I say, hating the brittle sound in my own voice. “You talk about threats, about danger—like you’re not the one holding me captive. I was attacked, yes. I was followed. You’re the reason I’m locked in this room.”
For the first time, something sharp flickers in his eyes. A flash of anger. Or maybe it’s something else, a wound I can’t see but can sense.
“You think I enjoy this?” His voice cuts through the air, low and rough. “You think this is what I wanted?”
I stare at him, defiant and exhausted. “Does it matter what you wanted? I have no choices left. I have no voice. You made sure of that.”
He looks away, shoulders tense. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so human it almost startles me. I think for a second he might say something—something honest, something that would explain any of this—but instead, he shakes his head once, sharply.
He walks to the door and pauses with his back to me.
“I’m sorry you can’t understand,” he says quietly, so quiet I almost miss it.
I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Then help me. Explain it to me. You keep saying I’m in danger, that there are worse people than you out there—fine. Maybe Ibelieve you. What about you, Lukyan? What am I supposed to think about the man who dragged me out of my life and locked me in this room?”
He turns, the lines of his jaw tense, frustration darkening his expression. “You think I haven’t considered what this looks like? That I don’t know how it feels?”
I stand my ground, anger pushing past my fear. “I don’t care how it feels for you. I care about what happens to me.”
He looks at me, searching my face as if he expects me to flinch or fold. I don’t. I’m too tired for that now.
“I haven’t hurt you,” he says, his voice clipped. “I could have. I could have let those men take you. I could have sent you away. I haven’t.”
“No, you haven’t, but you’ve made sure I have nothing. No phone. No freedom. No way to tell anyone I’m alive. You say it’s for my safety, but you never once ask what I want.”
He shakes his head, a bitter half smile curving his lips. “If I let you go, they’ll find you again. If you run, you’ll lead them straight back to me—or you’ll end up in a place I can’t protect you from.”
“Then why not trust me? Why not let me decide?” My voice cracks, raw from days of shouting and silence. “You want answers from me. You want me to trust you. How can I do that when all you show me is another locked door?”
He steps closer, his eyes locked on mine. For a moment, I see something flicker there—regret, maybe, or longing for something he’s already given up.
“I never wanted to involve you in this,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you hurt.”
I shake my head. “That’s not your choice to make.”
He holds my gaze for a beat longer, the air between us heavy with everything neither of us can say. At last, he drops his eyes, turning away.
“I’ll send someone with dinner,” he says. “If you need anything else, ask.”
I laugh, a harsh, exhausted sound. “Will they answer, or will they pretend I’m invisible too?”
He pauses at the doorway, hand tightening on the frame. “You’re not invisible. Not to me.”
