Panic rushes up fast again, colliding with anger. He’s not pretending this is anything other than what it is.
I steady myself, plant my feet, and lift my chin.
“Then we should talk about your rules,” I say.
For the first time since I walked in, his mouth curves, just a little.
“We will,” he says.
ROMAN — Volkovskaya Office, 21:03
She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her skin. The motion tells me enough. She’s not sad about the tears; she’s angry I saw them.
Her shoulders are still trembling under the coat.
“Step away from the door,” I tell her.
Her fingers hover on the handle for a second too long. She glances at the corridor like she’s checking the distance. Then she exhales, lets go, and turns back to me.
“I’m not trying to run,” she says. Her voice is thin but still sharp. “I was looking for a bathroom to wash my face.”
“This shouldn’t take long. It depends on how quickly you cooperate.”
She steps away from the frame with her chin a fraction higher, like she’s daring me. Her hands disappear deeper into her coat pockets.
“Rules,” she says. “You said we’re doing rules. Let’s get it over with.”
Good.
I walk toward her in even steps. The old parquet creaks under my shoes. She stiffens when she hears it, but she doesn’t run; she’s not giving me the satisfaction of backing up.
“Rule one,” I say, stopping close enough that I can feel her breath against my shirt. “You don’t leave this estate without my permission.”
Her eyebrows lift, and she lets out a tired laugh. “You going to put a GPS collar on me too, or is that later in the program?”
“Rule two,” I say, ignoring the jab, “no communication with anyone outside without my knowledge.”
“Perfect. Surveillance. Fantastic. This whole thing really needed a dystopian upgrade.”
Her sarcasm lands. It scrapes across nerves I thought were dead. I step in closer and brace my hand on the shelf beside her head. The wood is cool under my palm. Her spine presses into it; her ass nudges the books behind her. She’s pinned.
Her breathing stutters. Her lips part slightly, but her eyes don’t drop.
“And rule three,” I say, keeping my gaze on hers, “when I ask for something, you say yes.”
“Anything?” she asks. It’s a challenge, wrapped in fear and tired humor she’s using to protect herself.
“Yes,” I answer. “Anything.”
She shifts her weight, the coat pulling tight across her chest, the fabric stretching over the curve of her breasts. My eyes drop, and I make them come back to her face. She notices it.
“Of course,” she mutters under her breath. “Of course you’d—”
I cut her off by leaning in a little, just enough to crowd her.
“What about that surprises you?” I ask. “You’re smart enough to know exactly what this is.”
Her breath hitches, but her chin goes up another notch. “I’m smart enough to know you’re not the first man who thinks owning someone equals obedience. What happens if I don’t?”
