He has something in his hands, bread and a bottle of water, and for the first time, I notice he isn’t leading with his usual edge. He is trying to be… soft.
“Malyshka,” he says gently, as if he’s afraid I might shatter if he speaks too loud. “Eat.”
I don’t move. I don’t acknowledge him. My focus stays on the wall. Stone cold.
He sets the bread down on the nightstand, watching me with a frustration I could feel vibrating through the air. “I said eat.”
Nothing.
He takes a moment to regroup, breathing in and composing himself. “Fine. I’ll take the floor.” He runs a hand down his face, then reaches for extra sheets and a pillow from the closet.
I remain silent, observing as he folds the blankets at the foot of the bed.
Something inside me cracks, coming out flat and lifeless. “I give up.”
He lifts his head, his expression narrowing.
“You can kill me. Or rape me. I don’t care anymore.” My throat burns, but I force the words out. “There’s no way out. I missed my chance. It’s done.”
I’m hoping my feigned despair will shake him—maybe he’ll have more sympathy if I seem suicidal.
It might be working—he jolts. His lips part like he wants to speak but can’t. Instead, he drops his pillow and takes a step closer, his intensity caught between anger and something else I can’t figure out.
“You think I want that? You think that’s what this is?”
I nod in agreement, imitating a sad puppy.
“No, Aurelia. I’m not keeping you alive so you can give up. I’m keeping you alive because I…” He stops, raking a hand through his hair, struggling to keep control. “Because I’m protecting you. Whether you believe it or not.”
I laugh bitterly. “Protecting me? You’re the one who chained me. You’re the one who keeps trying to kill people. You’re the reason I’m even here.”
His jaw clenches again, but his eyes plead for me. “You haven’t seen it yet. The danger isn’t me. It’s everything outside this room. My father. His men. The Bratva. I’m not your prison, malyshka. I’m your wall. And whether you want to believe me or not… I’m just as much a prisoner as you are.”
I hesitate, something about his words feeling disturbingly familiar. I want to scream, hit him, collapse under the guilt and exhaustion. Instead, I close my eyes and whisper, “Then let me go.”
“What do I have to do to reignite your spark?” he asks in a deep, needy tone, but I don’t reply.
“Please eat.”
I don’t reply again, but he continues to tower over me, exhaling hard before letting out a quiet whisper. “Fine.”
He yanks the covers off my legs and pulls me upright at the edge of the bed.
“Would it make you feel better if you could stab me?”
Huh.
“Would it help you to get out some of your frustration and stab me?” he repeats, clearly because I was too stunned to respond the first time.
“You want me to stab you?”
“No, I want you to go back to acting like your annoying self.”
“So you think it’ll help if I kill you?”
He laughs. “No, malyshka, I don’t want you to kill me. I want you to stab me, once. Right here.” He lifts his shirt, revealing the lower right side of his abdomen.
Even though I’m not convinced a blade could pierce him—he’s practically built from stone—I answer, “Yes, I would like to stab you.”
