Minutes bleed into hours.
I sit rigid in the chair, still as a statue. My body aches from the tension, but I refuse to fold. If I unravel, he wins. If I speak to the mirror, if I whisper even one name, then everything I’ve held onto means nothing.
But hunger creeps in quickly. My stomach growls, humiliating me already. My throat is dry, my lips cracking, but I press them tighter, tasting the metallic tang of blood where I’ve bitten through the skin.
I start to pace. Then sit. Then stand again. Anything to keep from listening to the gnawing inside me. Anything to keep from hearing his voice in my mind.
Say it. Say the name. Say it, and it all stops.
I shove the thought away, but it keeps taunting me.
By the tenth hour, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked from wall to wall. The mirror reflects me back—hair tangled, sweat slicking my temples, a feral creature pacing in a cage.
I wonder if Dante is watching. If Elijah is. If they see me holding the line or if they only see weakness, stubbornness that borders on madness.
By the fifteenth hour, I whisper to myself just to hear a voice. Not theirs. Not his. Mine.
“I won’t.”
Over and over. My new mantra.
By the twentieth hour, I collapse onto the floor, cheek pressed to cold tile. Every bone in my body throbs. My lips are split, and my tongue is swollen. I dream of water, of bread, of Elijah’s hand brushing hair from my face. I dream of Enzo’s hand at my chin, the weight of his eyes burning holes through me.
The mirror hums. Silent. Watching. Waiting.
By the twenty-fourth hour, I am a ruin of myself.
But my lips are still closed.
And when the lock finally clicks, when the door creaks open and Enzo steps back inside, the only thing I have left—the only weapon I’ve managed to keep—is the silence.
I raise my head. My voice is gone, my body trembling, but my eyes find his and hold.
And for the first time, I swear I see something falter in him. Just a fracture.
Not pity.
Not love.
Respect.
“Nikolai Orlov wants to tear you to pieces, wants you to pay for something you had no part in. His father is evil, and his son is his shadow. But if you remain this strong, even if you die, you will die with honour.”
Great, I’m glad I’m making progress.
* * *
Mental training requires Enzo to rip into my psyche, to weaponize every intimate truth I’ve ever told him. Every secret I’ve cried into his chest, every fear I thought was safe in his hands, he uses to cut into me. Not because he enjoys it. But because he knows it’s the only way to prepare me for what’s coming. I don’t blame him for that.
He’s the only one who’s ever loved me. Truly loved me.
Everyone else in this house is loyal to me—respectful, obedient, protective—but love? No.
Dante left the second they told him the Orlovs would come for me. I haven’t seen him in years. Not since the day he realized the cost of keeping me alive would be too high for his heart to bear. And maybe it was his way of protecting me, but even still… I know the truth. I’ve always known it. He sees her in me. My mother. The woman who softened him. The woman whose death took the last drop of humanity he had.
And Elijah only sees a woman he wants to devour, not cherish.
I know he desires me. There are too many moments—the way he adjusts my form in silence, the twitch in his jaw when I flinch in pain, the way his eyes darken when I tease him. It’s not indifference. But it’s also not enough. His kiss proved that much.
