I tell myself I’m still in control. That I’m just moving pieces on the board. That this is strategy, discipline. But the truth? I’m a good leader, yes, but I’m still human. And right now, my father’s plans can wait.
The corridors are a maze of concrete and steel, and I make sure to lead her through every one of them. I take us down a hallway, around the table, then up and down the same set of stairs three times. I twist her around corners, guide her through doorways, and double back when there’s no need.Disorientation. I want her lost enough that even if she escapes, she’ll never find this path again.
But what unsettles me is her silence.
Most people would beg, cry, curse my name. She doesn’t. She doesn’t even breathe heavier when I spin her back the way we came. She simply follows, her steps even, her grip steady. She lets me lead her through the dark without a word.
And it infuriates me.
It makes me want to speak first, to break the silence just to remind her who holds the power here. But she waits. Patient. Calculating. And I’m the one who feels cornered.
By the time we reach the entrance to my room, my temper is stretched thin.
I push open the door and guide her inside. The air changes immediately—less humid, but still warm, touched by the faint scent of leather and smoke.
I sit her down on the edge of my bed.
My bed.
That alone is hazardous. I’ve never let anyone sit there without bleeding afterward.
For a long moment, I leave the room dark, letting her wonder, letting her imagine what I might do. Then I lift the lights to a dim glow. Shadows cling to the walls, the edges of the room swallowed whole, but the bed is illuminated just enough to make her visible to me.
I move to stand in front of her, my posture rigid, arms folded behind my back—and still—still—she doesn’t speak. Her lips are closed, her chin tilted just enough to look defiant, but her eyes… her eyes study me as if she’s the one dissecting me.
This girl is so annoying.
I let out a slow, measured breath through my nose, because if I don’t, I’ll laugh or curse or do something far less disciplined.
“You said you wanted to talk, malyshka.”
“You brought me to your room?”
She says it like a question, her eyes moving over the bare walls before her hand drags slowly across my silk sheets. Black against pale skin. A deliberate touch.
“Obviously,” I reply flatly, wondering—not for the first time—how the hell my men couldn’t catch this girl until now.
She smiles. The kind of smile that makes me suspicious.
Is she high, and I missed it? Or is she just insane? I have no idea what she’s thinking right now.
“Do I upset you for some reason?”
Is she a mind reader?
“I don’t get upset, malyshka.” I take a step closer, letting her look up at me with those glacial blue eyes that are far too enticing for her own good. “And you…” I tilt my head, studying her. “You do not have the capability to upset me.”
“Okay.”
Okay.
There’s no way this girl isn’t some kind of robot. Or maybe she’s just built out of chaos.
I stand there in silence, my mouth tight, because she’s starting to piss me off—and she knows it.
“Are you going to speak?” I snap, losing myself for a moment.
“Alright, grumpy pants, let’s talk.”
