“Are you ready to let me go back to my father?” I ask, voice steady despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
He lowers himself onto the chaise, deliberate, unhurried. “Your father? The man who put you up for sale?” His eyes narrow. “Are you certain you want to go back to him?”
I glare at him. “Whatever his plans for me are, yours are worse. You want me to believe you care about me more than he does?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly, dark eyes locked on mine. “I’m only here to ask questions. The more honest you are, the more likely you are to be safe.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady my racing thoughts. This is the man who kidnapped me, and yet, somehow, his words carry a weight that makes me hesitate.
“What kind of questions?” I manage, voice tight.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, calm and controlled. “About your father. His shipments. The contacts he trusts. Every detail that could make me understand the scope of his network.”
I let out a bitter laugh, almost a snarl. “You think he’d tell me any of that?”
“I think you already know more than you’re admitting,” he says, quiet, deadly certain.
I straighten, jaw tight. “You can threaten me all you want. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s the wrong answer,printsessa,” he says, tilting his head, calm but with an edge that cuts through me like steel.
He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. Every word is enough. “I don’t respond well to lies,” he continues, standing now. His shadow looms over me. “And you’ve already proven you’re capable of sabotage.”
I look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
“So what now? You’re going to torture me?” I say, voice shaking but defiant.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”
I bite my lip, jaw clenched, and he studies me a beat longer before straightening. “Your food will come soon. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you’ll talk.”
He moves to the door, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why are you doing this?”
He pauses at the doorway, glancing back at me with those unrelenting hazel eyes. “Because your father is evil. And you, Elara, are going to help me get revenge on him.”
Then the door shuts, the sound echoing like a lock sliding into place, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing, dangerous awareness of just how trapped I am.
The days blur, but the tension only sharpens. Roman keeps me locked inside the room, always under watch, never letting me out of his sight for long. He questions me at odd hours—about my father’s dealings, about shipments, about the men I saw at that cursed dinner table.
I give him nothing more than I have to. Not because I want to protect my father—I hate him—but because every piece of truth feels like surrender. And I refuse to surrender to this man who stole my freedom.
Sometimes I catch him watching me, and it makes my blood run cold. He studies my reactions, my silence, the way my jaw tightens when I refuse to answer. He’s patient, methodical, but there’s a hunger there, like he’s testing me, probing for the smallest crack.
I refuse to give him one.
Even when he’s gone, I feel his presence, lingering in the corners of the room, in the quiet hum of the air. I pace, I sit, I read the books Luka brings, but nothing can distract me from the fact that I am trapped. And yet…there’s a part of me, a dangerous, foolish part, that wants to see what he’ll do next.
I hate myself for thinking it.
I should be afraid of Roman. Every time he comes in here, I should run and hide. But I don’t.
Roman doesn’t act like other Bratva men. He doesn’t leer, doesn’t touch, doesn’t threaten me with anything but his words—and his silence. And somehow, that unnerves me more than violence ever could.
He’s always watching. Studying. Reading me like I’m one of his missions, not a person. Every flick of my eyes, every twitch of my fingers, he notices. I can feel it.
I’ve seen men like my father’s associates—loud, greedy, and cruel in the simplest, dirtiest ways. Roman is different. His restraint is what makes him terrifying. He doesn’t need to raisehis voice or make promises of pain. One look from him feels like being stripped bare, and I can’t decide if it’s fear crawling down my spine…or something far worse.
Yes, it’s stupid. The difference is clear, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let my guard down. He’s still my captor, and I’ll treat him as such.
