If I weren’t trapped, I might have actually enjoyed it.
But no matter how soft the sheets or how perfect the view, a cage is still a cage.
I stop pacing and stare at the door, my pulse ticking faster. How long before he comes to see me? Or is he avoiding me again?
My fingers twitch with the urge to throw something—anything—just to feel like I still have some kind of control.
Just as I contemplate throwing the ceramic vase on the table, there’s a knock on the door.
“Elara? It’s Roman.”
I freeze, fingers tightening around the vase. Of course it’s him. I want to tell him to fuck off, to never knock on this door again—but I need answers. I storm to the door and yank it open so hard it slams against the wall.
“For how long will I be your prisoner, Roman?” I fire at him, my voice trembling with rage. “This is becoming utterly ridiculous. Let me go! You monster!”
He steps inside calmly, shutting the door behind him with that unnerving control that makes me want to scream.
This is out of character for me, but I’m too angry. I’m not done. My anger’s too hot, too wild to hold back. “Are you going to keep me locked up here forever like some wicked witch in a tower? Because that’s—”
“We’re getting married.”
The words hit like a slap. I blink, sure I misheard him. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He just stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
My throat goes dry. “This has to be a joke.”
“It’s not a joke. The Pakhan ordered it.”
The words land like ice. I’m Asian American, yes, but I know the weight of that Russian title—the men who sit and make decisions no one questions. My knees threaten to give; the room tilts. I clamp my jaw hard enough to taste metal and force my body to stay upright.
Breathe, Elara. Don’t let him see you wobble.
“What gives your Pakhan the right to dictate my life?” I snap, but my voice comes out thin. “I’m not marrying you. I won’t marry anyone, especially not you.”
He watches me with the same unreadable expression he wears like armor. “It’s either that or you die,” he says flatly. “Those are the only two options. I either marry you or kill you. You either marry me or die. The choice is yours.”
My mouth hangs open. For a ridiculous second, I think he’s testing me, baiting some reaction. But the hard set of his jaw, the slow, patient calm in his voice, and the quiet in the room that narrows down to the sound of my heartbeat tell me he means it. I see the outline of the world closing: a mansion that won’t let me out, a father who sells people for profit, and men who treat my life like a chess piece.
“Coward’s choice,” I manage at last. The words are small, but they feel like a match in my hand. “Threaten me with death, then present marriage as mercy. That’s your…solution?” Rage threads through my fear, sharpening my tongue. I won’t beg. I won’t placate him. Not yet.
He takes one step closer, and up close, there’s no cruelty in his mouth—only an awful, steady resolve. “Marry me and live,” he says. “Refuse me and die. Tell me which. I do not have time to banter words.”
I look at him—really look—trying to find the man in the armor. All I see is a ledger of options, a man trained to turn people into advantages. My chest is a war zone: fear on one side, a wild, furious desire to survive on the other. I want to spit in his face; I also want to run until my legs fall off. Neither is possible.
“Roman…no.”
“Marriage will protect you,” he says, voice flat as a tombstone. “It puts you inside the family. No buyer touches what’s ours. Not even your father.”
I snarl, the word coming out like a knife. “So now you own me. Same old cage, different lock.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “This is a property swap dressed up as vows.”
He doesn’t argue. He folds his hands behind his back the way a man who’s closed every other door in his life folds them. It’s calm and inevitable. “The wedding is in two days,” he tells me. The certainty in those two words lands harder than any raised voice could. It terrifies me more than yelling ever did.
“I won’t be your trophy,” I say, voice scraping from somewhere low and raw. “I won’t…I won’t play house for you.”
He tilts his head, slow. “You won’t have to,” he says. “You’ll have the protections. You’ll have a legal name. You’ll have whatever limits I consent to put on you. But you’ll be Rusnak, Elara. That’s the only guarantee the world respects.”
I try another angle.
