How does he know that? Has he been tracking my meals too? The thought should infuriate me, but I'm too tired to muster the energy.
Mrs. Novak disappears. Misha turns to me.
"I have calls to make. Security arrangements. Mrs. Novak will show you to your room." He's already stepping away, already dismissing me. "We'll talk in the morning."
"It is morning."
"Later, then."
He starts toward a hallway that branches off from the foyer, and something in me snaps. The terror of the holding room. The humiliation of the auction. The hours of silence in the car, choking on questions I couldn't ask. And now he's going to walk away from me again, leave me in this beautiful mausoleumwith a stranger, like I'm a package to be stored until he's ready to deal with me.
No.
"Misha."
He stops but doesn't turn.
I close the distance between us, my heels clicking against the marble, and grab his arm. The muscle beneath my fingers is hard, tense. He goes completely still.
"Look at me."
Slowly, he turns. His face is blank, controlled, but there's something flickering in his eyes. Something he's fighting to keep contained.
"Bianca—"
"You don't get to do this." My voice shakes, but I don't let go. "You don't get to buy me at an auction and then treat me like furniture. You don't get to make decisions about my wardrobe and my breakfast and my bedroom without even looking at me." I step closer, tilting my head back to hold his gaze. "I'm not property. I'm not cargo. I'm a person, and you owe me more than logistics."
"I know exactly what you are."
"Then act like it."
We stand there, frozen, my hand on his arm, his eyes burning into mine. The contact is electric. Two years since I've touched him. Two years since I've been this close to anyone, because every date felt like a betrayal, every potential kiss a reminder that he was the only mouth I wanted on mine.
He feels it too. I see his breath catch, see his jaw clench with the effort of restraint.
Then he pulls away.
"Get some sleep," he says, his voice rough. "We'll talk when you wake."
"Misha—"
"There are things you need to understand." He pauses at the mouth of the hallway, his back to me. "About me. About your father. About why this is happening. But you're exhausted and overwhelmed, and you won't hear any of it properly until you've rested."
"I can't sleep. Not here. Not like this."
He's silent for a moment. Then, without turning: "I never stopped, Bianca."
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Watching you. Wanting you. Keeping you safe from the shadows." His voice is low, stripped of its usual control. "Not for a single day. Not for a single hour. I told you to forget me, and I couldn't do the same. I told you to move on, and I watched you refuse to, and I hated myself for being grateful." He exhales. "I never stopped."
I can't breathe. Can't think. The words hit me like blows, each one landing somewhere soft and unprotected.
"Then why did you leave?"
He turns his head slightly, giving me his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The shadows under his eyes.
"Because staying would have killed you." A pause. "And leaving was the only way I knew how to protect you."
