I peel the tape from her mouth in one swift motion. She spits a curse, voice hoarse, throat raw. I almost smile.
“Scream if you want,” I tell her, stepping back. My voice is flat, final, louder than I meant it to be. “No one’s coming.”
She spits at my shoes. I ignore it.
The heavy door swings closed, the clang echoing up the concrete corridor. I let it settle into silence behind me, then dial the code to seal it. Her voice is already rising—threats, promises, curses—but there’s nothing left for her but the cold, the dark, and the ache in her wrists.
I stand on the other side of the door, blood drying on my jaw, breath coming slow and steady. My hands don’t shake. My mind is already turning over the next move.
Nikola’s fate is still a question, but the balance of power is shifting. She thought she could walk into my city, disappear my brother, and vanish. She thought wrong.
Let her rage in the dark. She’ll learn who I am, and she’ll learn what it means to cross me. If she wants mercy, she can start by telling me what I want to hear.
Until then, she can freeze. I want her scared. I want her ready to break.
Above all, I want her to know that she’s not the only one who can wear a mask.
***
Time drips through the darkness, viscous and untrustworthy. I don’t bother checking a watch—there’s no clock in this cell, no window to guess at the hour. Only a thin band of light under the door marks the passage of minutes, maybe hours.
I hear her pacing, the slap of her heels on concrete, the hitch in her breathing when she brushes the bruises forming on her wrists. She’s silent but not passive; even when she’s still, I can sense her mind racing, testing every seam in the concrete for a crack, every vent for weakness.
I watch her on the monitor. She refuses to cry, refuses even to slump in defeat. She paces, runs her hands over the cold walls, checks the bolts on the drain, listens to every shuffle of my staff in the rooms above.
Every few minutes, I let my footsteps echo—just once—across the ceiling, reminding her she’s never alone, that I could come for her at any time. I want her to feel the waiting. I want the anticipation to burn as hot as the fear.
But it’s not just fear I see through that camera. It’s fury. She paces like a caged predator, lips pressed white, jaw set. Every so often she stops and stares at the door, as if daring me to walk through and see what she does next.
When I finally do, the lock grinds open with a heavy, deliberate scrape. I step through, sleeves rolled up, no jacket, no tie—just the weight of authority filling the frame. The light behind me cuts my silhouette in two: civilized and savage.
I expect the mask to slip, expect a flinch, a plea, maybe the start of a bargain.
What I get is a blur of movement.
Suzy launches at me, raw and vicious, hands braced flat against my chest, shoving with every ounce of strength she’s got. Her hair is wild, her eyes fever-bright, mouth curled in a snarl. For half a second, the impact rocks me—she’s strong, or maybe just desperate—but I’ve been in too many fights to be surprised for long.
My hand snaps down, locking at her waist, dragging her close. The other catches her wrists, twisting them up and away from her face, pinning her to the cold wall so hard the breath rushes from her lungs. She thrashes, but I press in, hip to hip, chest to chest, every muscle flexed to remind her who has the upper hand.
I can feel the wild thud of her heart, feel her breath hot on my jaw.
For a moment, the room crackles—anger, fear, and something sharper, a hunger threaded through every ragged inhale. Our faces are inches apart. Her jaw is set, eyes locked on mine, refusing to blink, refusing to yield. My anger burns bright, but underneath it is a darker satisfaction.
This isn’t a girl I can break with threats. This is a viper—coiled and waiting, just as likely to strike as to submit.
I lean in, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear, voice pitched low and dark. “Keep struggling. I enjoy it.”
The warning is thick with challenge, a promise wrapped in threat. Her breath stutters—just once—then steadies. We’re both caught in the same trap, neither one willing to give ground.
It’s not fear I see in her now, but raw, furious resolve, the kind that only grows stronger under pressure.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the space between us, to the shared heat and the reckless pulse pounding throughboth our chests. I want to shake her. I want to see what she’ll do if I push harder. Instead, I force myself to step back, tightening my grip on her wrists.
“Who do you work for?” My glare is knife-sharp, every word clipped and cold. “Where is Nikola?”
She meets my eyes, voice cold as the concrete. “I don’t know.”
I study her, searching for cracks, for the telltale tremor of a lie.
