And gleaming against the white linen napkin, nestled with the spoon and fork, is a steak knife.
He taps it with his thumb as he lets go of the tray. The light glints off the blade’s razor edge.
Kirill doesn’t fear me having a knife. He doesn’t need to fear anything I might do.
We both know he has all the power.
And I don’t know how…but I’m going to change that.
Chapter 10
Jordan
The hours bleed, smearing together until I can’t tell one from the next. Three days have passed since Kirill yanked me out of my life. Three days of threats and endless questions about keys and evidence I don’t even have, broken up only by meals.
And now this.
He’s changed the game. He sits in an armchair on the other side of the bedroom, hovering like a sharp-edged shadow with strange, washed-out eyes while I fake sleep. Even when I keep my lids squeezed shut, his abrasive stare sandpapers my skin.
Before, there were gaps of rest to regroup and rethink my plans. Spaces between questions, breathing room between his moods.
Now he’s a silent but constant presence in my little prison, pressed right up against me, tracking me from bathroom to bed to the tired little sitting area and then back again, never more than a step away. He’s coiled, expecting me to snap and spill.
I assume my attempted escape is the cause. Even if it was futile, he seems unwilling to risk another misstep from me.
I huddle under the covers, as still as possible despite my nerves. Years of meditation practice have finally amounted to something besides staged pictures and forced Zen.
Using a box technique meant to calm the mind and induce drowsiness, I take slow, measured breaths. Except my eyes, hidden beneath the comforter, stay wide open. My thoughts race, darting everywhere. Kirill doesn’t move or make a sound, yet the gravity of his attention rolls over my body. My muscles twitch, aching to run.
I tucked the knife he left on the breakfast tray beneath my pillow. He’s not scared of it, but I feel safer having the blade within easy reach.
My nerves are antennae. I hate that. I hate that my stupid body is so tuned to Kirill. I know when he shifts, even if he’s soundless.
Survival. That’s all. Instinct. Prey understanding the shape of a predator’s shadow.
Time stretches like elastic, unreliable and impossible to measure.
Minutes—perhaps hours—glide past, formless and meaningless. My mind flickers from prayer to prayer, half-remembered mantras looping in and out of fear, fragments of comfort dulled by panic.
I try to hold on to what I teach others.
Breathe in abundance. Breathe out fear.
But I find no abundance here. No peace. Just this room, four close walls, and the man who never stops observing me. The man with the key.
Manifestation proves an uphill battle here. But I won’t give up. I can’t.
At some point, exhaustion wins, and my box breathing does its job.
The body caves, surrendering where my will refused, and I sink down into blankness. I have no fear-fueled dreams, just a slow, deep descent into nothing.
An inhuman noise jolts me awake.
Raw and painful, as if torn from the chest.
My eyes snap open, my heart slamming against my ribs. Night swallows everything, leaving only a silver slice of moonlight to peer through the window.
Again, the animalistic cry prickles over my skin, arms, and the back of my neck.
