The shadows in the corner shift. Not menacing. Not attacking. They move closer—slowly, deliberately, like they're reaching for me. Comforting in their own twisted way. Like they're saying we've got you… and so does he.
The real prison isn't the guards or the locked doors. It's the love that won't let go. The claim that won't release. The possession that followed me through death and breakdown and two years of trying to forget.
And the note on the coffee table I can still see from here. I missed you. You're mine now.
"Fuck you," I whisper.
But my hand slides between my legs again. Feels the proof. The wetness. The stretch. He was here. He's still here. Somewhere. Watching. Always watching.
And I don't know if I want to kill him or fuck him or both.
But I know I can't do either without him.
Because that's the real cage.
Not the guards. Not the locks. Not the destroyed router or the prison of this house.
It's him.
It's always been him.
And I couldn’t be happier about it.
41
DROGO
The city blurs past the window—streetlights, empty roads, London at its quietest hour. I'm in the back seat, different driver this time—Alexei, younger, doesn't talk unless necessary. Konstantin stayed behind with Oliver.
My phone buzzes. Klaus. Of course.
I answer on the second ring. Don't say anything. Just wait.
"Drogo." His voice is strong. Clear. No oxygen tank hissing in the background anymore. The cancer went into remission eight months ago—miracle the doctors still can't explain. Now he's healthier than he's been in years. Walking more. Working more. Living when he should be dying. "The accountant. Mikhail. Why hasn't he given up the money yet?"
Straight to business. No pleasantries. That's how I know he's worried.
"Complications," I say flatly.
"What kind?"
"The kind that require more time." I lean back against the leather. "He's holding out. Thinks he can bargain. He's wrong."
Silence on the other end. I can hear him breathing—steady now, healthy, the sound of a man who's supposed to be dead but refuses to die. "How much more time?"
"Twenty-four hours. Maybe less."
"Drogo—"
"It's handled." My voice drops. Cold. Final. The tone that makes men twice my age shut up and listen. "I said it's handled. Unless you don't trust me anymore?"
Another pause. Longer this time. "No," Klaus says carefully. Too carefully. "I trust you."
Liar. He's terrified of me. Has been since I put that first bullet between Viktor's eyes at the conference table. Since I showed him exactly what kind of monster he created. Good. Let him be scared.
"Then let me work," I say.
"Of course. Just… keep me informed."
