“I doubt it.”
“You will.”
He steps closer again, and I realize too late that the threat isn’t violence—it’s control. The way he looks at me makes the air thicken, like he’s already decided what happens next.
I could scream, throw something, try to run—but it wouldn’t matter. People like him don’t make empty threats. They make promises.
For a long moment, I just stand there, breathing hard, the sound too loud in the quiet room. If I say no, my brother dies. If I say yes, I give this man control over me. Either way, I lose.
He’s watching me patiently, and I know he’s certain of my answer like he already knows which way I’ll break.
My voice comes out small. “If I do this… if I agree to it, you promise me he’ll be safe.”
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “He’ll be alive,” he says. “Once you’re mine, his debt’s paid. You won’t need to worry about him again.”
The words don’t sound like mercy, but they’re the only thing close to it. I swallow hard. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. Then louder: “Fine. I’ll do it.”
He studies me for a moment, as if committing the sound of my surrender to memory. Then, very softly, he says, “Good girl.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist.
“You don’t belong in this world,” he says quietly. “But now you’re in it. Which means you’re mine until I say otherwise.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Artyom
She doesn’t move. Just stands there, eyes wide, trying to make sense of what I said. I’ve seen people freeze in shock like that before, but this feels different. The way her chest rises and falls, the way her lips part like she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words—it gets under my skin in a way it shouldn’t.
Her skin’s flushed, her hair a mess, eyes glassy from fear or disbelief. She looks like someone who should be nowhere near my world, yet somehow, she fits in the quiet after a threat.
She exhales, shaky and slow. The sound hits me low, somewhere I don’t want to admit exists. She doesn’t even realize she’s trembling. I should look away, but I don’t.
“I’ll have someone contact you tomorrow,” I say, voice even. “We’ll start preparing.”
She blinks, like the words don’t land. I can tell she doesn’t understand what “preparing” means. She thinks this is over, that I’ll disappear into the night and give her time to make sense of it. She’s wrong.
I take a slow step toward her. “You’ll need clothes, documents, jewelry. The things a fiancée would have.”
Her mouth opens, then shuts again. “You’re not serious.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You think I came here for fun?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t even—I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Obedience,” I say. “For now, that’s enough.”
She swallows hard, and I can almost hear the words she doesn’t say—because she did agree, and she knows it. That’s what loyalty does to people like her. It makes them weak in the wrong ways.
I turn my back to her for the first time and start walking toward the tiny hallway that leads to her bedroom. Her voice follows, sharp and panicked. “Where are you going?”
“Checking something.”
“Don’t step inside my room!”
I ignore her and open the door. The light from the hallway spills over a cramped space, full of cheap furniture, worn sheets, and a stack of medical books on the nightstand. The whole place smells faintly of antiseptic and something floral. It’s clean, too clean for someone who works double shifts like her. Orderly.
Behind me she’s hovering by the door, still holding that damn blanket, eyes wide. “You can’t just?—”
