The "suite" is enormous. Silk sheets. Marble bathroom. A balcony with a view of the world. I try the balcony door, but it’s sealed shut.
For hours I sit on the edge of the bed, staring out at the city lights.
Eighty floors up, a bird in a gilded cage.
My fingers drift to my jaw. There’s no real pain—just the ghost of his grip, the way he forced me to meet his eyes, the memory clinging like a brand.
It’s a reminder:I own you.
Still, I can't stay here. I won’t sit and wait for him to decide my fate.
My father might be weak, but I’m not. I’m a Blackwood. We solve problems. We don't wait for them to solve themselves.
The door sits across the room like an invitation. Heart pounding, I cross the space quietly and test the handle, expecting it to be locked.
Instead, the latch clicks softly.
Unlocked.
A frown pulls at my lips. Why would he leave it open? Arrogance? Does he think I’m too scared to try?
Or worse. A test.
I don't care. I need to find a way out. A service elevator. A window that breaks. Anything.
The hallway beyond is dark, the obsidian floor cold beneath my bare feet as I slip outside. The penthouse stretches in shadow, lit only by the distant glow of the city, massive and hollow around me like the belly of a whale.
Moving carefully toward the living area, I scan for anything useful. A key card. Lev’s jacket. Maybe a spare left carelessly on a table.
Thud.
The sound comes from a room in the hallway.
I freeze.
Go back,my brain screams.Run back to the prison. Hide under the covers.
Thud.
I creep closer. The door is shut, but more sounds escape.
Thud.
A low, gurgling cry.
My hand moves on its own, pushing the heavy wood inward an inch to peer into the abyss.
The smell hits me first: sweat and urine.
Cold grips my spine.
It’s an office, but the desk has been pushed aside. In the center of the room, a wooden chair sits on a plastic tarp. A man is tied to it, barely recognizable. His face is swollen with purple and black bruises. One eye is shut, the other rolling wildly in his head. A gag is stuffed in his mouth, muffling his wet, gurgling sobs.
And standing over him is Konstantin.
He’s removed his tuxedo jacket. His white shirt is rolled up to the elbows, revealing intricate tattoos on his forearms—snakes and daggers intertwined in ink.
He isn’t yelling or angry. That’s the most terrifying part. He is calm. Focused.
