For two weeks, I belong to the monster. I can only hope I'll recognize myself when it's over.
***
The silence in the back of the SUV is its own kind of pressure—expensive leather, his scent of cedar and smoke and something darker underneath both, Vasily driving with practiced discretion, eyes forward, pretending not to notice.
Rafail hasn't spoken since we left. He sits close enough that his heat radiates through the thin fabric of my dress, his hand resting on the seat between us, fingers still against the leather. I stare out the window at the Boston skyline sliding past and watch the terrified woman in the glass—the one who just signed herself over to a stranger and called it a choice.
But I also see the defiance in that reflection. The spine.
He can have my body and my time and my compliance for two weeks. He won't have the part that matters.
"You're thinking very loudly over there," he says.
I don't turn. "I wasn't aware thinking had a volume."
"Everything has a volume if you know how to listen." His hand moves to rest on my thigh—not groping. Claiming. "Your fear, for example. It's screaming."
"I'm not afraid."
"Rule four, milaya. No lying." He reaches across and takes my hand. I flinch but don't pull away. His fingers are warm against my ice-cold skin. "Your pulse is racing. You haven't taken a full breath since we got in the car. And you're gripping that jacket like it's the only solid thing left."
I glance down at my other hand. He's right. I'm white-knuckling his jacket like a lifeline.
"Your phone," he says. "I need it."
"I haven't contacted anyone—"
"Yet." He squeezes my hand once. "No outside contact without permission. That includes your phone." He releases my hand, palm up, waiting.
"What if my grandmother needs me?"
"They'll call me." He sees the protest forming. "It's already arranged, Jana."
I stare at his open hand for a long moment, then unlock the phone and place it in his palm.
He opens my messages and scrolls through with the casual ease of someone who already owns the inventory. My stomach turns watching it.
"I need to message my roommate," I say. "She'll notice if I vanish."
He types without asking me what to say: *Got a last-minute consulting job. Two weeks, out of state, good pay.* He shows me the screen, then hits send before I can second-guess the lie. The message turns blue. Done. He powers the phone down with a decisive click and pockets it like he's pocketing the last piece of my independence.
"You'll get it back when the contract is complete."
The gates ahead swing open silently—iron and imposing against the night—and then the estate comes into view. Glass and stone perched on a cliff, overlooking black water that catches moonlight. Flood lights illuminate manicured grounds and walls that encircle everything like the beautiful cage they are.
Walls that keep the world out, or keep people in, depending on your perspective.
"This is where you live?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
"This is where *we* live. For the next two weeks." He watches me take in the fountain at the center of the circular drive, themarble steps, the entrance doors that belong in a museum. "My Boston residence."
*Home,* he'd said. The word feels wrong. This isn't a home. It's a fortress dressed in luxury and landscaping.
Vasily opens my door and Rafail is already there, offering his hand. I place my cold fingers in his warm palm.
"Welcome home,milaya."
***
