I try the door every twenty minutes, but it never budges.
The guards outside—two of them, judging by the shadows beneath the door that move every so often—don’t speak to me when I knock. They don’t even react when I shift from polite requests to be let out to pleading to outright demands for them to open the door.
They simply murmur to each other in low tones, carrying on as though my existence is simply background noise. As though I am already just another piece of furniture inside the estate, a new fixture for them to ignore.
My muscles ache from pacing. The cuts on my hands and arms throb beneath the bandages that I’ve already re-dressed since coming here. The sky outside the window has darkened completely and beyond that, lights flicker on one by one across the courtyard, illuminating the snow-covered pathways and the silhouettes of patrolling guards roaming the front gates.
Eventually, I end up back in the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror to stare at my reflection, at my wild hair and eyes rimmed in red. I see a woman who doesn’t look like herself anymore, someone who has been shaken by a tragedy and delivered to a man who isn’t at all the safety net he’s been promised to be.
Eventually, I hear the lock on my door finally click open.
My body jerks at the sound as I race out of the bathroom, my heart pounding from the one noise I’ve waited for and dreaded all in the same breath. It may mean temporary freedom, but it may also mean the next part of this nightmare is just beginning.
When the door swings open, the guard from before fills the doorway. His expression is neutral, carved from the same stone as Sasha himself, unreadable.
“You’re expected down at dinner,” he says.
Notinvited. Notrequested. Notasked.
Expected.
It’s a word heavy with command, one that makes my spine stiffen instantly.
A laugh bubbles up in my throat at the absurdity, sharp and humorless, that I have to force myself to swallow down. I sigh instead.
“Fine. Take me to him,” I say, lifting my chin.
The hallway outside my room feels colder than before, as if the temperature has slowly started plummeting since the moment I arrived. Two more guards fall into step behind us when we reach the end of the hallway. Their boots echo in unison while we walk, a reminder that any direction I turn, I am flanked by men who would kill for Sasha without blinking.
As we descend the main staircase, warm golden light spills across the foyer. Another chandelier hangs overhead, sparkling like icicles caught in sunbeam rays. Every step toward the dining room tightens the knot in my stomach.
The guard in front of me opens a set of double doors, ushering me inside.
Sasha Sokolov sits at the head of a long mahogany table, a glass of red wine in his hand. The candlelight paints his features in sharp, unforgiving lines. His dark hair is tousled slightly, a littlemessier than before, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times while speaking with my father.
His suit jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick veins and dark ink stroked over his skin. He looks powerful and every bit as dangerous as I know he is.
When his eyes lift, I stumble slightly and forget how to breathe.
“Alina. Sit.”
The guard closest to me walks me over to the table and pulls out the chair beside him. Not across from him, not down at the other end of the table.Rightnext to him.
I hesitate only a single second before I slowly lower myself down.
His presence fills the entire room. It’s dense and suffocating. One of his waitstaff appears with two plates, both mirroring each other with roasted vegetables, seared meat, and a small loaf of freshly baked bread. The scents are warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the tension radiating between us.
Sasha doesn’t touch his food when his plate is placed down in front of him. He just watches me.
I push the food around with my fork. The silence between us grows heavy, stretching uncomfortably enough to make my ears ring. He could fill it if he wanted to, explain why I’m here. Explain what’s happening and why his phone call to my father freaked him out so badly. Explain whether he had been the one who texted me to warn me about the bomb, and if so,why?
He doesn’t do any of that, though.
“Eat,” he finally says.
My fork stills. “I’m not hungry.”
A partial lie. While I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast this morning, my stomach is coiled into too many knots to even think about swallowing anything that isn’t my own saliva.
