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Ilya stares at me, fighting some private war with himself. Then whatever restraint he has left snaps, and Russian spills out of him in a torrent. I understand enough Russian to get around. At that party, for example, I understood perfectly well when he told me he wanted me to kiss him, but this is nothing like that. My mediocre vocabulary doesn’t stand a chance.

“Ya nenavizhu vsyo v tebe. Ya nenavizhu, chto ty nikak ne nauchish’sya ukhodyt’. Nenavizhu, chto kazhdyy raz, kogda ya ottalkivayu tebya, ty podkhodish’ yeshchyo blizhe. Nenavizhu tvoyo terpeniye. Nenavizhu tvoyu idiotskuyu dobrotu. Nenavizhu, chto kazhdaya zhestokost’, kotoruyu ya brosayu v tebya, umirayet, potomu chto ty otkazyvayesh’sya brosit’ yeyo obratno. Nenavizhu, chto ya snova i snova dayu tebe prichiny uyti, a ty kazhdyy raz nakhodish’ prichinu ostat’sya. Nenavizhu, chto ty otkazyvayesh’sya menya boyat’sya. Nenavizhu, chto kazhdoe moyo oskorbleniye umirayet v tvoikh rukakh, tak i ne dobravshis’ do tvoyego serdtsa. Nenavizhu, chto ty stal yedinstvennoy mysl’yu, kotoruyu ya ne mogu ubit’, yedinstvennoy slabost’yu, kotoruyu ne mogu vyrezat’ iz sebya, kak by gluboko ni rezal. Nenavizhu, chto, kogda vsyo vnutri menya krichit bezhat’, kazhdaya chast’ moyey dushi znayet tol’ko odno — polzti k tebe. Nenavizhu, chto imenno k tebe tyanutsya moi mysli, kogda moy mir nachinayet rushit’sya. I bol’she vsego ya nenavizhu to, chto… ya ne nenavizhu tebya.”

I hate everything about you. I hate that you never learn when to walk away. I hate that every time I push, you step closer. I hate your patience. I hate your stupid kindness. I hate that every cruel thing I throw at you dies because you refuse to throw it back. I hate that I keep giving you reasons to leave, and you keep answering with reasons to stay. I hate that you refuse to fear me. I hate that every insult dies in your hands before it ever reaches your heart. I hate that you’ve become the one thought I can’t kill, the one weakness I can’t carve out of myself no matter how deep I cut. I hate that when everything inside me screams to run, every part of my soul only knows how to crawl toward you. I hate that you’ve become the only place my mind reaches for when it starts falling apart.

The words spill out of him too fast, tripping over one another as though they’ve been imprisoned for years and can no longer bear staying inside. His eyes burn, and I realize there isn’t a line I wouldn’t cross, a sacrifice I wouldn’t make, or a part of myself I wouldn’t bury if it meant keeping him in my life.

I take a step closer, and the knife digs deeper into my skin. There is blood flowing. I have so many things to say, but his eyes drop, and he sees the blood, then flinches back. His hand slams against my chest, shoving me away.

“Give it up, Kento.” He steps back and doesn’t look at me while he does it. I hate when he doesn’t look at me. “Stop chasing after something you’re not supposed to have.”

He shakes his head, turns his shoulder toward the path, and starts walking.

“Are you sure you want to step away from me?”

His shoulders lock, but he keeps going. “Go find somebody else to play with.” His voice is flat now, emptied out on purpose. “It’s time we both did.”

My eyes go dark. He can tell me to leave. He can push me away. But the idea of him belonging to someone else? No. That is a red line.

I take one stride forward to grab him—

A violent pinch punches into the side of my neck.

I reach for my sidearm, but my fingers refuse to close. The black woods tilt sideways. Ilya’s retreating figure blurs into shadow, and then the dark rushes up from behind my eyes and swallows the world whole.

***

Hours later, I jerk forward. The chains bolted to the floor behind me rattle, digging deep into the meat of my forearms.

Standing four feet in front of me with his hands folded behind his tactical vest is Hideo.

He has a scar cutting through his left eyebrow down to the bone. The man who spent years training me.

Every eighteen months, my father arranges my kidnapping. Family traditions are important. Three squads grab me, throw me into another training cycle, and spend the next several weeks making sure I remember exactly how unpleasant staying alive can be. Apparently an heir should function just as well exhausted, restrained, half-drowned, and bleeding as he does fully rested.

“No,” I rasp, the venom burning in my veins. “Not now. Unchain me. Take me back.”

Hideo doesn’t blink. “You know the protocol, Kento.”

“Unchain me,” I snarl, the muscles in my back tearing against the steel links.

“You have six minutes before the first rotation begins. Save your energy.”

Feral rage snaps the last thread of my restraint.

I drop my weight, tuck my legs, and drive both heels into the concrete base, using the leverage of my entire torso to yank the anchor bolts. With a scrape of pulverized stone, the right wall mount gives three inches.

I surge up, ignoring the blood tearing from my wrists, close the four-foot gap in a split second, and slam both wrapped fists directly into Hideo’s chest plate.

He grunts, stepping back to draw his sidearm, but I’m already inside his guard. I hook the iron chain between my wrists around the back of his neck, drag him forward, and drive his face into the concrete floor.

Crack.

Before he can recover, I haul him up by the tactical collar with one hand and lean in until my bloody cheek is inches from his ear.

“Listen to me,” I whisper. “If you’re going to keep me, you have to keep your fucking eyes on Ilya Solovyov, or so help me God, I’ll escape and burn Kenji’s empire with you in it, and there will no longer be a cage on earth persuasive enough to hold me.”

Hideo’s eyes widen slightly under the pressure on his throat. He tries to reach for his blade, but I press my forearm harder into his windpipe.