Two days of silence had passed. Evelina hadn't tried to escape, hadn't spoken, hadn't eaten. She barely moved, barely existed. It was as if she had withdrawn from the world entirely, locking herself inside the cage that Kairo had built around her. But this was not surrender; it was survival. She had learned, painfully, that every sound, every motion, every attempt to resist was being observed, catalogued, and twisted to his pleasure.
Even lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, she could feel the weight of his grey eyes through the hidden cameras. The mansion, vast and opulent, had become a prison; every corridor, every room, every chandeliered hall was under his control. And Evelina understood one terrifying truth: in Kairo's world, silence could be as dangerous as rebellion, and rebellion could be as seductive as submission.
Breakfast arrived on the third morning. A servant set the table with meticulous care: silver polished, plates steaming with food, and cutlery arranged as if in a ritual. Evelina sat stiffly in her chair, staring at the spread but not touching a thing. Hunger gnawed at her, but the idea of consuming anything under his gaze felt impossible.
Kairo entered the dining hall, his presence immediately filling the room. He wore a charcoal suit that clung perfectly to his tall frame, his grey eyes catching the morning light in a way that made them seem both cold and piercing. He did not sit immediately, merely regarded her for a moment, as though assessing whether she had survived the last forty-eight hours intact.
"Good," he said finally, his voice calm, measured, carrying that unnerving authority that left no room for hesitation. "You've been silent these past days. Very good. Have you learned how to survive in reality, Evelina?" He inclined his head slightly. "Yes, or no?"
Evelina did not answer. Her lips pressed together, her hands resting rigidly on her lap. She had no intention of speaking, no intention of giving him the satisfaction of a response.
Kairo's lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind that made her stomach twist. "Ah… but you aren't eating properly these days." He stepped closer, placing his hands on the edge of the table, leaning down slightly, and continued in that same smooth, dangerous tone: "Do you want me to feed you again… with my kisses?"
Her chest tightened. The memory of that meal, the way he had forced her to consume food while his lips pressed against her mouth, came rushing back. She wanted to recoil, to throw herself from the chair, to run—but she knew she couldn't. Every movement was recorded, every hesitation catalogued.
Kairo leaned back slightly, watching her with grey eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul. "So, tell me. Should I do it again… or will you eat properly this time?"
Evelina's fingers twitched. She said nothing, not a word. Her silence was deliberate now, but inside, her mind was a storm of anger, frustration, and fear. The calm, omnipresent control Kairo wielded over her gnawed at her nerves, and for the first time in days, something snapped.
Her hand shot up instinctively, nails digging deep into his cheek as if her desperation could pierce the steel behind his calm façade. The sharp sound of skin tearing echoed in the dining hall, sudden and violent. Blood welled immediately from the cut she had inflicted, a vivid streak across his pale skin.
Kairo froze for a heartbeat, his grey eyes narrowing slightly—not with anger, but with interest. Evelina's heart thudded violently, her chest constricting, expecting the inevitable retaliation, expecting screams or a hand raised in punishment.
Instead, Kairo's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile.
He bent forward, his movement measured, unhurried, and pressed his lips against the wound she had created. He kissed the blood from his own cheek, licking the crimson streak with a tenderness that made Evelina's stomach churn. She had expected fury, cruelty, punishment—but he turned her violent act into a spectacle of possession.
"Do you see?" he whispered, his breath brushing her ear, warm and commanding. "Even the pain you give me… even your rebellion… it only draws you closer. You cannot hurt me, Evelina. You only make me love you deeper."
Evelina's body went rigid. Her chest heaved, her mind spun. She could hardly believe what she was witnessing. She had scratched him—an act of defiance, of anger, of self-preservation—and he had consumed it, made it his own. Her defiance was no longer a weapon; it had become an intimate link in his obsession.
Kairo straightened, his grey eyes locked onto hers, blood still visible across his cheek. "Do you understand now?" His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of inevitability. "Even when you resist me, you give me more of yourself. You cannot escape, Evelina. Your resistance only proves what I have always known: you were made to belong to me."
Her knees trembled beneath the table. Tears pricked her eyes, but she forced them back, refusing to let him witness any more vulnerability. He had already claimed enough—her silence, her fear, her every secret thought—and she would not gift him the sight of her brokenness.
Kairo moved slowly back into his seat, bloodied cheek and all, picking up his fork and cutting another piece of steak with surgical precision. He ate as though nothing had happened, as though the scratch and the blood and her desperate act of defiance were nothing but ornaments in his perfect world.
Evelina remained frozen, staring at him in horror. He had turned her act of rebellion into intimacy, her violence into a symbol of submission. The realization made bile rise in her throat. There was no escape, no victory, no reprieve. Her resistance, her anger, her very humanity—it all fed him.
"You see," Kairo said softly, almost conversationally, "even your anger… your hate… it is beautiful. Perfectly beautiful." He leaned back, grey eyes glinting. "You were made for this, Evelina. Made to belong to me."
Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. She had nothing left to argue, nothing left to fight. The dining hall, the opulent mansion, the world itself had collapsed into one undeniable truth: Kairo Volkov had claimed her in every sense, whether she resisted or obeyed.
And as she sat there, frozen, shivering from a combination of fear, exhaustion, and disbelief, the reality sank in. The scratches she had inflicted had not freed her—they had only proven to him that she belonged even more.
Kairo's voice broke the silence again, low, deliberate. "Do you understand? There is no escape. Not from me. Not from your reality. You cannot fight what you were always meant to be."
Evelina swallowed hard. Her throat ached from silence, her chest burned from tension. She wanted to scream, to cry, to destroy every object in the room—but she didn't. Every motion, every breath, every word would only be catalogued and twisted, turned into another proof of her submission.
Kairo's eyes softened fractionally—not in kindness, but in the way a predator softens to a cornered animal that is finally realizing its place. "Go back to your room, Mrs. Volkov. Sleep. Shower. Eat if you can. And tomorrow…" His lips curved faintly. "…perhaps you'll say yes without me even asking."
Evelina sat frozen as he walked away, leaving the room echoing with the soft scrape of silver against porcelain, the faint rustle of his coat, and the quiet rhythm of her own racing heartbeat.
The word yes hung in the air, heavier than any chains, binding her as surely as his cameras, his control, his presence ever had.
She had scratched him. She had drawn his blood. And he had turned it into obsession, possession, and proof that she belonged to him.
her frozen figure, her eyes wide and unblinking, the dining hall around her still, heavy, suffocating, and silent except for the echo of one inevitable truth: she had provoked him—and in doing so, she had only confirmed that there was no place left for freedom.
To be continued...