Evelina sat frozen at the dining table, her hands trembling slightly, the knife from the night before still untouched on the table beside her plate. Her mind was a storm of guilt, confusion, and a deep, gnawing fear. She didn't understand why she felt this way—why her body refused to move, why her thoughts kept circling the events of the past days, the sharpness of Kairo's words, and the cold weight of his grey eyes.
The wound across his face—the mark of her defiance—was still vivid in her mind. And yet, she had not flinched, not when he had watched her, not when he had kissed the blood, not even when the suffocating silence of the mansion pressed against her chest. There was something inside her, a strange mix of fear and fascination, that froze her in place, that made her unable to speak or even think coherently.
Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed. Time had little meaning within these walls. The room remained silent except for the faint ticking of the antique clock on the far wall. The sunlight filtering through the curtains cast shadows across the table, dancing on her hands, across her pale skin. Her heart raced, and she wondered—he must be watching her.
Of course he was. Kairo was always watching. His presence was in the shadows, in the walls, in the very air she breathed. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to look up, couldn't meet those eyes that had held her captive from the very moment she was forced into this life.
Her chest ached as guilt and confusion battled inside her. Why did she feel responsible for his actions? For her own survival? For the life she had thought she knew before her family betrayed her? Evelina did not understand, and the uncertainty left her trembling, silent, and exhausted.
Then, soft footsteps approached, deliberate and measured. The sound of his dress shoes against the polished marble made her flinch involuntarily. The world seemed to narrow until all she could hear, all she could sense, was the rhythm of his approach. Grey eyes. Calm, cold. Unstoppable. Kairo Volkov.
He stopped a few steps away, his gaze sweeping over her with the quiet intensity of a predator studying prey. "You're quiet today," he said softly, almost conversationally. "Did you learn something while sitting here so still?"
Evelina's throat closed, words refusing to form. She could only shake her head slightly, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest.
Kairo crouched slightly, lowering himself to her level, his presence overwhelming yet disturbingly calm. "Do you know why I don't like repeating myself?" he asked quietly. "Because repetition is weakness. And weakness… is not something I tolerate. Understand?"
She swallowed, trembling. "I… I didn't mean to… I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking.
He remained silent for a moment, studying her, reading every microexpression, every flicker of hesitation. Then, almost gently, he said, "It's normal. Don't worry. Come with me."
Evelina didn't move. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted with exhaustion and dread. Her mind raced—what did he mean? Where was he taking her?
Before she could protest, he lifted her effortlessly, his strong hands around her arms, and carried her through the mansion with quiet precision. Her head rested against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat steady, unyielding, and strangely hypnotic. Every step echoed in the silence of the hallways, every click of his shoes against marble a reminder that she was never, ever alone.
When he reached her room, he placed her gently on the bed. "Sleep, Mrs. Volkov," he said, his voice a low command, and yet there was something almost tender hidden in the edges.
Evelina's eyelids drooped, her body too exhausted to resist. The weight of everything—fear, guilt, anger, sadness—pressed down until she slipped into unconsciousness, a fragile respite from the relentless pressure of reality.
And then, she dreamed.
In her dream, she was no longer in the mansion. She was outside, running through open fields with golden sunlight warming her skin. The air was fresh, untainted, and the wind whipped through her hair as if urging her forward. She ran without exhaustion, her legs carrying her freely, no chains, no cameras, no walls.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she laughed. It was light, unrestrained, and pure—a sound she had not heard from herself in years. Birds flew overhead, and the sky stretched endlessly above her, impossibly blue, impossibly free.
She felt alive. She felt powerful. She felt like herself.
She ran past rivers and trees, over hills and valleys, leaping over streams and rolling in the grass. The world was hers, and she was unstoppable. Freedom tasted sweet, like warm sunlight and air untouched by fear.
For a brief moment, she forgot everything—the pain, the captivity, the relentless eyes watching her every move. She was not Evelina Volkov, the captive, the pawn, the betrayed. She was Evelina—herself, unbound, untouchable.
But dreams have a way of twisting, of revealing truths we do not wish to face.
Shadows crept along the edge of her vision. The sunlight dimmed, the air grew heavier, the grass rough beneath her bare feet. She could feel it before she saw it—grey eyes. Calm. Cold. Watching. Following.
Her heart pounded, fear and anger colliding inside her chest. She ran faster, ducking behind trees, leaping over rocks, trying to escape the omnipresent gaze. But every path led her back to the same place: him. Always him. Always watching. Always inescapable.
Her dream shattered around her, the illusion of freedom dissolving like mist in the morning sun. And then she woke.
Evelina's eyes fluttered open, the dim light of the room brushing against her tear-streaked face. For a moment, she did not move, did not speak, only processed the lingering warmth of the dream, the impossible sense of liberation that had been hers for mere moments.
And then she realized—she was not alone.
Kairo sat in a chair across the room, grey eyes fixed on her. His presence was calm, deliberate, and suffocating. Every instinct in her body screamed to flee, yet she was too weak, too scared, too trapped to do anything.
His lips curved in a faint, predatory smile. "You dreamed," he said softly. "Of freedom. And now you wake to reality. My reality."
"How… how did he know what I dreamed…" Evelina whispered to herself, voice trembling. "He's really a psycho, for sure."
Evelina's chest heaved. "Why… why are you here?" she whispered. Her throat was raw, her mind fraying at the edges.
"Because I always am," he replied, standing slowly, deliberately, each step measured. "Even when you think you are alone… you are not. You are always within my sight, Mrs. Volkov."
The words struck her like a physical blow. Her dream of freedom, however fleeting, was nothing more than an illusion. He had watched her even in sleep, had seen the lightness in her expression, had observed her heart soar with hope, only to crush it with the weight of his presence.
Evelina curled inward slightly, her hands clutching the edges of the bed, trying to shrink from his gaze, trying to disappear. But Kairo did not move away. He remained standing there, a silent sentinel, a reminder that freedom, in his world, was impossible.
"You see," he murmured, his voice low and calm, "even in dreams, you cannot escape. You run, you fight, you imagine, but reality always finds you. And reality… is me."
Her lips quivered. Words failed her. Her dream, the taste of sunlight and open air, felt like a memory from another life—beautiful, fleeting, and utterly unreachable.
Kairo stepped closer, grey eyes softening only slightly. "Rest, Mrs. Volkov," he said. "Dream again if you wish. But remember—the world outside your dreams is mine to watch, mine to control. Sleep. Dream. And awaken to me."
Evelina's body sank into the mattress, exhaustion overtaking fear momentarily. Her mind clung to the fading fragments of her dream, the warmth of imagined freedom, the rush of wind and light, even as she realized the truth.
She was not free. Not now. Not ever.
And he would always be there, watching, waiting, controlling.
Evelina curled beneath the blankets, trembling from exhaustion, fear, and a flicker of defiance she could not name. Kairo remained, seated in silent observation, a constant shadow, a reminder that no dream—even the most vivid, the most beautiful—could ever truly be hers.
To be continued....