Two men handcuffed me before I could step past the threshold of the room. I stared at my bound wrists, wrapped neatly in fresh bandages, courtesy of the old doctor who had walked into my room, carrying medical supplies. None of them spoke. Not the doctor, not the guards, no matter how many attempts I made to spark even the smallest conversation.
Olga stayed behind me, just as quiet. Her footsteps soft but steady as she trailed after us. I was escorted through a sitting room, a living area, then the wide foyer that seemed to echo with every breath I took.
The whole estate itself felt like a contradiction, like old bones dressed in modern skin. It wasn't as ancient as my family's estate, but touched by the same kind of quiet wealth. Dark wood. Clean lines. The sense that someone had tastefully combined something modern over something old.
Finally, the dining room.
I almost halted right there.
He was impossible to miss. Standing with his back half-turned, staring out toward the garden where nothing grew except an endless sweep of grass and the thick forest beyond. The morning light cutting along his shoulders like a blade.
Everything from the shower slammed back into me at once. All the heat, the tension, the way he had hovered too close, too angry, too something.
He kept his eyes on the view beyond the windows, deep in thought even when the two of his men stepped aside, leaving me there.
Olga moved to my shoulder. "The usual, gospodin Barinov?"[1]
He didn't even look at her. Only gave a small nod.
She slipped out gently, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving just the two of us.
Only then, did he turned and froze.
For a moment, his entire face emptied. All the usual sharpness, the cruelty, the ruthless control he wore like armor, all gone. Stripped away in a single gaze. What remained instead, was something raw, almost fragile. Haunted, in a way that made the air between us feel too thin. Like he was staring at a ghost he had spent years searching for.
Those green eyes of his, moving over my body slowly, almost reluctantly. As if every inch he traced pulled him deeper into a past he yearned for. A dream that he still held his hope out for.
I swallowed hard and tore my gaze away, forcing my legs to move as I walked to the farthest seat, one that was tucked at the opposite end of the table. The dining room wasn't nearly as massive as my grandfather's hall, where the table would've stretched like a runway built for power plays. But distance was distance, and I needed every inch of it.
The chair scraped softly when I pulled it back. I sat, lifted my chin and deliberately angle my body away from him. My eyes locking onto the morning light, spilling over the plain grass. Wide, open and unconfined. Free.
"I thought I told you to dye your hair back," he said. His voice was clipped, harsh. His gaze cutting into me like I was something dangerous as he finally moved closer to the table.
"Well," I exhaled, letting sarcasm curl around the word, "I'm already being kept here against my will. What makes you think I'm going to listen to you?"
"Because whether you make it out of here alive," he said, scraping his chair across from mine, taking his seat with slow, deliberate confidence, "depends entirely on me." His eyes locked on mine. "I own you now."
"Like hell you do," I snapped, right as the butler walked in with our breakfast.
His meal came in a porcelain bowl. Some kind of porridge, plain and controlled, just like him. Mine was a stack of pancakes with maple syrup and cream. My favorite. I didn't know how he knew, or if this was just as a pleasant coincidence.
One of the servants set a cup of black coffee beside my plate. I stared at it, my stomach growling, but my cuffed hands stayed useless in my lap. I refused to ask for help. I refused to give him the satisfaction. So I turned away, blinking quickly, focusing on the window. On the sunlight, the grass, anything but the sting behind my eyes. I would rather die than let him see me break.
"Right," he drawled, placing his spoon down and leaning back, a slow curl of satisfaction tugging at his mouth. "I forgot to unlock your cuffs. Since I'm the only one with the keys."
I shot him a lethal look. "If you're here just to tease me, it's not working. I've withstood torture worse than feeling hungry."
His smirk deepened, something dark and knowing flickering in his eyes. "Do you even know how long you were out?" he asked, lifting his cup for a lazy sip. "How long you've gone without real food?" His voice softened. Not kind, but careful. "Your body might not be as stubborn as your mouth, trust me."
He studied me for a long moment, the way a predator considers something cornered and too proud to admit it. Then, quietly, almost conversationally, he said, "Do you know that an animal will chew its own limb off when it's desperate enough?"
He tapped a finger against his cup, his green orbs never leaving mine. "Makes me wonder if you'd do the same. Starve yourself out of spite. Hurt yourself just to prove a point."
My jaw tightened. "I don't care," I bit out, lifting my chin even though the room started to tilt faintly. "I'm not going to play your stupid game."
He hummed. A low, thoughtful sound that made my skin heat with a different kind of hunger.
"No," he murmured, his eyes trailing slowly from my face to the untouched plate before me. "You're playing on your own. And losing, I might add."
My stomach twisted sharply, an ache blooming so suddenly and deeply I had to press my lips together to hide the wince. How long had I been unconscious? Days? Longer? I didn't trust him to tell me the truth, even if I asked.
I forced myself to breathe through it, glaring at him through the haze of pain. "I don't give a flying fuck."
He tilted his head, studying me with that haunting mix of cruelty and something softer. Something he didn't want me to see. Nostalgic.
"Your body certainly does," he said quietly, taking a spoonful of his porridge. "You're shaking."
I was. Damn it, I fucking was.
But instead of answering, I tore my gaze away again, staring at the window like it could anchor me. Refusing to give him even a flicker of my weakness.
[1] If anyone of you knows Russian, feel free to tell me if my translation of this is wrong. I meant to say 'sir Barinov', and I used an online translator to do so. Thank you.