Alya
It's been five hours, forty-three minutes, and seventeen seconds since he left me in this room. Eighteen. Nineteen. The silence is broken only by the ticking in my head, I don't know if it's the clock or my own nerves pretending there's one. A woman, probably staff, came in a few minutes after he left. She didn't say anything. Just crouched down, quietly sweeping the broken pieces of the vase I knocked over. I wanted to ask her something. Anything. But she only glanced at me like I was a stain on the floor she wasn't paid enough to scrub. Then she left. Lock clicked. Silence again.
Yes, I've looked for ways out. The window's sealed shut. Not painted over or locked. Sealed. Like someone wanted it to be more than just closed. The walls don't echo, but I still tapped on them anyway. Just in case. The door is heavy. No handle on my side. Only a thin line of light underneath it, where shadows sometimes pause, and I can almost believe someone's standing on the other side.
I slump back on the bed, sighing heavily, before my head snaps to the door as my hearing catches on it unlocking. The soft clunk, a metal whisper I've been waiting for. My heart kicks. Finally. I sit up straighter, pulse immediately pressing against my throat. It has to be him. It has to be.
But it isn't.
A boy steps in. He can't be older than nine; small-framed, with skin like porcelain and hair so pale it's almost silver under the weak overhead light. It falls in soft, uneven layers across his forehead, and for a moment I wonder if it was cut by hand, hurriedly.
His eyes flick over me.
"Fleory said you were Russian," he says, voice light.
What does he need with that information? I rise slowly, my legs stiff from sitting too long, but I keep my face soft. I walk toward him, crouch a little so we're eye-level, and offer a small smile. The kind that works on nervous children and suspicious adults.
"What's your name?" I ask gently, voice level.
But my eyes aren't on him. Not really. They're flickering past his shoulder, scanning everything I can see beyond the open door. The hall behind him yawns wide like a mouth I wasn't meant to look into. If I thought the last mansion was grand, this place is a cathedral built for secrets.
This place is beyond wealth. It's deliberate. Cold. The floor here isn't marble. It's some dark stone I don't recognize, veined with silver that seems to shimmer faintly in the light, like it's breathing. The walls are lined not with paintings, but with tall, recessed panels of glass. Behind them, strange artifacts rest on velvet; a small, gold mask, ancient and cracked, a blade that seems too thin to be real; a fossilized hand, curled into a fist. There's no clutter. Nothing so human. Everything is spaced, controlled. Curated. The hallway cuts gently into two sides, but I can see at least four more doors, each identical. Seamless. The kind of place where nothing is left to chance, where even silence has been measured and weighed.
This place makes the last house look like a doll's playroom.
I look back at the boy. He's still watching me.
"You still haven't given me an answer." I say, my smile tightening just a little.
He tilts his head, considering me for a moment, like he's deciding whether I deserve the answer.
Then he says, simply:
"Lev."
"Lev," I repeat, testing it on my tongue. It feels familiar in a strange way. Sharp at the edges, soft in the middle. Like him.
His eyes flicker a small glint, approval maybe. He likes that I said it.
"Is that short for something?" I ask, still crouched, voice casual.
He shrugs. "It was longer before. But no one says the long version now."
A beat.
I try again. "Lev Alexandrovich? Lev Konstantinovich?"
He smiles this time, his dimples showing.
"Just Lev," he says, and steps aside, giving me a clearer view of the hall. "They're waiting."
They? I step out into the hallway, my breath tightening in my chest the moment my foot crosses the threshold. It's colder out here. Not freezing, but the kind of chill that seeps under your skin and makes your instincts sharpen. The lighting is low, not dim exactly, but intentional. Recessed lights hum softly above, casting smooth pools of white onto the dark stone floor. Every few feet, there's another artifact behind glass. Another quiet reminder that this place has history, money, and a taste for control. I scan left. Then right.
Right looks cleaner. Sharper. Like the part of the house people actually use. I see a tall set of double doors down at the end, probably leading into some kind of formal chamber or lounge. No windows that way. Nothing I could use. Left, though… left is different. The corridor curves, slightly, disappearing behind the wall. I can't see what's beyond it, but there are fewer lights. The stone along the wall there is older, less polished.
I choose left.
"Sorry, kid," I mutter, already pivoting.
I run.
My shoes are too loud, and I hate that. The soles slap against the stone, each footfall echoing back like a threat. My breath is shallow, controlled. My eyes dart across the walls, looking for a door, a vent, a crack in the seams of this perfect prison.
I chanced a glance over my shoulder.
Lev hasn't moved.
He's still standing where I left him, hands tucked under his arms, his weight shifted slightly to one hip like he's watching a show he's already seen before.
He lets out a long, deep sigh, and slowly shakes his head. Like he knows something I don't.
I round the corner too fast, the hallway narrows slightly, and the floor dips just enough to throw me off balance. My shoulder clips the wall, and—
I collided into something solid. Someone. Woody. Clean. Smoke curling under the skin. A hand grasps my waist, pulling me closer to steady me.
James.
"Where are you going?" he asked, voice low, too calm for someone who just caught me running.
I shoved him. Hard. "I'm not meeting them. Who the fuck is they?"
His hand dropped from my waist with ease, but not before sliding just a fraction too slow, making fire in its wake.
"You could've just said that," he said, sliding his hands in his pockets.
"You're kidding, right?" I snapped. "You locked me in a room for five hours."
I scoffed and moved to pass him.
He mirrored me.
I moved left.
So did he.
Right.
Blocked again.
My chest heaved, but I wasn't breathless from the running.
"If you'd waited, I could've taken you myself." He said slowly.
"Oh, wow. A personal escort. I'm touched." I threw my hands up. "Next time, maybe let me decide whether I want to wait in a locked cell like a hostage, or act like a human being."
His eyes narrowed. "You are not a hostage."
"Then what the hell am I?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough for the scent of him to flood my head again. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to keep eye contact. My pulse pounded in my ears, a war drum.
"You can't beat me in a mere fight but you want to leave," leaning low to level our eyes instead, "this is not where you came from. Not a place you're familiar with."
"And whose fault is that?" I glare coldly in contrast to the wild beat of my heart, thudding traitorously loud against my ribs.
"This is my turf," he said, voice like a blade unsheathed. "And in places like this, if someone sees something, or someone, that doesn't belong, they talk."
He took another step forward, and I felt the tension stretch like wire between us.
"Talk turns to gossip. Gossip becomes suspicion. Suspicion turns into news. News becomes noise, and noise…" He smiled, sharp and joyless. "Noise gets people killed."
I exhaled through my teeth. "You're afraid of gossip?"
"I have no time for war," he corrects, dead serious now. "And what do you think happens, when the daughter of Siege, the Bratva, goes missing, and turns up in my territory?"
"Wrong." I scoff. "He wants to kill me, not start a war for me."
"We'll see about that." He murmurs before he steps aside, revealing the hallway for me like an invitation. Or a dare. I look to him and then at freedom. I hesitate only a breath before my instincts take over. I bolt, heart hammering in my chest, the cold floor slipping beneath my feet as I run. The hallway stretches out, but something's wrong. With every step, the air thickens, the shadows deepening unnaturally. The lights dim behind me, one by one, until I'm skidding to a stop in front of two identical doors. Both closed.
Shit.
A chill dances up my spine. My gut twists. Why does this feel like a trap?
I hear his footsteps behind me, echoing closer. I groan under my breath in frustration mixed with panic, and grab the handle on the left. No time to think. I throw the door open and slip inside, slamming it shut. Great. I'm trapped again. My breath catches as I wait for him to draw closer. His steps stop right on the other side. His shadow pools under the door like smoke. He doesn't try the handle. Just stands there. Waiting.
I turn around slowly… and freeze. Dim amber light filters from a single lamp on the desk, barely cutting through the dark. The bed is unmade, the covers half-tossed like someone just left it. A black shirt lies draped over the back of a chair. There's a record spinning softly in the corner, something low and slow, with a pulse like a heartbeat. It's his. This room hums with him. Fuck.
I hear the door handle turn behind me. I inhale sharply, too late to stop it.
The door opens with a soft click, followed by the hush of it closing again. I don't turn. My back stays to him, stiff. I hear his footsteps pad across the floor, drawing closer.
Then, his voice, low and unbothered.
"If you wanted this room so desperately," he says, tone almost amused, "you could've just told me."
A chill races down my spine.
He's right behind me now. I can feel it; the weight of him, his presence. The air shifts with him in it. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I want to turn around, to face him, to demand to know why any of this is happening, why can't he just let me leave, but I don't. Something tells me the second I do, I'm playing into his rhythm.
So I stay still.
"I didn't know," I mutter. "I thought I was choosing the door that got me away from you."
A beat of silence. Then:
"You picked the one that led you straight to me instead."
I close my eyes for a beat, jaw tight.
"Was that the plan?" I ask quietly. "Trap me in here with you?"
He doesn't answer right away. I feel him move, hear the creak of the floorboards beneath his steps. Closer.
"You walked in on your own."
His voice is right at my ear now, warm and smooth and maddeningly steady. I swallow hard, not daring to turn around. He's right behind me, not touching me, but I can feel the press of his presence like a hand against my back.
"Don't flatter yourself," I say, sharper than I feel. "I wasn't exactly spoiled for options."
His low chuckle is soft, dark, and far too close.
"You always have options." A pause. "You just don't like what they cost."
I whip around finally, intending to snap at him. But instead I force myself not to flatter with his closeness. Too close. His breath brushes my cheek, warm and steady, as his eyes roam over my face, tilting his head slightly. His hands go around his back grasping it together.
"I don't have options." I repeat, but the words betray me. They come out too soft. Too breathless. "If I did, I would not go to your room willingly."
He studies me for a moment longer, gaze drawn to every detail like he's watching something unfold.
"And now it's yours too."
What.
"What?"
"We're getting married."