Chapter Thirteen - Serena
The party was five days ago. Five days, and I still can’t stop replaying the sound of breaking bone, the cold fury in Pavel’s voice, the way he crossed that room like violence personified.
I’m lying in bed at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling, when the realization hits with uncomfortable clarity: I’m not disturbed by what Pavel did.
I’m disturbed by how much it affected me.
How the memory makes my pulse quicken, heat pooling low in my stomach despite every logical reason to feel otherwise.
He broke a man’s wrist for touching me. Some traitorous part of me found that protective fury devastatingly attractive.
I press my palms against my eyes, frustration building until I want to scream.
This is exactly what he wants. Not consciously maybe, but the end result is the same—Stockholm syndrome dressed up as adaptation, my mind finding ways to rationalize captivity because the alternative is acknowledging how completely trapped I actually am.
Except it doesn’t feel like rationalization when I remember his hand on my back, guiding me through that gathering. The absolute certainty in his voice when he said it was about me, not strategic interests.
The way he looked at me two nights ago when he walked into my room.
My face flushes hot at the memory. Those few suspended seconds where neither of us moved, his gaze traveling over exposed skin with an intensity that made breathing difficult. I saw want in his expression—raw and unguarded for once—before he controlled it and left.
I’ve been replaying that moment almost as much as the party. Analyzing the heat in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
Pavel Rudenko wants me.
The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, equal parts terrifying and intoxicating.
I can’t keep softening toward my captor, finding excuses to justify his actions, letting physical attraction cloud the fundamental truth that I’m here against my will. The walls of this beautiful prison might feel less suffocating than they did three weeks ago, but they’re still walls.
If I don’t leave soon, I’m afraid I’ll stop wanting to. The thought crystallizes into decision with sudden clarity.
I need to escape. Not to prove a point or test boundaries, but because staying here is eroding my sense of self in ways I can’t allow to continue.
I wait until after eleven, when the household settles into its nighttime rhythm. Pavel is in his office—I heard him on a phone call speaking in Russian about twenty minutes ago. The staff have retired to their quarters. The mansion is as quiet as it ever gets.
I change into dark leggings and a fitted black sweater, pulling my hair into a tight bun. My hands shake slightly as I lace up running shoes, adrenaline already building despite my attempts to stay calm.
This is insane. Reckless. If Pavel catches me, the consequences will be severe—more restrictions, tighter security, possibly the complete loss of what limited freedom I’ve managed to claim.
If I don’t try, I’ll never know if I could have made it.
I slip out of my room at eleven forty, moving silently through the darkened hallways. The back staircase is rarely used at night, providing a direct route to the ground floor without passing the main guard stations.
My pulse thunders in my ears as I ease open the door to the garden terrace. Cool night air hits my face, carrying the scent of jasmine from the landscaping. Security lights illuminate the main pathways, but the edges near the garden walls remain shadowed.
I check my phone—eleven forty-three. The rotation shift happens at eleven forty-five.
Two minutes.
I press against the wall, watching the guard near the back gate through the shadows. He’s young, relatively new based on how often I’ve seen him fumbling with his radio. At exactly eleven forty-five, his replacement approaches from the east wing.
They exchange brief words I can’t hear from this distance, then the first guard heads toward the main house while his replacement settles into position facing the opposite direction.
The service path is clear.
I move fast, staying low and using the garden landscaping for cover. My heart slams against my ribs hard enough to hurt, every sense hyperalert for sounds of discovery.
The back gate’s electronic lock requires a code I don’t have, but the service path runs parallel to the wall before connecting to a maintenance entrance that’s sometimes left unsecured for groundskeeping equipment deliveries.
Please be unlocked. Please.
My hand closes around the handle, and it turns.
Relief floods through me so intensely I almost laugh. I slip through the narrow opening, pulling it closed behind me with painstaking care to avoid noise.
The path beyond is darker, lined with trees that block most of the security lighting. I can see the perimeter wall ahead, maybe fifty yards away. Beyond that, the road. Freedom. A chance to disappear before Pavel even realizes I’m gone.
I run.
The gravel crunches under my shoes despite attempts at stealth, but I’m committed now. The wall looms closer with every step, and I’m already calculating how to scale it when headlights suddenly flood the path from my right.
I freeze, blinded by the sudden brightness.
A black SUV blocks the side access road—not one of Pavel’s vehicles. It’s the wrong make, appearing from a direction that shouldn’t have vehicle access.
Two men emerge before I can process the wrongness of the situation. They move with military precision, cutting off my escape routes before I even start running.
“Don’t scream,” one of them says in heavily accented English, his hand already reaching for me.
I scream anyway.
His partner clamps a hand over my mouth, arm wrapping around my waist to lift me off the ground. I thrash violently, getting one solid elbow strike into his ribs before the first man grabs my legs.
“Sedate her,” the one holding my legs grunts in Russian.
Terror spikes sharp and cold. I fight harder, twisting and kicking, but they’re trained and prepared. A sharp pinch in my upper arm, and I realize one of them has injected something.
“No—” The word comes out muffled against the hand still covering my mouth.
“Relax, Mrs. Rudenko,” the first man says, his tone almost polite. “The Kravin Syndicate has been very interested in meeting you. Your husband will receive our contact information soon enough.”
The Kravin Syndicate.
The name registers through mounting panic. Pavel mentioned them—rivals competing over territory and political influence. The organization responsible for the infiltration that led to the basement interrogation I witnessed.
I walked directly into their hands.
The sedative works fast, my limbs growing heavy despite desperate attempts to keep fighting. They carry me toward the SUV with efficient coordination, and I catch a glimpse of the mansion in the distance—security lights peaceful and undisturbed, completely unaware that I’ve just been taken.
Pavel doesn’t know. Won’t know until someone notices I’m missing, and by then these men will have me miles away.
The irony would be funny if I weren’t so terrified. I spent weeks plotting escape from Pavel’s control, only to deliver myself directly into something infinitely worse.
“Please—” I try again as they lift me into the vehicle, but my tongue feels thick and uncooperative.
“Save your energy,” one of them advises, securing my wrists with zip ties that bite into skin. “You’ll need it for the conversation our boss wants to have about your husband’s recent activities.”
The door slams shut, cutting off the night air. Through increasingly blurred vision, I watch the mansion disappear as the SUV pulls away from the side road.
This is bad. This is catastrophically, horrifyingly bad.
Pavel will come for me. The certainty surfaces through the sedative’s fog with absolute clarity. Whatever our relationship actually is, whatever complicated feelings exist between captor and captive, I’m his wife. His leverage. His political connection.
He’ll come, but will he come fast enough?
The men in the front seat converse in rapid Russian I can barely follow through the drug-induced haze. I catch fragments—something about a warehouse, a timeline, making sure Rudenko understands the cost of his recent expansion into contested territory.
I’m not a person to them. I’m a message. A bargaining chip in a conflict I barely understand.
The realization should probably frighten me more, but the sedative is pulling me under with increasing insistence. My last conscious thought as darkness claims me completely is wondering if Pavel has discovered I’m gone yet.
Wondering if he’ll be angry about the escape attempt, or relieved to have an excuse to finally be rid of the complication I’ve become.
Wondering if I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life by thinking anywhere could be safer than the prison I was so desperate to leave.