Chapter 8
Alina
I sprint for the elevator even though I know I won’t make it. His footsteps thunder behind me. My swipe of the stolen card barely registers before a hand clamps around my wrist, spinning me around, and slamming it above my head.
The card hits the floor. My heart drops with it.
Dominik’s eyes are storm-gray and furious. Shame stings within me. I shouldn’t care that I disappointed him, but I do. I’ve seen men furious with me before, landlords, cops, my mom’s boyfriends, but none of their anger ever made me feel…safer.
His breath grazes my neck when he speaks: “Don’t. Make me. Chain you. To my side.”
His fingers flex on my wrist like he’s one second away from making good on the threat, and then he lets go like he doesn’t trust himself with the follow-through.
“I had to try,” I whisper.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Did you honestly think you’d get out of the building? I knew you were planning something the second you walked into the kitchen.”
“You were watching the cameras?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was.
“And that’s why you called your guard away?” I nod toward the hulking man in the foyer, arms crossed and pouting like a scolded bulldog. The one I planned to throw coffee on.
Dominik doesn’t look back. “Boris would’ve broken your legs to keep you here. That’s his job. Remember that next time you try to manipulate one of my men.”
“It was easier than I expected,” I mutter.
His lips twitch. It’s hard to tell whether it’s irritation or dark amusement. “Don’t test me, Alina. I’m already risking more for you than you understand.”
“Why?” The word slips out sharper than I intend.
“Because you don’t deserve to suffer for your brother’s bullshit,” he says. “And you especially don’t deserve what Gavriil has planned.”
“Then let me go.” It comes out softer than I want, my desperation threading through.
His eyes travel over me, lingering in ways that make my pulse stumble. “I can’t. Not until Archer returns what he stole.”
Better him than Gavriil. But that isn’t saying much since I’m still a hostage.
Dominik bends down to pick up the fallen card. “Since Boris let you steal this without noticing, he’s on roof duty for a month.”
“You mean outside? All day?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Now he’ll really want to break my legs.”
“No, he won’t.” He says this with complete confidence, as if he has zero doubts.
“I thought you were smarter than this, Alina.” His voice sharpens, disappointment slicing deeper than anger ever could. “Go to your room.”
I slip past him without another word, my heart pounding with humiliation of being treated like a child. But deep down, I know he’s right. There’s no escape for me.
What the hell was I thinking?
In the bathroom, harsh lighting throws every truth I’m trying to avoid back at me: my flushed cheeks, parted lips, the adrenaline buzzing beneath my skin. I splash cold water on my face again, hating how rattled I look.
Back in the bedroom, I lock the door. Not because it’ll stop him, but because I need the illusion of control. I sit on the bench inside the closet, knees drawn in, refusing the comfort of the bed or chair.
My mind circles back to Archer. He always promised his shit would never touch me. He always believed it. And I always believed him—until now.
Later, I rub a dab of hand cream into my fingers just to keep from spiraling. It smells faintly of bergamot, and the absurdity of imagining Dominik shopping for lotion almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Hours creep by slowly. I try watching a little TV. I reorganize the drawers. I remake the bed. Nothing helps pass the time.
When hunger finally wins, I open the door to find a tray waiting—chicken, rice, carrots glazed in something sweet. My eyes burn. I refuse to cry over food. Over anything he gives me.
After washing the dishes in the bathroom sink, I stare at myself in the fogged mirror and force out, “Archer will figure something out.” Even though the woman looking back doesn’t quite believe it.
I watch shift changes in the hallway, a quiet choreography of black-clad men with hard eyes. None of them speak to me, but one nods. A simple acknowledgment that I exist. That I’m being watched.
As night settles into the penthouse, the skyline glows a deep New York blue, then black. People live their lives just beyond these windows while I remain trapped.
I go out and test the emergency exit out in the hallway again. There’s no give.
Is Dominik watching me?
Is he still angry?
When I turn around, he’s there.
Dominik stands at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets, dark and unreadable. He walks toward me with controlled steps, close enough to feel the weight of him but far enough that I have to choose to lessen the distance.
I don’t move.
His eyes flick from the door to my face. No question is spoken, but I answer with a small shrug. I had to try again, even if it was pointless.
“So,” he says softly, “you finally decided to eat.”
“There wasn’t anything else to do.”
“You could sleep,” he counters. “Instead of wandering around looking for an escape route that doesn’t exist.”
“I don’t sleep well in cages.”
Something flickers in his expression. Almost a wince. “At least this cage has privacy. And a lock you control.”
“Like you wouldn’t kick the door down if you wanted to?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Only if you made me.”
It’s not funny. None of this is.
I don’t reply. I just turn and walk away, doing what he told me to do for once. I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling until sleep eventually drags me under.