Chapter Nine - Seraphina
The ropes bite deeper each time I flex my wrists, the coarse fibers digging into skin already rubbed raw. I stare down at my hands, the marks blooming red and angry, and clench my jaw. He wants me to break. He expects me to beg. I won’t give him that.
The chair he’s chosen for me is just uncomfortable enough to remind me I’m a prisoner, not a guest. My back aches; my legs are going numb.
Across the small, high-ceilinged room, Miron watches, perfectly relaxed in his own chair, hands folded in his lap. His men linger at the edges, silent and heavy-lidded, but all my focus narrows to the man in front of me.
He waits, patient as a cat with a trapped bird, eyes sharp and unblinking.
I match his stare, refusing to look away, heart pounding so loud I wonder if he can hear it.
I search for the part of myself that can handle this—my father’s stubbornness, my mother’s bite, the part of me that’s never once let a bully win.
“So this is it?” I say, forcing my voice steady. “You drag me here, tie me up, and what? Wait for me to cry? If you’re after an apology, you’ll be waiting a long damn time.”
His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “You have nothing to apologize for. Except perhaps your poor taste in self-defense.”
I snort, nodding at the knife they left gleaming on the table between us. “Sorry it wasn’t sharper. Next time, I’ll bring a bigger one. Maybe a chainsaw.”
A laugh slips from him, genuine and low, and it throws me. I expected anger, not amusement. “I admire your spirit, Sera. Most people in your position would be sobbing by now.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I guess you haven’t met many women who know how to handle a bad date.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, interest bright in those cold blue eyes. “You see this as a date?”
My cheeks heat, but I force the sarcasm. “Trust me, I’ve had worse. At least you danced with me at the ball.”
The men at his sides exchange a look—either baffled by my nerve or trying not to laugh. Miron’s gaze never leaves mine. He looks almost pleased. That unsettles me more than threats ever could.
He lets silence stretch until it nearly strangles me. “You’re different from the others,” he says, almost to himself. “You don’t fold.”
I toss my head, feigning boredom. “Maybe you’re just not very scary. Mafia boss, right? Bratva? I thought you people were supposed to be more…” I look him up and down, “intimidating.”
His lips twitch. “Is that what you want, to be intimidated?”
I refuse to blink. “Not especially. I just expected more drama. Less staring. Are you going to monologue now? Tell me about your tragic childhood?”
He leans back, a glint in his eye. “No. I’d rather hear about yours.”
The jab lands, sharper than I expect. I push back, voice like steel. “Fine. My parents raised me to spot a con. Guess I missed one.”
“Not missed,” he corrects. “You just underestimated what you were dealing with.”
“Maybe,” I allow, looking down at the ropes. “I don’t plan on making that mistake again.”
He watches me in a way that prickles my skin, fascination and hunger interwoven. I want to shrink away from that gaze. Instead, I smile, teeth bared. “You really like this, don’t you? The power trip. You get off on scaring women half to death.”
He shakes his head, voice low and calm. “I like the fight. I like the way you refuse to break. Most people—most men, even—they crumble under pressure. You spark hotter.”
“Careful,” I shoot back. “You’ll start sounding sentimental.”
His laughter rumbles in his chest. “Don’t worry, Sera. I’m not sentimental. I’m possessive.”
The air changes. I feel it—the shift from threat to something deeper, darker. His eyes devour me, not with lust, exactly, but with ownership. It makes my skin crawl and flush at the same time. The weight of his attention presses down, heavy as stone.
I force myself to keep needling him, needing the shield of words. “You’re delusional. You think tying me up makes you in control, but you’re just a man playing at being God. I’ve seen men like you before.”
He stands then, the movement smooth and unhurried. He circles me, deliberate and slow, and every instinct screams to run, to hide, to strike out with whatever I can. The ropes remind me: I have nothing.
He pauses at my shoulder. I refuse to look up. He leans down, voice just for me. “You’re right, Sera. I’m just a man, but you’ll learn what a man with no limits can do.”
I shiver, hating that he can see it. Hating that the sound of my own breath is too loud.
“Are you going to kill me?” My voice is flat, defiant.
He laughs again, stepping in front of me. “No, little raven. Killing you would be a waste. I want you alive, working for me. I want to see how long you keep that fire.”
I glare. “I’d rather die than work for you.”
He bends close, the air between us thin and charged. “That’s not the choice you have, Sera. Your only choice is how much you suffer before you surrender.”
My vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, never tears—but from rage. I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting for composure.
When I open them, he’s back in his chair, watching. Admiring. Like I’m some rare animal he’s managed to trap. I hold his gaze, chin up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my fear. If I’m going down, I’ll burn all the way to the ground.
“Keep staring,” I say, voice icy. “I hope you choke on it.”
He just smiles, lazy and pleased, as if every word I hurl only deepens his fascination. It terrifies me more than the ropes, more than the room, more than the certainty that I’m completely alone.
The worst part is, I can’t tell if I want to scream or spit or just close my eyes and disappear. I know only one thing for sure: I’ll never let him see me break. Not now, not ever.
***
Time drags, measured in pain and shallow breaths.
My arms are numb, shoulders screaming from the awkward angle.
Each movement grinds rope deeper into already tender skin.
Fury burned hot at first—spitting words, twisting against restraints, daring Miron to see me as more than prey.
Now that anger collapses into a dull ache, just one more kind of suffering in this endless room.
I try to stretch, try to shift the pressure, but all that earns me is a fresh wave of fire down both arms. The metal frame of the chair digs into my spine. My jaw aches from clenching, refusing to let so much as a whimper slip.
His men stand guard, silhouettes looming at the edges, silent and impassive as statues. Their presence is another lock on the door.
My thoughts scatter and recombine, looping through every mistake, every chance I had to run, every sign I ignored.
I can’t keep track of time. The room is windowless, lit by an overhead bulb that never flickers.
Maybe it’s been hours, maybe days. My head swims with exhaustion and the sick knowledge that no one’s coming for me.
Somewhere in the blur, I realize I’m quiet. Not from defeat, but because the pain is all-consuming, more than I can outshout. I bite my tongue to keep from begging. I focus on the heat of my wrists, the pins and needles crawling up my fingers.
Miron watches. I feel his gaze slide over me, as heavy as the ropes.
At first, I don’t even notice he’s moved until I hear the scrape of a chair. He stands, smooth as a shadow, and crosses to my side. I expect gloating or mockery, but his expression is unreadable: cool, calculating. He crouches beside me, hands reaching for the knots at my wrists.
I flinch. Reflex. I can’t help it. He ignores the reaction, eyes never leaving my face as he works the knots loose.
His fingers are deft, careful. The rope falls away, and for a split second, relief is sharp enough to make me gasp.
The skin beneath is angry and red, flesh swollen and ridged where the fibers pressed too deep.
Miron’s hand hovers at my wrist for just a moment—gentle, not soft. His grip is clinical, the same way a doctor might examine a wound before stitching it closed. I brace myself for some fresh humiliation, but his voice is steady, low, as he speaks.
“Test me again, and I’ll put them back tighter.”
The warning cuts through the fog in my head, slicing straight to the bone.
His tone brooks no argument, no bravado or defiance.
Something about it—the certainty, the unshakable command—locks my tongue.
I want to spit something back, some sharp little victory to remind him I’m not beaten. The words won’t come.
My hands are free, but it doesn’t feel like freedom.
I sit, staring at my wrists, flexing fingers that barely want to move.
Tremors run through me, small but undeniable.
I try to hide them, crossing my arms over my chest as if that could mask my fear.
The rope burns sting, but it’s the look in Miron’s eyes that really undoes me.
He knows. He sees every vulnerability, every weakness, every ragged breath.
I pull my legs up, curling them beneath me on the chair, shrinking as small as I can.
My chest heaves, once, then again. I stare at the floor, jaw set, hating how my body betrays me.
He kneels in front of me, still watching, still silent.
I wait for him to gloat, to lecture me about loyalty, obedience, all the things he thinks I owe him now.
Instead, he just says, “Drink.”
He gestures, and one of his men brings a glass of water. My throat is so dry it hurts. I grab the cup with clumsy fingers, careful to avoid contact. Water spills down my chin as I gulp, but I force myself to swallow it all. I won’t let him see how grateful I am. That would be another defeat.
When I finally set the glass down, Miron sits on the edge of the table, arms folded, still blocking my view of the door. His expression is different now—satisfied, maybe, or just assessing how much fight is left in me.
My voice comes out ragged, barely more than a whisper. “What now? You want a confession, maybe an apology?”
He shakes his head, as if amused by the very idea. “You’re not here for punishment, Sera. You’re here because you matter. You’ve proven your worth. I want you to use that mind—the one that nearly brought my house down. Work for me, and you’ll have comfort, freedom, maybe even respect.”
I look at him, anger flickering back to life. “You want a traitor. Someone who’ll do your dirty work. I’m not that desperate.”
He stands, slow and deliberate, looming above me. “You’ll become what I need, one way or another. Pain and isolation break people. You’ll learn.”
I hug my arms tighter, fear snaking through the anger. The truth is as clear as the ropes’ marks on my skin. He’s not just the man who hunted me. He owns me now, piece by piece, and I have nothing left to bargain with except my pride.
I force myself to meet his gaze, holding on to the one thing I have left. “I’d rather die fighting than live as your puppet.”
He almost smiles. “We’ll see, little raven.”
His hand reaches out—gentle as before—to tilt my chin. His thumb brushes my jaw, just a touch, but it leaves a trail of heat and dread. He stands, signaling his men, and they melt away, leaving us alone.
I sit in the silence, pulse skittering, rubbing my wrists in a futile attempt to erase the evidence of what he’s done. Each mark is a reminder: no matter how clever, how stubborn, how defiant I am, I’m his prisoner now.
There’s no easy escape from a cage this carefully built.