Chapter Twenty-Three - Seraphina
The morning is too quiet. I wake tangled in unfamiliar sheets, Miron’s scent heavy around me. For a few minutes, I lie still, listening for sounds of movement in the hall. Only faint footsteps and distant voices reach me, the world muffled as if wrapped in cotton.
Finally I push the covers away, climbing out of bed, every muscle sore from too little sleep and too much tension. The mark on my wrist aches. I rub it absently, staring at the sun slipping through gauzy curtains.
Downstairs, the mansion feels different.
The staff moves with purpose, eyes lowered, movements clipped.
Armed guards hover at the windows and main doors, their attention razor-sharp, every conversation held in hushed Russian.
I count at least three more than usual—bigger men, heavier coats, eyes that track me as I cross the marble floor.
A knot tightens in my chest.
I stop a maid in the hallway, hoping for some harmless answer. “Has something happened? There seem to be more guards today.”
She bows her head, keeps her hands busy with a silver tray. “I’m sorry, Miss. Please ask Mr. Sharov if you need anything.” Her voice is soft, almost frightened.
She won’t look at me. I let her go, suspicion burning hotter. Even in the kitchen, the staff avoids my gaze. I sense it everywhere—the tension, the undercurrent of dread running beneath polished surfaces.
I drift through the day like a ghost, unable to settle, nerves prickling. Lunch is served in Miron’s study, but he barely glances up from his phone, voice clipped when he speaks. I watch his jaw tighten, the way he barks orders at someone in Russian.
When I ask what’s wrong, he tells me not to worry, his eyes shuttered and cold.
By evening, the mansion is a cage. I pace the halls, counting the guards at every turn, telling myself I’m being paranoid.
Still, when I slip outside for air, I slip the little dagger from my dresser into my pocket—a habit Miron taught me, meant for comfort. I walk the path through the garden, gravel crunching underfoot, moonlight washing the flowers pale.
The air smells of lilac and damp earth, fresh and almost sweet. I press my hand to the stone wall, breathing deep, wishing for quiet, for distance from the eyes inside. The world holds still, not a leaf stirs.
Then I see it—a flicker of movement, too quick, too dark. I turn, heart pounding. Shapes melt from the hedges, faces half hidden beneath hoods and scarves. My voice sticks in my throat. I step back, ready to run, but hands grab me from behind—rough, tight, crushing the breath from my chest.
I thrash, instinct taking over. My nails rake across skin, drawing blood. I bite, kick, scream, the dagger flashing as I stab at the nearest figure. Blood wells on someone’s arm, but the grip on me tightens.
My legs flail, feet scraping uselessly at gravel. I fight like hell, teeth bared, every inch of me wild with panic.
One of them clamps a hand over my mouth.
I taste leather and sweat. The terror of being dragged, powerless, fills my lungs.
My head snaps back and forth—I look for Miron, for help, for any gap to slip free.
I manage to wrench a hand loose, slashing blindly, catching another arm, but there are too many. I’m losing.
I shout Miron’s name, raw and desperate. Even as I curse myself for it, for needing him, I can’t help it. His name rips out of me like a plea and a threat both.
Everything is chaos. I see the garden wall looming up, feel someone’s arms around my waist, hauling me off my feet. Then gunfire cracks through the night, splitting the air. A guard at the corner shouts something guttural. The hands on me hesitate, grip faltering.
Miron’s men storm the path, boots pounding, guns drawn.
Muzzle flashes light the darkness. One of my captors jerks, then goes limp, dropping me hard onto the grass.
Someone else curses, tries to drag me toward the wall, hand clamped around my throat.
I claw at his wrist, heel slamming into his shin.
Another shot. My attacker spasms, then collapses, dead weight pinning me for a heartbeat before rolling away.
I scramble up, knees raw, eyes wild. The garden is chaos: Miron’s men shouting, gunfire echoing, would-be kidnappers scattering for the shadows. Two guards grab me, one shielding me with his body while the other covers our escape, firing back at the men still fighting to get over the wall.
I see one last figure, smaller than the others, hands scrambling at the brick as bullets tear through the air. He nearly makes it, foot hooked over the edge, before a shot takes him in the shoulder. He tumbles back, vanishing into the hedges.
I sag against the guard, lungs heaving. The terror hasn’t faded; it’s just turned cold. My hands are bloody, knuckles torn. My dagger lies somewhere in the grass, useless now. Every inch of me shakes.
“Miss, inside. Quick,” the guard orders, dragging me toward the door. I stumble after him, eyes scanning the darkness for more movement.
I call Miron’s name again, desperate, praying he’s alive, praying he’ll appear in the doorway with that familiar, cold fury in his eyes.
Inside, the house is a frenzy. Staff cluster at the windows, guards shouting into radios. The maid who wouldn’t meet my eye now rushes to press a towel to my bleeding hand. My teeth chatter, a sob stuck in my throat.
Miron appears at last, framed by the hall’s golden light, gun still drawn, face set in a mask of rage and relief.
For a moment, the world narrows to him alone. I don’t know if I want to run to him or run from him. My voice fails me. I just stand there, shivering, letting myself be pulled toward the only certainty I have left.
Miron shoves through his men, gun still warm in his fist. He grabs my arm, hard enough to bruise, and pulls me away from the open door, out of the glare of the kitchen lights, through corridors buzzing with panic.
My pulse thrums against his grip. The guards part for him, silent, as if they feel the pressure rolling off him in waves.
We stop in his office. The door slams shut behind us, the heavy lock clicking.
For a moment he just stares at me, chest heaving, eyes gone wild and dark.
His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping under the skin.
I expect him to shout, but his voice comes out harsh and low: “What the hell were you thinking?”
I try to pull away. “I just wanted air—”
His fingers tighten, a warning. “You don’t get to go outside alone. Not after this. Do you even understand what could’ve happened?” There’s anger in every word, but underneath I hear something rawer, like panic. I look for cruelty and only see fear.
He paces, hands raking through his hair. “You think I have extra men here for show? You think the world outside these walls doesn’t notice you?” He stops, eyes boring into mine. “You are not just a girl in my house. Do you get it now?”
My voice is a whisper. “Why… why would anyone come after me?”
He laughs, a sharp, ugly sound. “They can’t reach me. They can reach you. They know what you are to me.” His hand cups my chin, not gentle, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’re not a hostage. You’re a target.”
A chill radiates out from my heart, settling in my bones.
I want to argue, to push the blame back on him, but the terror hasn’t faded.
I’m shaking. He releases me, only to drag me close again, arms crushing around my shoulders, his face buried in my hair.
I feel the tremor in his body, the frantic beat of his heart.
His breath is ragged, words murmured rough and Russian in my ear—words I can’t understand, but the emotion is clear.
After a minute, he pushes me back, holding me at arm’s length. “You stay with me now. No more gardens, no more wandering. You don’t leave this room unless I’m with you. You hear me?”
I nod. The fight’s gone out of me. There’s no point. I’m just as trapped by fear as by his rules.
The rest of the night passes in a blur. The staff patches my hands, whispers follow me through the halls.
I see the marks I left on my attackers: blood on my nails, a deep scratch across my knuckle.
Miron’s guards sweep the garden, find nothing but a blood trail vanishing into the dark.
The house is locked down, every entrance watched, every phone call monitored. No one questions Miron’s orders.
He leads me to his bedroom, shutting the door behind us.
The lock clicks. “You sleep here. With me. End of discussion.” He says it like a command, but I see his hands shake when he reaches for me.
I let him pull me to the bed, too exhausted to protest. He sits on the edge, gun within reach, eyes never leaving the door.
I lie down, curled on my side, blanket pulled to my chin. Every inch of me aches. The adrenaline is gone; what’s left is raw and sick. Miron sits, unmoving, a silent sentry in the half-light.
It’s only then, in the hush between us, that it really sinks in. I’m not just some outsider caught in the wrong man’s web. I’m something else now. A piece of the game, a weakness and a weapon, all at once. My breath shudders out. For the first time, I feel the weight of what I’ve become.
Miron doesn’t sleep. He sits upright, arms folded, gaze flicking to me and then away, as if afraid I’ll disappear if he looks too long.
He snaps at the staff when they knock. He sends two guards to sleep in the hall outside.
All night, he checks the lock, the windows, his phone. He keeps me close, never out of reach.
I lie there, watching him, my mind a tangle. The danger was never just about me. They want him. They’ll use me to get to him. I’m leverage, a message, a liability. It’s not just about what I know or what I’ve seen.
The realization is its own kind of terror. I don’t know how to feel. There’s no comfort in his arms, only the sharp certainty of what I am now.
I replay the attack, the feel of hands grabbing, the pain of nails digging into flesh. I hear my own voice screaming his name. I remember the split second before the gunfire—knowing that if I disappeared, he’d never stop looking. I don’t know if that makes me feel safer or more afraid.
Miron finally lays down beside me, but he doesn’t touch me. He lies on his back, hands folded on his chest, eyes open in the dark. I sense the storm inside him. He’s furious, afraid, and for once, not in control. We’re both trapped, both hunted, both waiting for the next move.
The city outside the windows is quiet, only sirens in the distance.
I press my face into the pillow, wishing for sleep, for peace, for answers that never come.
My body trembles, not just from shock, but from the knowledge that I can’t go back to being just a girl with a secret and a stubborn streak.
I’m part of the war now, whether I want it or not.
Sometime near dawn, Miron turns toward me. His voice is raw, barely a whisper. “They won’t touch you again. I swear it.”
I want to believe him, I want to cling to the promise, but I know now that nothing he can say will make me safe.
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me, hoping the sun will bring a different truth.
I lie awake until the morning, caught between fear and something dangerously close to belonging.