Chapter Eight - Lukyan
I shouldn’t have left the key. Even as I slid it onto the nightstand, I knew it wasn’t a mistake of oversight—it was a mistake of impulse. I wanted to know what she’d do when offered a sliver of freedom.
Would she run, or would she reach for help?
Through the monitors, I watch her find it. The moment she spots the key, something electric moves across her face—cautious hope, suspicion, a flicker of possibility. She tries the door first. Logical. Determined. When it fails, she paces for a few moments, thinking. Then she tries the desk.
When the drawer opens and the old phone comes to life, I feel my own breath slow. She stares at it as if it’s a living thing. I see her thumb move, checking for service. There’s just enough of a signal for a single call. She hesitates, then dials.
I patch in, listening on the encrypted line.
She calls her friend. She doesn’t beg for help or directions. She doesn’t give her location. She says, “I’m safe. Don’t look for me.” Her voice is thin but steady, as if she’s trying to reassure someone else as much as herself.
Clara calls her mother after, and says much of the same thing.
For a long moment, she stands in the middle of the room, phone clutched tight. She makes no move to shout or scream. She simply sits on the bed, silent, staring at her hands. When she finally hides the phone under a pillow, I know she’s waiting for me to come, to demand answers.
I let her wait.
Later, after dinner, I step into the room without knocking. She looks up from the book in her lap, feigning calm. There’s a faint crease at the corner of her mouth, the only sign that she’s bracing for a fight.
I scan the room quickly. The key is gone from the nightstand. The drawer is locked again. The phone’s nowhere in sight. She keeps her arms folded, posture defensive but unbroken.
I close the door behind me, crossing the distance until I stand just inside the edge of her personal space. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t back away.
“You found the key,” I say quietly.
Her gaze hardens, chin tilting up. “Was I supposed to thank you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Maybe you wanted to see if I’d try to escape.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” she says, voice calm, “I didn’t.”
I let the silence stretch. She refuses to look away, defiance building in her stare.
“Did you contact anyone?” I ask, voice level.
She doesn’t blink. “No.”
A lie. I saw it myself, but the way she delivers it—steady, unashamed—strikes something deep and restless in me. I step closer, enough for her to feel the tension coming off my skin.
“You’re braver than most men I’ve killed,” I say, watching for a reaction.
Her pulse stutters in her throat. I see it, a small betrayal of fear or adrenaline. Still, she holds her ground.
“Should I be scared of that?” she asks quietly.
I watch her for a long moment, letting her see the weight of my answer. “You should be, but you’re not. That’s what makes you dangerous.”
She’s trembling, but it’s from exhaustion, not surrender. I sense a flicker of respect, even admiration. Not for what she’s done, but for what she refuses to give.
I want to reach out, to close the last bit of space between us, to see if her defiance would last when confronted with the reality of what I am. Instead, I step back, fighting down the urge.
“If you try to contact anyone again, I won’t be so forgiving,” I say, voice flat.
Clara meets my eyes, refusing to look away. “If you wanted to punish me, you already would have.”
She’s right, and I hate that she knows it.
Clara doesn’t flinch when I step closer, even as the tension between us thickens. There’s defiance in her eyes, but also calculation. She’s not reckless. That’s clear now. The call wasn’t a cry for rescue or a stupid attempt to outsmart me.
She only wanted her friend to know she was safe. I can respect that more than I want to admit.
I let the silence stretch between us. She holds my gaze, refusing to back down. I find myself almost smiling, though the feeling is unfamiliar, tugging at something I usually keep buried. For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then I speak, quieter than before. “You’re not a prisoner. Not really. I wanted to see what you’d do if I gave you a choice.”
She laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. “Some choice. A locked drawer and ten minutes of hope.”
I nod once, acknowledging the point. “Still, you didn’t try to run.”
“You made sure I couldn’t.”
“You could have screamed. Broken something. Forced my hand.”
She looks at me, searching for any sign of a trick. “Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.” I surprise myself with how much I mean it.
She studies my face for another heartbeat, then glances away. “So what now? Are you here to move the goalposts again?”
I pause, considering. I came to confront her, but now that I see the lines of exhaustion and stubborn resolve on her face, something shifts. Maybe it’s time to test what happens if I loosen my grip. Not as a game, but something closer to trust. Or curiosity. Or both.
“I’m going to show you the house,” I say. “You can leave this room. I’ll decide where you go. For now, you’ll stay with me.”
Her eyes widen, uncertainty flickering there. “Why?”
“You’re smart enough not to do something foolish. I’m tired of watching you pace this room like a caged animal.”
She stands, smoothing the front of her borrowed shirt, and gives me a look that’s half suspicion, half challenge. “Are you saying you trust me?”
“No. I’m saying I trust your sense of self-preservation.”
She almost smiles at that. “You must be desperate for company.”
I gesture toward the open door. “Come on.”
She follows me into the hall, cautious but alert.
She keeps her arms folded, every muscle tense, but her eyes dart everywhere, cataloging details.
The halls are long, lined with old portraits and heavy doors.
The floorboards are polished but creak in places.
The house is large—too large, maybe, for one man.
I watch as she takes it all in, curiosity overcoming fear for the first time. “How old is this place?” she asks, glancing at the faded mural along the stairwell.
“A hundred years, maybe more. I bought it when I needed somewhere quiet.”
“Do you live here alone?” she asks, voice low.
“My men come and go. The staff keeps to their own wing.”
She looks at me sideways. “No family photos?”
“No.”
She bites her lip, hesitating. “Why did you pick this house?”
I stop at the landing, waiting until she meets my gaze again. “It’s far from the city. Hard to find. Easy to secure.”
“Sounds lonely.”
She lingers at the edge of the hall, pausing by a window. She presses a hand against the glass, testing for weakness. I let her. I want to see if she’ll push her luck. She doesn’t—just shakes her head at the reinforced frame.
“No way out,” she murmurs.
I shrug. “Not unless you want to break your neck.”
She snorts, the sound dry. “I’ll pass.”
We descend the stairs and move through the lower floor. She glances into the kitchen, the dining room, the den lined with bookshelves. She notices everything.
“You read Russian classics?” she asks, picking up a battered copy of Dostoevsky and turning it over in her hand.
“When I can’t sleep.”
She puts the book down, eyes sweeping the shelves. “You have good taste.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That surprises you?”
She shrugs. “You’re full of surprises. Most people in your position don’t bother with small talk or art.”
I watch her as she drifts toward the window. The sun is out, spilling pale light over the gardens. She leans close, as if she can see something beyond the glass. “Is that where you walked last night? I saw movement.”
“Security. We’re being watched.”
“By who?”
“People who want what I have. Or want to hurt you. Maybe both.”
She turns, studying my face. “You really think I’m worth all this trouble?”
I hold her gaze, letting her see how serious I am. “You have no idea.”
She falls silent, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. For the first time, she seems less certain, less in control. I let her feel the weight of her own questions for a moment before leading her through another doorway.
We stop in the conservatory. The space is warm, humid, thick with green leaves and bright flowers. She inhales deeply, eyes wide as she surveys the sudden burst of life. “It’s beautiful,” she says, almost in awe.
I watch her, something softening inside me. “You can come here whenever you want. Just tell me first.”
She turns to me, blinking. “You’re really changing the rules?”
“For now. Don’t give me a reason to regret it.”
She nods. “I won’t.”
I study her, noting the way she holds herself, less afraid, more curious, already calculating possibilities. “If you have questions, ask.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Why me?”
The honesty of the question surprises me. I search for the right answer, but it’s not easy to give.
“You wrote my name,” I say. “Yet you can still look me in the eye.”
She doesn’t look away. “You said I’m brave. That makes me dangerous, right?”
A shadow of a smile tugs at my lips. “Sometimes bravery is the most dangerous thing of all.”
We stand together in the bright, humid quiet. For the first time, the house doesn’t feel quite so much like a prison for either of us.
She drifts further into the conservatory, trailing her fingertips over the glossy leaves. I stay a step behind, watching as the sunlight catches in her hair. She glances back, catching me staring.
“Is this where you come to escape?” she asks, her voice softer than before.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “It’s quiet here.”
She circles a pot of jasmine, inhaling deeply. “I get it. When the city feels too loud, I always went to the botanic gardens. You can forget everything out there for a while.”
I nod. I should say nothing more, but I find myself wanting to offer her something real. “You can have your books here. If you need space, tell me.”
She gives me a look that’s almost grateful, then drops her gaze. “You act like you’re making this better.”
“I’m trying,” I say, quietly.
She hugs her arms around herself. “You’re still holding me here.”
I meet her eyes. “Yes. I am.”
The honesty hangs between us. She holds my stare, searching for any crack in my control.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she says, barely above a whisper.
I consider telling her, but words fail, so I let silence answer for now.
Outside, the wind rattles the glass, and for a moment, it feels like the world could be just this. A woman and a man, both trapped in their own ways, standing in the quiet green of a forgotten room.