Chapter Four - Leon
The moment her silence answers me—flat, unyielding—I feel the temperature in the world tilt. Something inside me goes from ice to wildfire in an instant.
All my patience, my controlled questions, the slow show of civility—I drop it like a mask I never wanted to wear.
I grab her.
One arm snaps around her chest, pinning her arms tight; the other clamps across her thighs, lifting her clean off the ground. She’s lighter than she looks, all muscle and grit, but she thrashes as I haul her against me.
Her knee cracks toward my ribs; I pivot, letting her graze the side of my torso instead of my solar plexus. Her nails rake my jaw, sharp enough to draw blood, but I don’t flinch. If she wants to fight, I’m happy to show her how useless it is.
The SUV door looms—one hard kick and it swings open, the hinges barely protesting. I shove her inside, the motion fast, practiced, unceremonious. She lands in a tangle of limbs on the leather seats.
I follow, swinging in behind her before she can even gather her breath. I hear her curse, half snarl, half spit, and I don’t hesitate. One hand grabs her jaw, the other slaps a strip of tape over her mouth, silencing her mid-insult.
The men pile into the front, eyes forward, hands on their guns.
We pull away from the curb, the city lights blurring behind black glass.
Inside, it’s all engine purr and panic. She writhes, jerking her wrists against the zip ties I looped around them when she tried to claw at my eyes.
She bucks, twists, tries to get her feet up for leverage.
Every motion is desperate, furious—adrenaline humming off her in waves—but the only sounds are the soft, ragged breathing beneath the tape and the useless slap of her heels against the seats.
I let her wear herself out, hands steepled in my lap, face carved from stone. My jaw throbs where her nails scored me, blood warm on my cheek.
The city falls away, glass towers replaced by trees, then high stone walls and gates. I press a code on the dash, and the iron gates slide open. Floodlights follow the SUV’s crawl up the drive, icy white and unblinking.
Cameras turn, tracking every angle. She glances out the window, hope flaring for a heartbeat, but when we pull to a stop, there’s nothing but empty gravel and the vast silence of the estate.
She tries to lunge when the door opens, shoulder aimed for the gap. I catch her mid-flight, hand locking around her arm, yanking her back so hard she gasps. Her heel slams into my shin, sharp enough to bruise, but I absorb it. My patience snaps.
I slam her against the side of the SUV, pinning her between steel and my body. My face is inches from hers, her breath hot against my cheek. I press her wrists above her head, lean in until there’s nowhere for her to look but me.
“Try that again,” I hiss, voice cold as the steel at her back, “and I’ll break your ankles.”
Her eyes flare, all venom and fire, but she stills—smart enough to know she’s outmatched, at least for now.
I drag her through the entryway, past the marble and crystal and the soft murmur of guests somewhere upstairs. We cut through that world—perfume, candlelight, laughter—like an infection.
My grip never slackens, even as she stumbles, even as her wrists twist in the ties. No one tries to stop me; the staff know better. They look away.
Downstairs, the world changes: no windows, no art, no warmth.
Concrete underfoot, the hum of ventilation, the air sharp with the smell of bleach and cold steel.
I push her through a steel door, into a room with nothing but a metal chair and a drain in the center of the floor.
This is no wine cellar. This is a box for breaking people.
I peel the tape from her mouth in one swift motion. She spits a curse, voice hoarse, throat raw. I almost smile.
“Scream if you want,” I tell her, stepping back. My voice is flat, final, louder than I meant it to be. “No one’s coming.”
She spits at my shoes. I ignore it.
The heavy door swings closed, the clang echoing up the concrete corridor. I let it settle into silence behind me, then dial the code to seal it. Her voice is already rising—threats, promises, curses—but there’s nothing left for her but the cold, the dark, and the ache in her wrists.
I stand on the other side of the door, blood drying on my jaw, breath coming slow and steady. My hands don’t shake. My mind is already turning over the next move.
Nikola’s fate is still a question, but the balance of power is shifting. She thought she could walk into my city, disappear my brother, and vanish. She thought wrong.
Let her rage in the dark. She’ll learn who I am, and she’ll learn what it means to cross me. If she wants mercy, she can start by telling me what I want to hear.
Until then, she can freeze. I want her scared. I want her ready to break.
Above all, I want her to know that she’s not the only one who can wear a mask.
***
Time drips through the darkness, viscous and untrustworthy. I don’t bother checking a watch—there’s no clock in this cell, no window to guess at the hour. Only a thin band of light under the door marks the passage of minutes, maybe hours.
I hear her pacing, the slap of her heels on concrete, the hitch in her breathing when she brushes the bruises forming on her wrists. She’s silent but not passive; even when she’s still, I can sense her mind racing, testing every seam in the concrete for a crack, every vent for weakness.
I watch her on the monitor. She refuses to cry, refuses even to slump in defeat. She paces, runs her hands over the cold walls, checks the bolts on the drain, listens to every shuffle of my staff in the rooms above.
Every few minutes, I let my footsteps echo—just once—across the ceiling, reminding her she’s never alone, that I could come for her at any time. I want her to feel the waiting. I want the anticipation to burn as hot as the fear.
But it’s not just fear I see through that camera. It’s fury. She paces like a caged predator, lips pressed white, jaw set. Every so often she stops and stares at the door, as if daring me to walk through and see what she does next.
When I finally do, the lock grinds open with a heavy, deliberate scrape. I step through, sleeves rolled up, no jacket, no tie—just the weight of authority filling the frame. The light behind me cuts my silhouette in two: civilized and savage.
I expect the mask to slip, expect a flinch, a plea, maybe the start of a bargain.
What I get is a blur of movement.
Suzy launches at me, raw and vicious, hands braced flat against my chest, shoving with every ounce of strength she’s got.
Her hair is wild, her eyes fever-bright, mouth curled in a snarl.
For half a second, the impact rocks me—she’s strong, or maybe just desperate—but I’ve been in too many fights to be surprised for long.
My hand snaps down, locking at her waist, dragging her close.
The other catches her wrists, twisting them up and away from her face, pinning her to the cold wall so hard the breath rushes from her lungs.
She thrashes, but I press in, hip to hip, chest to chest, every muscle flexed to remind her who has the upper hand.
I can feel the wild thud of her heart, feel her breath hot on my jaw.
For a moment, the room crackles—anger, fear, and something sharper, a hunger threaded through every ragged inhale. Our faces are inches apart. Her jaw is set, eyes locked on mine, refusing to blink, refusing to yield. My anger burns bright, but underneath it is a darker satisfaction.
This isn’t a girl I can break with threats. This is a viper—coiled and waiting, just as likely to strike as to submit.
I lean in, letting my lips brush the shell of her ear, voice pitched low and dark. “Keep struggling. I enjoy it.”
The warning is thick with challenge, a promise wrapped in threat. Her breath stutters—just once—then steadies. We’re both caught in the same trap, neither one willing to give ground.
It’s not fear I see in her now, but raw, furious resolve, the kind that only grows stronger under pressure.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the space between us, to the shared heat and the reckless pulse pounding through both our chests. I want to shake her. I want to see what she’ll do if I push harder. Instead, I force myself to step back, tightening my grip on her wrists.
“Who do you work for?” My glare is knife-sharp, every word clipped and cold. “Where is Nikola?”
She meets my eyes, voice cold as the concrete. “I don’t know.”
I study her, searching for cracks, for the telltale tremor of a lie.
She’s flawless, every line of her face composed, every muscle taut. Not a flicker of doubt. If she’s bluffing, it’s the best I’ve ever seen.
The silence stretches. Sweat beads at her temple, but her jaw never slackens, her gaze never drops. The tension spikes, sharp as broken glass. I want her to beg. I want her to curse. I want anything but this cold, elegant stonewall.
Finally, disgusted by my own frustration, I release her wrists with a hard shove. She stumbles back against the wall, breath ragged, but she catches herself before she falls. I turn on my heel, refusing to let her see how close she’s come to getting under my skin.
The heavy door swings shut behind me, the lock clanging home, sealing her inside. For a long moment, I stand in the hall, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight it aches. She’s not broken. Not yet.
I stalk the corridor, pulse drumming in my ears, every nerve vibrating with unshed adrenaline. I thought I’d get answers—or at least watch her crack—but all I saw was defiance sharpened to a blade.
Even now, behind that thick steel door, I can picture her pacing the concrete, replaying every second, planning her next move. There’s a satisfaction in it, twisted as it is. Most people break before the first real threat. Suzy digs in, shows her teeth, refuses to give me the satisfaction.
I check the monitor again. She’s rubbing her wrists, shaking out her hands, trying to work the blood back into her fingers.
The camera catches the set of her jaw, the narrowed eyes fixed on the door—as if she can glare her way through.
I watch her breathe, slow and steady, refusing to let fear show.
If anything, she looks more dangerous now than when she first stepped out of that car.
The men upstairs are restless. They want to know if I’ll start with threats or bribery, if I’ll use charm or violence.
I ignore them all. I don’t need to explain myself, least of all to those who can’t see what I see: this isn’t just another frightened asset, and I can’t treat her like one. Suzy is a problem that needs a scalpel, not a hammer.
I turn away from the screen, rolling my sleeves back down, letting my heart slow to its old, careful rhythm. For now, I’ll let her stew in the dark. I want her to think about me, to wonder when I’ll return. The waiting will do more damage than threats ever could.
But beneath the calculation, I feel something else growing—a stubborn fascination, hungry and sharp. The game is on, and I don’t know how it ends.
I wonder if I’ve finally found someone who knows how to play this game as well as I do. It’s not fear that tightens in my chest as I walk away—it’s something perilously close to respect, and a dangerous curiosity that refuses to let go.