Chapter Five - Suzy
The dark in Leon’s basement is the kind that settles into your bones. After the heavy door slams shut and his footsteps echo up the stairs, I’m left with silence so thick it almost feels alive—coiling in the corners, pressing hard beneath my ribs.
I know who he is now. There’s no doubt in my mind, that this is Nikola Sharov’s brother.
My teeth chatter, not from fear but from the cold that seeps straight through the soles of my shoes. I cross my arms and pace, counting steps, testing the floor for loose tiles or anything that gives. Nothing does.
It’s all concrete, unyielding and damp, the kind of chill that makes your joints ache.
I close my eyes, stretching my senses for any hint of hope. A distant clang—a door shutting far above. Pipes humming in the walls. Then nothing.
I pace, careful to stay quiet, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.
Each shadow looks like it might hide a secret, or maybe just a memory.
The urge to panic hovers at the edge of my chest, but I lock it down, focusing instead on the steady drum of my own heart.
I will not give Leon the satisfaction of falling apart.
My wrists burn from the plastic ties—tight, but not perfect. I flex my hands, twisting against the biting plastic, feeling the edges scrape my skin.
My father’s men taught me to endure worse. I grit my teeth, working slow, letting time do its part. With each twist, the plastic stretches, groans, and then—miracle—my right hand slips free. My breath stutters, but I don’t pause to celebrate.
I scan my clothes by touch, searching for anything I can use. My coat’s belt is useless, but in the seam of my sleeve I find a broken metal clasp; a souvenir from a cheap bag, sharp as hope.
Working by memory and feel, I wedge it into the lock on the door, coaxing the tumblers. It takes longer than I want, but finally, there’s a click. The sound is so faint I wonder if I imagined it.
I pause, listening—no movement, no shouts. I slip out, closing the door behind me as gently as possible. The stairs are old, every step a potential betrayal. I move slowly, distributing my weight to keep the wood from creaking.
At the top, I press my ear to the door, holding my breath. All is quiet.
The hall beyond is wide and dim, all echoing marble and pale lamplight.
I move low, hugging the wall, memory and adrenaline carrying me.
My father always made sure I knew the hidden routes—servants’ passages, side doors, windows nobody bothered to lock.
I duck under a window, keeping out of sight, scanning for movement.
Every door I pass, I listen for voices, but there’s nothing but my own breath.
At the end of a long hall, I spot a side corridor, narrow and neglected. There, framed in dusty curtains, is a window. The latch looks ancient, the paint peeling. The kind of flaw that would make any security chief lose sleep—unless they thought nobody would ever dare to use it.
Hope surges, wild and bright, making my fingers tremble.
I press my palm to the cold glass, test the latch.
It moves. There’s a scrape, then a yielding pop.
I push the window open, cold air brushing my cheek.
I don’t let myself think about what comes next.
I just swing one leg up, bracing on the sill, already tasting freedom in the air.
That’s when the world goes white with pain—a hand clamps down on my arm, iron-tight, yanking me back from the window with no warning.
Leon’s grip is absolute, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arm so hard I know I’ll bruise. I twist, try to kick free, my boot connecting with the wall, then his leg, but he doesn’t even grunt.
He drags me down the hall, fury radiating from every inch of him.
He doesn’t speak, just pulls me bodily along, my heels scraping the floor, my hope collapsing in on itself.
I want to spit in his face, to scream, but all I can do is fight him every step, nails digging at his wrist, breath coming in sharp, angry bursts.
He hauls me past locked doors and empty rooms, through the manor’s silent core. There’s no one to see, no one to help, just the soft thud of my heart and the iron certainty that I’ve lost this round. The window slams shut behind us, freedom gone as quickly as it appeared.
He doesn’t stop until we reach the basement stairs. Only then does he turn, pinning me with a look that is all cold fire. He doesn’t need to say a word—his eyes say it for him: try it again, and I’ll make sure you regret it.
Leon drags me down the stairs with all the subtlety of an earthquake, his grip a vise around my arm.
My heels skid on the stone, scraping and catching on every uneven edge.
I don’t make it easy for him, twisting, fighting with every step, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and fury.
The basement yawns open—cold, airless, waiting to swallow me.
At the bottom, he spins me to face him so fast I nearly lose my footing. His eyes are wild, burning bright as oil lamps in the gloom.
For a split second, I see the calculation behind the anger—he’s not just mad I escaped, he’s furious I made him look foolish.
I wrench my arm free, desperate for any chance, and bolt for the stairs, but he’s faster.
He throws his weight against the door, slamming it with a force that rattles my bones, catching me in the narrow wedge between wood and muscle.
His chest presses against my back, pinning me so tight I can barely breathe.
The pulse in his neck hammers against my shoulder, thunderous with adrenaline.
He shoves me away from the door and I stumble, spinning to face him.
He’s close—too close—heat rolling off him, every line of his body quivering with the effort not to crush me where I stand.
“Try that again and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” he growls, voice low and rough, vibrating with threat.
There’s a dangerous edge to his words, consequences that hang in the air, unspoken but all the more terrifying for their vagueness.
“You want to see what happens to traitors in this house?” His tone is ice, but there’s something restless in his gaze, flickering over my face, searching for the first crack.
He doesn’t lay a hand on me beyond what’s absolutely necessary, but I can feel his restraint—the tremor of it in the way his fists clench and unclench, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw.
I know he’s weighing options, calculating costs and outcomes.
He wants me to see him as a monster, but I sense something else burning underneath—curiosity, frustration, and maybe even admiration.
I’m scared. Only an idiot wouldn’t be. But I refuse to show him. I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and glare back at him, refusing to yield even a breath.
“You’re not going to hurt me,” I say, my voice steady, each word pulled up from a part of me that’s survived worse.
He steps forward, crowding my space until his breath fans across my cheek, daring me to flinch.
I don’t.
He calls my bluff, eyes boring into mine, searching for the smallest flicker of doubt. I hold his gaze, my pulse a wild drumbeat beneath my skin, but I don’t look away.
“I won’t tell you anything,” I say, softer this time, but not weaker. The words feel like a promise, like a truth I can’t walk back from. The honesty in it surprises even me. It’s not defiance for the sake of drama. It’s just the core of me, stubborn to a fault.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he studies me, longer this time, eyes tracing from my eyes to my clenched fists, back up to my face.
It’s a silent standoff, electricity crackling in the inches between us.
I can almost hear his thoughts grinding behind his eyes, the battle between violence and something else.
There’s a hunger in the air—raw, unspoken, neither of us brave enough to name it.
We’re locked together in a contest of wills, neither one willing to be the first to blink.
The silence is heavy, thick with everything we’re refusing to say. My hands ache from how hard I’m gripping them, nails digging into my palms. His jaw ticks, his breath harsh in the cold.
Finally, he breaks the silence—not with another threat, but with a tired, frustrated mutter. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
There’s a weariness in his voice, a hint of something almost like regret, as if he wishes he could just hate me and be done with it.
I won’t give him that, either. I stand my ground, stare him down, refusing to give an inch.
For a moment, something in his eyes softens, flickers—anger, yes, but also curiosity, and, beneath it all, a grudging respect. There’s a dangerous spark of interest, something that almost makes my knees buckle, but I hold steady.
He turns away abruptly, stalking to the door. He doesn’t look back. The heavy metal slams shut behind him, the lock echoing in the silence. I’m left alone, the cold pressing in, my pulse racing, my chest tight.
I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees, refusing to let myself break. I replay every second—his touch, his words, the way his eyes devoured every move I made. I’m not sure who’s winning, not anymore.
The lines are blurring, the ground shifting beneath my feet. I feel rattled, shaken down to my bones—but not defeated.
I draw in a shaky breath, force myself to look up into the dark. If I’m going to make it out of here, I can’t be afraid of the storm inside me—or the one standing on the other side of that door.
For the first time since all this began, I wonder what might happen if I stop trying to run, and start learning how to fight him on his own terms.
The silence after Leon leaves is louder than his threats. The basement feels smaller now, the walls pressing in, the cold biting sharper at my skin.
I can still feel the shape of his body, the burn of his glare—like he left a handprint inside my chest. I’m trembling, but it isn’t just fear. Something electric is alive in my veins: a cocktail of anger, defiance, and something dangerously close to fascination.
I unfold slowly, rising to my feet, pacing the length of the room to shake off the chill.
My body aches—wrists sore, shoulders tight—but I force my breathing even, refusing to let the panic win.
I replay every second of our encounter, the words he chose, the space he allowed, the restraint it cost him.
I can’t decide if it’s a weakness I can use or a warning I should heed.
What scares me isn’t that Leon might break me. It’s that I might want to test how far he’ll go. The tension between us is a blade; I can feel its edge every time he looks at me. I don’t want to be afraid, but I can’t afford to underestimate him either.
I settle on the cold floor, knees tucked to my chest, and let the darkness wrap around me. I need to think—need to find the crack in his control, or maybe in mine. Sooner or later, one of us is going to slip.
I don’t know which I want more—to escape him, or to see what happens if I don’t.