Chapter Seventeen - Suzy
I wake with the sun streaming gold across my face, sheets tangled at my waist, resolve pulsing beneath my skin like a secret.
Today, I tell myself, will be different. I can’t let myself be ground down by this house, by his rules, by my own fear. If I can find one piece of normal, one hour that feels real, maybe I can breathe again.
I skip the staff that hovers at my door, ignore the breakfast set out on porcelain trays in the formal dining room.
Instead, I wander toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of laughter and the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon drifting down the hall.
The kitchen is always warmer than the rest of the house—sunlight pouring in, kettles whistling, knives clattering on chopping boards, and the steady, reassuring hum of people who have a purpose.
When I slip inside, the staff is already in the middle of their morning routine—prepping for lunch, stacking fresh bread on cooling racks, trading quiet jokes and complaints about the boss’s newest security rules.
Nobody stops what they’re doing when I enter. For once, no one straightens nervously, no one averts their eyes.
Maybe it’s because I’m barefoot, hair in a loose braid, wearing a faded tee I dug out of the bottom of a forgotten suitcase—anything but the careful silk and diamonds the house expects.
At the far counter stands someone new. He’s about my age, with messy brown hair and a smile that tilts crooked at the edges.
I recognize him, vaguely—one of the housekeeper’s cousins, I think, brought on for the season to help. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour, and he looks up with genuine interest, not the stiff deference I’m used to.
“Morning,” he says, bright and easy, as if we’re just two people sharing a kitchen instead of prisoner and staff. “Want some tea? The house blend’s strong enough to wake the dead.”
He pours a mug for himself and another for me before I can answer, sliding it across the marble island. His manner is so ordinary it nearly unravels me.
I take a grateful sip. The tea is fragrant, sweet with cinnamon and just enough bitterness to remind me I’m alive. I let myself settle, leaning into the counter, breathing in the smell of yeast and fruit and butter.
He grins. “You know, I keep telling Mrs. Basina that if she lets me try my sourdough, I’ll convert the whole house. She says it’s a crime to mess with tradition.” He says it like he’s not the least bit intimidated to be speaking to the boss’s wife.
I laugh—real, honest laughter that slips out before I can guard it. The sound surprises me. It’s been so long since I felt light enough to let it happen. “My mother burns toast. I grew up thinking blackened edges were a delicacy.”
He groans in exaggerated horror, clutching his chest. “No! You poor thing. That explains everything.”
I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself. “What does it explain?”
He shrugs. “Why you look like someone who needs a real breakfast. Let me guess… either French toast or cinnamon rolls?”
I sip the tea, playing along. “Cinnamon rolls, always. Especially if you put too much icing.”
He nods sagely. “You have taste. I respect that.” He passes me a scrap of bread, warm and perfect, torn straight from the loaf. “Best part of the job, honestly. Free carbs.”
For five whole minutes, the world shrinks to this: stories about bad school lunches, his disastrous attempt at baking a wedding cake (“It was pink. I swear it was supposed to be white.”), a quick-fire debate on the greatest TV show of the last decade.
The staff moves around us, laughing, arguing, unbothered. The moment is so normal it aches. I forget the ache in my chest, forget the heaviness of the ring on my finger, and just let myself be. Seen. Not handled or managed—just human.
For a flicker of a heartbeat, I let myself imagine: what if this was my life? If I could move through the world unnoticed, unguarded, making friends instead of bargains, baking bread instead of brokered deals.
I lean against the counter, warmth seeping into my bones. The laughter isn’t flirtation—it’s relief, a reminder that I’m still myself under the armor, that I’m not lost yet.
I don’t notice the footsteps at first—heavier, deliberate, slow as a warning bell. The kitchen hushes, all at once. I sense the shift in the air before I see him.
Leon enters the kitchen, filling the doorway, suit immaculate despite the faint shadow of a bruise on his jaw. He scans the room, zeroes in on me, then on the young man, then back. His eyes are flat, his mouth a line, and the temperature drops.
The staffer blanches, shrinking a little behind the counter.
“Mrs. Sharov, I’ll—uh—I’ll get those pastries for you.” He slips away, gone so fast it’s almost a magic trick. The rest of the kitchen resumes work in dead silence.
Leon doesn’t speak. He’s across the room in two strides, hands finding my waist, crowding me back until the marble counter digs into my hips. His grip is hard: possessive, furious, careful not to bruise but impossible to ignore. He towers over me, his breath hot against my ear, every muscle tense.
“You don’t smile at other men,” he says, voice low and quiet, more dangerous for its softness.
My heartbeat is wild—half fear, half outrage. I refuse to look away. I force myself to meet his gaze, chin lifted.
“You don’t own my smile,” I snap, the words burning as they leave my mouth.
His eyes narrow, cold and bright. “No?”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Leon’s shadow swallows the world—shoulders squared, jaw tight, those merciless eyes locked on mine.
He pins me to the counter with the nearness of his body, not quite touching, but every muscle thrumming with intent. I can feel his heartbeat, wild and heavy, in the inches between us. My own pulse hammers just as hard.
Fear prickles along my spine, but I don’t flinch. I won’t. I’m done giving ground.
His fingers dig into my waist—possessive, anchoring, rough enough that I’ll wear the memory for hours after.
“Let go of me,” I hiss, shoving at his chest with both hands, nails biting through the fine cotton of his shirt.
I want to hurt him, to make him feel a fraction of what I feel—cornered, exposed, electrified with fury.
Instead, he presses in, his body an unyielding line of heat. His breath is hot against my ear, and when he speaks, it isn’t a plea or a warning.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, as if it’s already been decided. The words land between us—final, ferocious, and frighteningly true.
I fight the urge to shudder. “I’m not a trophy on your shelf, Leon. I’m not something you can keep locked away.” My voice is a whip crack in the silence. “You can’t just shut every door and call it love.”
The words slice through the air, but he doesn’t recoil.
If anything, the challenge only sharpens his focus.
For a moment, I see something flicker behind his eyes—not just anger but something almost vulnerable.
Hurt, maybe, or hunger. The ache of someone who’s never known how to ask for what he needs.
He leans in, his grip shifting from bruising to almost gentle. His voice softens, rough with something raw.
“You’re more than that. You know you are.” The honesty in his words knocks the air from my chest. It rattles me more than any threat or demand. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he sees—the only thing that matters.
For a dizzy second, I want to believe him. I want to fall into that promise, let it be enough. The old fear is still there, coiled tight beneath my ribs—fear of being owned, of being lost, of being so thoroughly wanted that I disappear.
The tension finally snaps, the line between battle and longing dissolving in a single, shattering moment. Leon’s mouth crashes against mine—hungry, claiming, desperate in a way that has nothing to do with control.
His kiss is a demand and a confession all at once. I meet him head-on, kissing back with everything I have—rage and heat and that wild, reckless need that’s haunted me since the first day he looked at me like I was his whole world.
The kitchen dissolves, the marble beneath my hands, the hush of startled staff, all of it vanishing in the rush of blood and want. My hands fist in his hair, yanking him closer, refusing to surrender.
He growls low in his throat, sliding his hands from my waist to the back of my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. My back hits the countertop—cool and unyielding, a perfect counterpoint to the heat between us.
He slides me closer, dragging me forward until I’m pressed against him, legs wrapping around his hips. I bite his lip when he tries to pull away, drinking in the little sound of pain and satisfaction that rumbles in his chest.
We’re a tangle of limbs and frustration—clothes twisting, breath coming in harsh bursts, every touch a challenge, every kiss a dare.
Leon breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me—really look. His pupils are blown, lips swollen, hands shaking against my skin.
For a second, the world holds its breath. There’s nothing left between us but truth: every boundary shredded, every mask fallen away.
“Suzy,” he says, my name rough and reverent in his mouth.
I pull him down again, swallowing whatever he was about to confess. We devour each other—his mouth at my throat, my hands dragging him closer, desperate for friction, for proof, for everything he won’t say.
He rucks up my shirt, fingers hot on bare skin, sliding beneath the waistband of my shorts. I arch into him, lost and furious and so achingly alive I could scream.
There’s no space for shame or hesitation, only the raw, consuming need to touch and be touched. To take and be taken. I want to bruise him, to mark him, to let the whole house know I am not afraid to want this, to want him.
He grinds against me, mouth hot on my collarbone, and for a moment we’re both breathless—swept away by something bigger than pride or anger. The counter is unforgiving beneath me, his hands iron on my hips, his body a cage I’m not sure I want to escape.