Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Noelle
Kholod Morozov... a demon.
Every inch of my body ached as if it had been crushed. I gritted my teeth, cursing him a thousand times over in my mind.
The bed beside me was empty, bearing only the impression of where he had lain. The air still carried that scent of cedar and tobacco, silently reminding me of every moment from last night.
I had actually been beneath my father's killer...
I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to recall how my body had betrayed me. Those shivers when he touched me, the uncontrolled moans—all of it filled me with deep self-loathing.
A maid slipped into the room soundlessly. Seeing I was awake, she bowed her head respectfully. "Ma'am, hot water is ready. A bath will help you feel better."
With her support, I endured the soreness and made my way to the bathroom. When the warm water enveloped my body, my tense muscles finally began to relax. That's when a familiar fragrance drifted over—sweet with a hint of bitterness.
My eyes snapped open. I watched the maid dripping essential oil into the tub. There was no mistake—that scent dissolving into the water was my favorite from home. An obscure Italian artisan brand that almost no one knew about.
This couldn't be a coincidence!
That devil of a man had inflicted the cruelest violence upon me, then turned around and offered this barely perceptible "consideration" in the most bone-chilling way. Did he know every detail about me?
After the bath, much of the physical pain had eased. The maid dressed me in an understated cotton dress—simple in design but exquisite in cut and fabric, soft against my skin. She tried to cover the marks on my neck with makeup. I refused.
"Don't bother. Leave it."
The maid hesitated, then nodded respectfully. Under her guidance, I made my way to the dining room.
Two people were already seated at the table.
Anastasia was elegantly sipping tea, dressed in a dark purple high-necked dress, her hair pinned back without a strand out of place.
Even at home, she maintained an impeccable appearance.
Anya was lazily flipping through a French fashion magazine, her red-painted nails casually skimming the pages.
The head chair sat empty, announcing the master's absence.
When I entered, both women glanced up. Their gazes felt like cold probes, first lingering for a second on the marks around my neck. Something unreadable flashed in Anastasia's eyes. Then she nodded slightly, indicating I should sit.
I quietly took the seat across from Anastasia, trying to ignore their scrutinizing stares.
A maid served my breakfast. Delicate china, fresh fruit, and what looked like appetizing Eggs Benedict. But I had no appetite.
"Looks like you didn't sleep well last night?" Anya looked up, her expression loaded with meaning.
I returned a distant smile. "New environments take getting used to."
"Getting used to?" She laughed lightly. "Becoming part of the Morozov family is about more than just getting a good night's sleep."
"Anya." Anastasia set down her teacup, her voice calm but warning.
Anya shrugged and returned to her magazine.
"However, Noelle," Anastasia turned to me, the sound of porcelain clinking crisp, "now that you're part of this family, you should follow the rules. For instance, you shouldn't keep your elders waiting."
My grip tightened on my silverware until my knuckles went white. This was clearly another power play.
Anya let out a timely snort, finally lifting her eyes from the magazine to look me up and down like I was some cheap knockoff.
"Mother, don't be too demanding." Anya sneered. "The fact that she can even learn these manners is impressive enough, isn't it?"
The words hit like a barbed whip. They were deliberately reminding me of my "background."
I took a deep breath, suppressing my anger. "You're right, I was thoughtless. I just didn't sleep well last night and got up late. Besides, Kholod didn't tell me the meal times."
I deftly redirected the blame back to the real person in control.
Sure enough, both Anastasia's and Anya's expressions froze momentarily, as if they'd been choked.
Anastasia lifted her teacup, taking another sip to cover her reaction, and said nothing more.
Anya pursed her lips and returned her attention to the magazine, but her page-turning had taken on a distinctly irritated edge.
Breakfast ended in an almost suffocating silence. I ate small bites, everything tasting like sawdust.
Back in the bedroom, I rubbed my lower back and collapsed onto the sofa, closing my eyes to rest.
"Ma'am, Mr. Morozov instructed that you rest well today. Call us if you need anything," the maid said respectfully before withdrawing.
I was alone in the room.
That afternoon, I curled up on the sofa by the fireplace with my laptop. This was my only remaining connection to my former self.
I began updating my long-neglected travel blog, describing Iceland's glaciers and aurora, pouring my longing for freedom into every word. This was my only remaining mental escape.
I was so absorbed in writing that I completely missed the movement behind me.
Until a strong hand with prominent knuckles reached over my shoulder and slammed my laptop shut with a sharp "snap!"
"Ah!" I screamed, my heart nearly jumping out of my throat. I spun around to find Kholod Morozov's cold face right in front of me. I had no idea when he'd entered, moving like a silent predator.
"Not bad writing." He picked up my laptop, his tone unreadable as his long fingers skillfully navigated the trackpad, scrolling through page after page of my yearning and descriptions of the free world. His gaze examined them like evidence of a crime.
"Give it back!" The humiliation of having my privacy so brutally violated made me explode with rage. I stood to grab the laptop back.
But he easily pressed me back down onto the sofa with one hand, his massive strength pinning me in place. His body heat seeped through the thin fabric, carrying a dangerous sense of oppression.
"Seems you still have energy for useless thoughts." He looked down at me, eyes ice-cold. "Wasn't I thorough enough last night?"
His words made my cheeks burn.
"Give me back my laptop!" I struggled, trying to push his hand away, but it was like an ant trying to topple a tree.
"Disobedience requires punishment." He made his cold declaration, producing a pair of icy handcuffs from somewhere. Under my horrified gaze, he clicked them efficiently around my wrists, securing me to the sofa's heavy wooden armrest.
The cold metal pressed against my skin. I was completely immobilized.
"What are you doing?!"
He didn't answer, just stepped back with the laptop. His fingers moved across the trackpad, clicking into the blog's backend.
"No—" I sensed what he was about to do and screamed in despair.
But it was too late.
His index finger pressed the red "Delete Account" button without hesitation.
A popup appeared: "Are you sure you want to delete this account? This action cannot be undone."
He didn't hesitate for even a second. He clicked "Confirm."
On the screen, a small loading circle spun for a few moments. Then my blog—years of work, all my dreams, all my spiritual refuge—instantly became a blank page. All the words, all the photos, all my heart and soul... vanished in that moment.
I stared at the blank page in shock, my mind equally blank.
I forgot even how to cry. It wasn't just a blog—it was the only breathing space I'd secretly carved out for myself in a suffocating life bound by family obligations and my mother's demands.
It was my entire imagination of what another life could be.
Now it was gone. Effortlessly erased by him.
Kholod closed the laptop with a dull thud, shattering my last illusion. He picked up my phone from the coffee table, unlocking it skillfully—he even knew my passcode!
He moved in front of me, leaning down close to my ear. His hot breath against my skin brought no warmth, only cold that penetrated to my bones. His voice, like Siberian wind carrying ice shards, carved each word clearly into my eardrums.
"I'm taking away these useless things."
He paused, savoring the broken light in my eyes before continuing his verdict.
"From now on, your world can only have me in it. You will never escape me."
He straightened up, taking my phone and laptop with him. He didn't even unlock my handcuffs, just gave me one last look with those all-controlling eyes, then turned and left the bedroom as silently as he'd entered.
In the room, only I remained—handcuffed to the sofa, powerless to struggle.
The fireplace flames still danced, crackling softly, but they could no longer drive away the bone-deep cold surrounding me.
I looked out the window at that endless snow-covered forest. It had once symbolized freedom and vastness. Now it looked more like a massive, natural prison.
He didn't just want to imprison my body—he wanted to completely destroy all my longing for the outside world, to break the wings of my thoughts.
Tears finally fell, delayed but inevitable. But colder than the tears was the growing clarity in my heart—this battle would be far more brutal and hopeless than I had ever imagined.