Chapter 37
Aurelia
It’s been about two days since they put me in my new chains. Heavy, cold, the metal biting into the same raw skin until my bones themselves are locked down. It’s more freedom, but not enjoyable by any means.
The doctor has been in and out, fussing over Adrian in quick, clinical movements, injecting him, stitching, checking his pulse like he’s some prize pig they can’t afford to lose.
Taking him in and out of this cage, each time he comes back more bruised than the time before.
I know what that means: Adrian still has something they want.
That’s the only reason he’s still breathing.
Most of our hours awake, we sit together. Sometimes in silence, sometimes trading pieces of our old lives, as if talking about who we were makes the room feel less suffocating.
In less than a week, I’ve learned more about Adrian than I ever thought I would—his stupid jokes, his laugh, the fact that he hums songs under his breath when he thinks I’m sleeping. And for some reason, that almost makes it worse. Because I shouldn’t trust him.
And I don’t.
Kinda.
I haven’t given him anything useful, but he is sitting there with his broken jaw and his easy smirk, acting like we’re cellmates instead of pawns waiting for the axe, and I almost pity him for it.
I don’t trust him for obviously betraying people, for being tangled in this mess that keeps spilling blood across my skin, but I’ve gotten used to his kindness. So I focus my disdain for Nikolai.
Adrian’s advice—he likes you, play into it—echoes in my skull. I hate that I even think about it, that I test my tone and my eyes when I know he’s near. I hate the way his presence changes the air, thicker, heavier, the shadows kneeling when he steps close.
I rarely see him.
I’m pretty sure he couldn’t care less about his Italian prisoner, yet, no matter how many times I tell myself not to, I look for him.
A harsh metal clicks, and my neck twists, finding Maksim unlocking the cage to deliver our basic necessities for survival.
Food, water, and a fresh bucket.
Yeah, peeing in the same bucket as Adrian has definitely deepened our casual bond as well.
With the clank of a dish and a pot in the centre of the room, I turn to Maksim, trying something I haven’t yet felt the strength to do.
Pretend.
“Thank you, Maksim. It’s really sweet of you to bring everything.” An abnormally cheerful voice comes out higher than expected.
That immediately shoots Adrian’s droopy eyes up toward me.
He’s checking me to see if I’m having a mental breakdown, and though I doubt I’ll win any acting awards soon, it seems to have the desired effect.
Maksim smiles, reacting as if he’s never been thanked before.
“Crazy… but a very nice girl,” he says in a thick Russian accent.
I smile and nod as he leaves the room a bit less grumpy-looking.
“I see you’re taking my advice,” Adrian says, lighter than he’s been in hours.
I squint at him. “What advice?”
“My advice to stop being a bitch to everyone.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, but you’re starting to like me,” he waves a finger lazily between us. “This—right here—we’re trauma bonding.”
His grin is crooked, self-satisfied, like he’s proud of naming it.
“Yeah,” I admit, surprising myself when I smile back. “Maybe we are.”
“So am I your friend yet?”
“Mmm…” I drag out the sound, pretending to think. “I don’t really have friends.”
“Well, too late. I’m your friend. I’ll just declare it now.”
He’s smirking, but for some reason, it hits me harder than it should. I can’t remember the last time anyone claimed me without a condition attached. No blood oath, no family name, no expectation of loyalty I could never give. Just… a declaration.
I smile, but I know it’s meaningless. He’s probably just lonely.
Still, the word clings to me like a stubborn shadow.
Friend.
* * *
My eyes tear open, hearing a crank in the door through the pitch black.
I really don’t like the dark.
The sound scratches harder than it should, carving through the silence.
The light hanging overhead has been turning on and off during specific times in here, which is the only clue we’re given about the timing of the day, and since it’s been out for hours, I know it must be the middle of the night.
I can’t see a damn thing, but I can feel him. The shift in the air, the weight of his footsteps. My pulse trips over itself. I know Nikolai is back.
Even without sight, I track him. Every inch closer makes my chest tighter, my palms damp in clutched fists. He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t have to. My body already knows it’s him.
Cold metal and his heated hand brushes my skin. His hands—steady, unhurried—work the lock at my ankles.
A click, and freedom burns static down my legs.
Before I can even process it, his grip is around my waist, pulling me upright to stand on my feet as though I weigh nothing.
His hand then moves to the lock around my neck, his frame towering over mine.
He doesn’t speak. Not a word. Just catches my hand, his palm rough and firm and begins to walk me out of the room like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to be his.
I should be terrified. I should be bracing myself to be auctioned, raped, tortured, and killed. That’s what happens to girls stolen by the Bratva. That’s the story you tell yourself to stay ahead of things, to never let your guard down.
But… I’m not.
Instead, I feel oddly secure in his grasp, almost a familiarity in his touch, in his control, even in the dark. His silence is a shield and not a threat.
Maybe it’s because no one’s laid a hand on me yet.
I’ve been a captive of the Bratva for nearly six days and, aside from the bruises from restraints, not a hair on my head has been harmed.
Maybe it’s just a calculated way to give me a false sense of security before the real breaking begins. That would be smart. Ruthless. Very Orlov-like.
But deep down, a traitorous part of me believes it’s something else. That he’s protecting me.
I don’t know why. I don’t know how long it’ll last. But I know one thing: I need to use it. Milk it. Pretend to be grateful. Pretend to care for this monster if that’s what it takes.
Because the truth is, I would still happily slit his throat if given the chance.