Valerie #2
"Mila." Her voice is quiet. Careful. Like she's testing whether I'm safe.
"That's a beautiful name." I smile, trying to make it reach my eyes. "I like your dress. Is white your favorite color?"
She glances down at her dress, then back up at me. "Elena picks my clothes. She says white is proper."
Elena. The older woman who watches Mila. Who probably controls every aspect of this child's life.
"Well, I think it's very pretty. But what's your favorite color?"
She blinks, surprised. Like no one's asked her that before. "I... don't know."
"You don't know?" I keep my voice light, gentle. "That's okay. We can figure it out together. Do you like blue? Or maybe green? Yellow?"
"Pink." It comes out quietly, almost like she's confessing something forbidden. "I like pink. But Papa says it's too bright."
My chest tightens. Of course he does. Of course he'd control even something as simple as her favorite color.
"Pink is wonderful," I say firmly. "And you know what? I bet you'd look beautiful in pink. Like a princess."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Really?"
"Really. You have dark hair like me, and pink would make your eyes stand out." I pause, then add carefully, "Do you like braids? I could braid your hair sometime, if you want. My friend used to let me practice on hers all the time."
Something shifts in her small face. Interest mixed with caution. "Mama used to braid my hair. Every morning."
Mama. Her mother, who had died.
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "I bet it was beautiful. I'd be honored to try, if you'd let me. But only if you want to."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing risks, cataloging whether I'm a threat or something else. Something safe.
"Okay," she says finally. "But you have to be gentle."
"I will be. I promise."
She takes a step closer, and then another, until she's standing right beside me. Close enough that I can see the shadows under her eyes, the way her small hands grip the fabric of her dress like it's armor.
"Do you like waffles?" The question comes out of nowhere, tentative and testing.
"I love waffles," I say honestly. "Especially with strawberries and whipped cream."
Her face brightens slightly—not a smile, but close. "Mama used to make waffles. Every Sunday. With strawberries."
"That sounds perfect. Your mama must have been a very good cook."
"She was." Mila's voice goes quieter. "But she's gone now. Papa says she's in heaven, but I don't know what that means."
Oh goodness, she's seven and has lost her mother, and she doesn't even understand what death means.
"It means she loved you very much," I say softly. "And even though she's not here anymore, that love doesn't go away. It stays with you always."
Mila looks at me with those too-old eyes, and for a second, I see something crack in her careful composure. "Elena says I shouldn't talk about Mama. She says it makes Papa sad."
"Sometimes grown-ups get sad when they remember people they loved," I tell her gently. "But that doesn't mean you can't remember her. Or talk about her. Your memories are precious, Mila. Don't let anyone take those away from you."
She nods slowly, and her small hand reaches out to touch mine. Just for a second. A fleeting connection before she pulls back.
"I like you," she says quietly. "You're not harsh and are easy to talk to."
Before I could respond, I could sense the eyes on me.
A presence in the doorway.
The temperature in the room drops, and every instinct screams predator.
I look up, and Lev Volkov is standing there.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't move. Just watches with those pale gray eyes, and the weight of his attention is suffocating, crushing, drowning me where I crouch beside his daughter.
"Papa!" Mila's voice isn't quite bright, just mildly excited. She steps toward him — not running, because this child doesn't run anywhere. It’s as if they have erased every childish trait from her.
He doesn't take his eyes off me, but his hand comes down to rest on Mila's head briefly. The gesture is gentle. Protective. So at odds with the man who held a gun to my forehead that it makes my head spin.
"Go find Elena," he says quietly.
Not a request. An order.
Mila glances between us, and something in her small face tightens with understanding. Or fear. She nods once and leaves quickly, disappearing down the corridor without looking back.
And then I'm alone with him.
He still doesn't move from the doorway. Just stands there watching me with that predator intensity, like I'm prey and he's deciding when to strike.
I can't move. Can't breathe. All I can think about is the gun, the way it felt pressed against my forehead, the certainty that I was about to die.
My hands are shaking. I clasp them together and dig my nails into my palms, trying to stop the trembling, but it's useless.
He sees it. I know he sees it because his eyes drop to my hands, then back to my face.
"Keep cleaning."
What?
"Keep cleaning," he repeats, voice low and cold. "Unless you want everyone in this house to know you're terrified of me."
Everyone already knows. They have to know. I ran out of his wing yesterday like the building was on fire.
But I grab the dust cloth with shaking fingers anyway and turn back to the bookshelf, trying to focus on wiping down spines when all I can feel is his eyes on me.
Watching.
Hunting.
Cataloging.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time stretches and compresses until I can't tell anymore.
Then his voice cuts through the silence, and it comes from directly behind me.
"You'll help with Mila's evening routine tonight."
I jump so hard I nearly drop the cloth.
When did he move? I didn't hear footsteps, didn't feel him approach, and now he's right there, close enough that I can feel his body heat against my back.
"I—yes. Of course."
"Eight o'clock. Elena will show you what needs to be done." He pauses, and I feel him lean closer. His breath ghosts across the back of my neck. "And if you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue."
Then he's gone.
Just like that. Footsteps receding down the corridor, and I'm left pressed against the bookshelf with my heart hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
If you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue.
The threat is clear. Explicit. And I believe every word.
Because this man doesn't make empty threats.
I slide down to the floor, legs giving out, and press my hands over my face.
Forty-eight hours to find something for Patrick.
And Lev Volkov watching my every move, threatening me if I upset his daughter.
I'm going to die here.
One way or another, I'm not surviving this.
Eight o'clock comes too fast.
I find Mila's room in the east wing—the same corridor where I almost died yesterday—and Elena is waiting outside. She's older, maybe sixties, with gray hair pulled back and eyes that have seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"Miss Novak." She looks me up and down, assessing. "Mr. Volkov says you'll be helping with evening routines starting tonight."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mila has specific preferences. She doesn't like loud noises. She doesn't like to be touched without warning. She reads the same book every night—The Wild Swans—and she needs the nightlight on. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Elena studies me for a moment longer, and I see the warning in her eyes. Hurt this child and die.
"I'll be nearby. If you need anything, call."
She opens the door and steps aside, and I enter.
Mila's room is beautiful in a way that feels deliberate—soft colors, expensive furniture, toys arranged perfectly on shelves. But it also feels empty. Like a showcase room instead of a child's space. Like something designed to look perfect rather than be lived in.
Mila sits on her bed in pajamas—white with little stars—dark curls brushed and falling around her shoulders. She watches me enter with those careful eyes.
"Hi," I say softly. "Elena said you like a story before bed?"
She nods once and hands me a book. The Wild Swans. Hans Christian Andersen. The fairy tale about a girl who has to stay silent for years to save her brothers from a curse.
Of course, this is her favorite. Naturally, a child who has learned to be quiet would love this story.
I sit in the chair beside her bed and start reading. My voice is shaky at first, but Mila doesn't seem to mind. She listens with complete focus, small body curled under blankets, eyes tracking the illustrations.
Halfway through the second page, I feel it.
His presence.
I don't look up. Don't stop reading. But I know he's there, standing in the doorway just like this afternoon, watching.
The weight of his attention makes my hands shake worse, turns every word into a struggle. But I keep reading because stopping would be worse, would draw more attention, would—
Mila's eyes flicker to the doorway, then back to me. She doesn't seem surprised. This is normal for her—her father standing guard while she falls asleep, watching for threats even here.
What kind of life is this for a seven-year-old?
I finish the chapter, and Mila's breathing has evened out. Sleep pulling her under.
"Goodnight, Mila," I whisper.
She doesn't answer. Already out.
I stand carefully, setting the book on the nightstand, and move toward the door on legs that barely work. Trying not to look at him. Trying to slip past without acknowledging the man blocking my path.
But he doesn't move.
I stop two feet away, trapped between him and the room, and force myself to meet his eyes.
He's staring at me with that same intensity from earlier. But there's something else underneath now. Something I can't read.
"She likes you." His voice is barely above a whisper, mindful of Mila sleeping.
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
"Don't get comfortable." His eyes narrow slightly. "I'm still deciding if you're a problem I need to eliminate."
Of course, I fucking know.
Then he steps aside, just enough for me to slip past, and I escape into the corridor as fast as I can without running.
But I only make it three steps before his hand wraps around my wrist.
I freeze. Every muscle locking up because the last time someone grabbed me like this was Patrick's men dragging me through my father's blood, and now I'm back in that living room, hearing the shot, seeing Dad's head snap—
The hallway spins. My chest feels too tight, and there's not enough air, and I can't breathe, can't—
"Interesting."
His voice cuts through the panic, clinical and detached. Like he's observing an experiment.
Black spots dance in my vision. My knees are buckling, the world is tilting sideways, and I'm about to pass out right here in his corridor—
He's just holding my wrist. Watching me fall apart like it's entertainment.
I try to pull away, but his grip is iron, and my lungs won't work, and the edges of my vision are going dark—
His free hand comes up to the back of my neck.
Not gentle. Not comforting. Just functional.
He shoves my head down—rough, efficient, leaving no room for resistance.
"Head between your knees. Breathe."
I can't—
"Breathe." His voice is cold. Commanding. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it."
The oxygen comes in gasps. Slowly. Painfully. But it comes.
His hand stays on my neck, holding me in position, and gradually the panic recedes enough that I can think again.
"Better?" he asks after a minute.
"Yes." It comes out as a whisper.
He releases me, and I straighten up. Now we're standing too close in this empty hallway, and his eyes are searching mine again.
Looking for something. Hunting for whatever darkness he thinks he saw yesterday.
His hand comes up to my face.
Not gentle. His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my head up, thumb pressing hard enough against my cheekbone that it hurts.
"Yesterday in the bathroom." His voice drops lower. "For one second, you weren't afraid. Where did that come from?"
Nowhere. Everywhere. Some broken place inside me that snapped when the fear got too big.
"I don't know what you're talking about." The lie tastes like ash.
"Liar." His thumb drags across my jaw—rough skin catching on mine, the pressure just shy of painful. "I don't like liars, Valerie."
My name in his mouth sounds like a threat and a promise and something darker I don't want to name.
Heat floods through me—wrong, horrifying heat that pools low in my stomach even though his grip hurts, even though I'm terrified, even though this man held a gun to my head yesterday.
My nipples tighten against my uniform, and I pray he doesn't notice because this is insane, this is wrong, my body shouldn't be responding like this—
"But I like puzzles." His grip tightens, and his eyes drop to my mouth. "And you're both. A lying little puzzle I need to solve."
His thumb moves to my bottom lip, pressing down hard enough that I taste blood where it catches on my teeth. The pressure is rough. Claiming. And the heat in my stomach spreads, turns into something wet and shameful between my thighs.
No. No. No. I can’t be turned on, not for him—
"I'm going to figure you out." His voice is low and intimate and completely terrifying. "Every lie. Every secret. Every dark place you're hiding. And when I do—"
He releases me suddenly, stepping back like he didn't just have his hand on my face, like this is all perfectly normal.
He adjusts his cuffs with precise movements. "Goodnight, Valerie."
Then he walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway with my heart pounding, my face burning, and wetness between my thighs that makes me want to die from shame.
I make it back to my room before my legs give out completely.
Forty-eight hours to find something for Patrick.
And Lev Volkov is watching my every move, touching me like he owns me, threatening to solve me like a puzzle.
I curl up on my bed, shaking from fear and arousal and disgust at myself.
Because the worst part—the absolutely horrifying part—is that when his hand was on my face, when he was hurting me and threatening me and looking at me like I was something to dissect, some twisted part of me wanted him to keep going.
Wanted to know what would happen if he stopped being curious and started being something else.
And that terrifies me more than anything Patrick could do.
Because I'm not supposed to feel heat when a monster touches me.
I'm supposed to feel fear.
But my body no longer seems to understand the difference.