Chapter 3 - Sofia
I’m in warrior pose when the lock clicks open.
No knock, no warning. Just Alexei filling the doorway, those pale eyes taking in my position—one leg extended behind me, arms stretched overhead, body perfectly balanced despite the plain, scratchy sundress that barely covers my thighs.
I found it in the closet, along with a slew of other rough outfits in my size.
A not-so-subtle hint that I will not be treated like a princess, despite his absurd, mocking name for me.
The room is trying hard to be beautiful, but it looks like a design catalog threw up in here: silk wallpaper with hints of yellow that clash with the pale floorboards, crown molding that was clearly tacked on as an afterthought, and bars made of reinforced steel that neither complement nor contrast with the tapware in the bathroom but somehow cheapen both.
I spent the afternoon exploring my limited space, looking for exits, locating every "hidden" camera, quietly pleased to find none in the bathroom. Amateur.
I don't move when the door opens. Don't flinch.
Just hold the pose with the graceful control my ballet training taught me, letting him see exactly how much his presence doesn't affect me.
Even though my pulse jumps at the sight of him, at the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the casual power in his stance.
"Most prisoners don't do yoga," he says, entering uninvited.
"Most captors don't provide a closet full of clothes." I refuse to complain about the obvious snub, the rough fabrics and poor cuts of the clothes that are basically pillow cases with arm holes, simply because I know he wants me to.
I shift smoothly into tree pose, standing on one leg with my hands pressed together at my chest. The movement makes the calico sundress ride up slightly. His eyes track the motion before returning to my face.
The moonlight through bulletproof glass catches the edges of his ash-blonde hair, turns his pale eyes almost silver. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. There's a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his mouth that wasn't there before. Good. Let him lose his sanity over me.
He circles me slowly. I can feel his gaze on my body: my throat, the steady rise and fall of my chest, the muscle definition in my extended leg. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne, that same dark scent from earlier. Amber and smoke and danger that makes my pulse jump despite my control.
"You're very flexible," he observes, stopping directly behind me.
"Years of practice." I lower my leg, turning to face him. My fingers unconsciously touch my throat, where I can feel his phantom touch, and I see his eyes follow the movement.
"I wonder how far you can bend before you break." His voice drops to a whisper that slides down my spine like ice and fire. "I wonder if you'll bend as beautifully for me when I have you spread across my lap, begging."
My breath catches, heat flooding my cheeks and pooling low in my belly.
The memory of his hand around my throat, the controlled violence in his grip, sends an unwanted shiver through me.
What's wrong with me? This is reconnaissance, nothing more.
He's my enemy, my captor, yet my body doesn't seem to understand that distinction.
"You mean when you torture me in your basement?"
"There are many kinds of torture, kotyonok. Only some leave bruises." He steps closer, and I can see the veins in his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, the pulsing strength there.
The words shoot straight through me, and I hate myself for the way my thighs clench at his tone.
"I've been thinking about what to do with you," he continues, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"Maybe the drain in the basement doesn't only have to clean up blood.
" He reaches out, fingers ghosting over my throat without quite touching.
The almost-contact makes my skin prickle with unwanted awareness.
"I could take you there now," he murmurs, moving closer until his breath warms my ear.
"Strip you bare, chain you to that metal chair.
Make you understand what happens to people who cross the Volkov family. "
I back up instinctively and find myself against the wall, trapped between cold plaster and his burning presence. I have to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. "Somehow I doubt you brought me here just to kill me in your torture room."
"Death would be too quick." His fingers finally make contact, pressing gently against my throat. I bite back a gasp at the tender pain, at the way my body leans into his touch despite everything. "I want you to suffer first. To understand what your family took from me."
"Then you're going to be disappointed," I tell him, voice not quite as steady as I'd like. "I understand loss better than you think."
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or curiosity. He drops his hand but doesn't step back, keeping me caged against the wall.
"I've been watching you," he says abruptly.
My blood chills. Of course he would make use of the cameras. The thought of him studying me tonight while I sleep makes my skin flush with humiliation.
"You didn't cry," he continues. "Didn't panic. You tested every lock, every bar, noted the guard rotations through the window. Like you were searching for escape. Allow me to put your mind at rest: you will never be free again."
Three weeks of planning led me here, to this beautiful prison. My Chanel clutch sits on the vanity where I left it, seemingly untouched. My blade and lockpick are still inside the lining, undisturbed by his cursory search of it.
"What are you really, Sofia Rosetti?" He leans closer, caging me with his arms on either side. "Perfect princess or something else entirely?"
Instead of answering, I tilt my head. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
The question escapes before I can stop it, genuine curiosity overriding caution. I expected to have to use my blade by now, slide it between his third and fourth ribs before stashing his body and searching his office for answers, then calling in my brothers to come rescue me.
His hand moves to trace the edge of my jaw, those pale eyes narrowing. "Are you so eager to die?"
"No." I tilt my head, studying him the way he's been studying me. "But you've been planning this for eleven years. You have me exactly where you want me. So why the delay?"
His jaw tightens. "Perhaps I enjoy watching you squirm."
"I'm not squirming."
"No," he agrees, and there's something like frustration in his voice. "You're not."
A throat clearing from the open doorway makes us both jump to find a guard carrying a tray. Dinner.
It arrives on tacky silver platters with too many flowers to be classy.
Alexei directs the guards, who won't meet my eyes as they enter.
They set up the small table by the window, silver and crystal catching the evening light.
The suite has transformed throughout the afternoon.
What seemed like a prison earlier now feels like something else. A stage, maybe.
Alexei dismisses the guards with a gesture, then turns to me with that cold smile.
"Sit," he commands.
I could refuse, but I'm hungry and curious about this game he's playing. I settle into the chair, noting how he positions himself between me and the door. Always calculating, always in control.
The food smells exquisite. Filet mignon, roasted vegetables glazed with something decadent, wine that even Marco would appreciate. But when I reach for the fork, his hand covers mine.
"No," he says simply. "You eat what I give you. When I give it to you."
The command shoots straight through me, pooling heat in places it absolutely shouldn't. My fingers clench around the silver, but his grip is implacable.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." He takes the fork from my hand, cuts a piece of meat deliberately. "Open your mouth."
I turn my head away, a last gesture of defiance. He catches my chin with his free hand, forces me to face him. The grip is firm but not painful, his thumb pressing against my jaw in a way that makes my breath catch.
"You can eat from my hand, or you can starve. Choose."
The humiliation burns, but there's something else too.
A dark thrill at this twisted intimacy. I part my lips, letting him feed me like I'm something he owns.
The meat is perfectly cooked, tender, but I barely taste it.
All I can focus on is the way he watches my mouth, the intensity in those pale eyes that seems to strip me bare.
His fingers brush my lips as he pulls the fork away, and I see his pupils dilate at the contact. The sight sends a pulse through me. I'm not the only one affected here.
"Tell me about the night Mikhail died," he says, cutting another piece.
The question catches me off guard, and I glance up at him before speaking. "I don't know anything about that night."
"Liar." The fork hovers near my mouth. "Every detail you remember."
So this is the beginning of the inquisition.
I take the offered bite, using the time to gather my thoughts. His fingers linger against my lips this time, and I have to fight the insane urge to part them further, to taste his skin. My body is betraying me completely, responding to my enemy like he's a lover.
"I only know what I've been told. My father and a lot of his men met with the Morettis, who were close allies of ours, but somebody opened fire and the friendly meeting became a massacre.
Almost everyone ended up dead. We blamed them for years, and the Morettis blamed us, but it was you Russians all along, trying to get us to wipe each other out. "
Another bite. This time his thumb catches a drop of juice at the corner of my mouth, the touch electric. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I press my thighs together under the table.
"I'm not interested in hearing your family's propaganda," he says. "I want to know what you remember."
"I don't remember anything," I say, anguish threading through the words.
I take some deep breaths, trying to regain control, reminding myself that I'm here by choice, here to find information not share it.
Not that I have any to share. Dante tells me I should talk to a therapist about my missing memories, but my sessions at the shooting range are all the therapy I need.
The fork clatters to the plate. Alexei stands abruptly, pacing to the window. The setting sun casts his profile in sharp relief, beautiful and terrible, like an avenging angel.
"He was eighteen," he continues, voice rough. "Had his whole life ahead of him. And your brother carved out his chest because he dared to care about the wrong girl."
The grief in his voice cracks something in my chest. My composure, so carefully maintained, finally fractures. The guilt I carry, the nightmares that wake me at three AM every night, they all rush to the surface.
"I dream about it," I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Every night. The screaming, the blood. I wake up tasting copper and feeling like I'm drowning in guilt."
He turns to look at me, something shifting in his expression.
"Good," he says, but there's less venom in it than before. He returns to the table, picks up the wine glass, holds it to my lips. "Drink."
The wine is rich, complex. Notes of black cherry coat my tongue. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, catching a drop, and the gesture is almost tender. The touch lingers, his skin warm against mine, and I see his breathing change, become less even.
A moment later, he is standing, his eyes burning with cold fury. He calls for his guards to remove the food and table, ignoring my protests that I'm still hungry.
As he's walking out the door, he turns and studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in those pale eyes. It almost feels like he's about to say something kind, or at least pleasant.
His smile is cold. "I hope your hunger makes the nightmares worse."