Chapter 5 – Violet #2
Kaz shakes his head slowly, then claps his hands twice.
The bedroom door creaks open, and two maids step in, pushing a gleaming silver trolley stacked high with food. The scent hits me instantly—something savory, something sweet, something dangerously comforting. My stomach growls despite myself, but I stiffen, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Then more footsteps.
Two more maids walk in, arms full of designer clothes, sleek bags, and shiny shoes—like some kind of twisted luxury fashion haul. Behind them, I see even more staff with full racks of clothing, hangers clinking as they head straight for the walk-in closet.
Shit.
Panic flares in my chest.
The burner phone.
It’s in the closet.
“Wait!” I say, sharper than I intend. I step forward, blocking the path. “Just—leave everything on the bed. I’ll handle it myself.”
The maids freeze, glancing between each other nervously and then to Kaz.
He arches a brow, clearly amused. “Problem, solnyshko?”
“No,” I bite out. “I just need the exercise to keep me busy.”
He watches me a moment longer. My heart pounds, but I don’t flinch.
“Leave it,” he says finally, and the maids obey without a word, placing the clothes and accessories in a neat pile on the bed before bowing slightly and slipping out.
The moment the door shuts, I let out a slow, controlled breath. Kaz walks to the edge of the bed and stares down at me, hands shoved into his pockets.
“I want you to feel like you’re not short of anything here,” he says, voice smooth and deceptively kind. “Luxury. Comfort. Clothes. Food. Whatever you want, just ask for it.”
I stare at him, my jaw clenched. “I want my freedom.”
His lips twitch, and then he laughs—fuck, his laugh.
“Freedom,” he repeats, almost like it’s a funny little word he’s never heard before. “That’s not on the table, solnyshko.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Then nothing else matters.”
Kaz tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He nods at the trolley of food. “Eat.”
I don’t respond.
Kaz doesn’t move when I ignore him. He just stands there, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
I stay seated on the bed, arms folded tightly across my chest, refusing to meet his eyes.
I don’t care how many damn trolleys of food he wheels in here—he’s not getting a smile or even a bite out of me.
But then, without a word, he moves.
I watch from the corner of my eye as he picks up a plate—his movements slow, deliberate. He spoons some of the food onto it with care, not like a man used to commanding death and fear, but like someone…trying. It throws me off.
He crosses the room and stops at the foot of the bed. “Eat.”
I don’t move.
His voice hardens just slightly. “Violet.”
Still nothing.
Then he crouches down, holding the plate out like an offering. His eyes find mine, sharp but steady. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
“I want you healthy,” he says. “Thriving. I didn’t bring you here to waste away in a corner. I don’t know how long you’ll be here, but while you are, you will eat. You will sleep. You will live.”
There’s no threat in his voice—no anger. Just cold certainty. And something else, something too close to…care.
“I won’t let you die,” he adds, softer now. “I won’t let you destroy yourself just to spite me.”
For a second, I falter. There’s something frighteningly real in his words. Not softness, exactly—but conviction. Like he means every word he’s saying. Like he actually cares if I waste away in this room or not.
I don’t take the plate. But I don’t look away, either.
Kaz watches me for a long moment after I don’t take the plate. The air is thick—almost charged—and I hate that I feel it. I hate that I feel anything.
Then, without a word, he sets the plate aside and reaches with his hand instead. Picks up a small piece of roasted potato. His fingers move slowly, deliberately, as he brings it to my lips.
I glare at him. “I’m not your pet,” I snap.
“No,” he says simply, eyes locked to mine. “You’re mine.”
I don’t get the chance to argue, because his fingers brush against my mouth—lightly, like a dare—and my breath catches.
“Eat, ptichka,” he murmurs. “You’ll need your strength.”
Another Russian nickname. I still don’t know what they mean, but something about the way he says them makes my stomach twist.
My lips part, maybe out of rebellion, maybe out of resignation—I don’t even know anymore—and I let him place the food in my mouth. His fingers are warm, his skin calloused. I chew slowly, my heart pounding like I just ran a marathon instead of eating a damn potato.
He watches me like he’s memorizing every flicker of emotion on my face.
When I finish, he feeds me again—this time with a piece of grilled chicken. His knuckles graze my cheek, and I shiver despite myself.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His voice is low and steady, but his pupils have dilated just slightly. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw like he’s trying to control something—his breath, his thoughts, his restraint.
I wish I could say I’m unaffected. That his proximity doesn’t scramble my thoughts or that the scent of his cologne—dark wood and smoke and something I can’t place—doesn’t make me want to lean closer. But my heartbeat is in my throat, thundering too loud.
His thigh brushes mine where he kneels in front of me. His hand hovers too close to my knee.
And when he raises another bite to my mouth, his voice dips even lower.
“Good girl.”
That shouldn’t do anything to me. But it does.
I swallow hard—not just the food, but the emotion rising with it. Confusion. Tension. Something I don’t want to name.
The spell between us shatters the moment my eyes land on the steak knife resting innocently on the tray beside the untouched food. It’s within reach. Close. Tempting. I don’t think—I just act.
In one swift motion, I grab it and lunge.
But Kaz is faster.
His hand shoots up like a reflex, catching my wrist mid-air before the blade even gets near him. His grip is like iron, unflinching, and he twists—not hard, just enough to send pain shooting up my arm and make the knife clatter to the floor.
I gasp, more in disbelief than pain. I hadn’t even seen him move.
He stares at me, expression unreadable, then calmly pushes me back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath me as he pins me down with one hand pressed flat on my chest—not hurting, just holding. His body looms over mine, and his voice is low, calm, terrifying in its steadiness.
“You need to learn, solnyshko,” he says. “Everything in this house listens to me. And soon…you will too.”
I spit the words at him. “I’ll die before I obey you.”
His gaze narrows, the cold blue of his eyes darkening, not with anger but something worse—certainty.
“We’ll see,” he murmurs.
And then he rises without another word, steps toward the door, picks up the fallen knife, and slips it into his coat pocket like it’s just another part of the day. He looks at me one last time before stepping out.
Click.
The lock echoes behind him, and I’m alone again.