Chapter 003 Isabella
I hold warrior pose as the lock disengages.
No knock. No courtesy. Viktor simply fills the doorway, pale gaze sweeping over me—leg extended, arms overhead, spine straight despite the coarse sundress that skims my thighs. The closet yielded nothing better: cheap cotton, shapeless cuts, deliberate insults stitched into every seam. A reminder that here I am not a princess.
The room itself is a failed attempt at elegance. Silk wallpaper the color of weak sunlight clashes with pale floorboards; crown molding looks tacked on by someone who read a magazine once. The bars are reinforced steel, unapologetic, turning the whole space into what it truly is: a gilded cage. I spent the afternoon mapping it—cameras in every corner except the bathroom, bulletproof glass, electronic locks. Amateur mistakes and deliberate cruelties in equal measure.
I do not lower my arms. I do not flinch. I let him see the steady line of my body, the control I refuse to surrender.
"Most prisoners don't do yoga," he says, stepping inside and closing the door with a soft, final click.
"Most captors don't stock a closet in their prisoner's size." My voice is level, almost bored. I will not give him the satisfaction of complaint.
I shift into tree pose—one foot anchored to my thigh, palms pressed together at my heart. The sundress rides higher. His gaze follows the movement before snapping back to my face.
Moonlight slides through the bulletproof panes, silvering the edges of his ash-blond hair, turning his eyes almost colorless. Shadows bruise the skin beneath them; his shoulders carry new tension, mouth drawn tight. Good. Let the sleeplessness belong to him.
He circles me slowly. I feel the weight of his attention on my throat, my collarbones, the slow rise and fall of my chest, the taut line of my raised leg. His cologne reaches me—dark amber, smoke, something sharp underneath. My pulse stutters despite every order I give it.
"You're very flexible," he murmurs, stopping behind me.
"Years of practice."
"I wonder how far you can bend before you break." The words brush the shell of my ear, low and deliberate. "I wonder if you'll bend as beautifully when you're spread across my lap, begging."
Heat floods my cheeks, pools low in my belly. My thighs tense involuntarily. I hate the response, hate the way my body answers threat with hunger.
"You mean when you finally drag me to your basement?"
"There are many kinds of torture, kotyonok." His breath warms the fine hairs at my nape. "Only some leave bruises."
Fingers ghost along the column of my throat without quite touching. The almost-contact raises every hair on my body. Then the hand settles—light pressure, thumb resting over my pulse. My breath catches; I feel the betraying leap beneath his touch.
"I've been thinking about what to do with you," he continues, voice velvet over steel. "Perhaps the basement drain doesn't only have to carry blood." His thumb strokes once, deliberate. "I could take you there now. Strip you. Chain you to the chair. Make you feel what happens to people who cross the Sokolov family."
I step back instinctively and meet cold plaster. Trapped between wall and heat. I tip my chin to hold his stare.
"Death would be too quick," he says softly. His hand remains at my throat, proprietary. "I want you to suffer first. To understand what your family stole."
"Then you're going to be disappointed." My voice holds steady, though the words cost me. "I already understand loss."
Something shifts behind his eyes—surprise, perhaps recognition. He releases my throat but does not retreat. His forearms cage me, veins standing in sharp relief where sleeves are rolled high.
"I've been watching you."
Of course. The cameras. The thought of him studying me while I slept sends ice through my veins and, traitorously, heat beneath my skin.
"You didn't cry," he says. "Didn't beg. You tested every lock, every bar. Noted guard rotations. Like a professional." His head lowers until our breaths mingle. "What are you really, Isabella Moretti? Perfect princess—or something else entirely?"
I tilt my face closer, refusing to yield the inch he wants. "Why haven't you killed me yet?"
The question slips out raw. I expected blood by now—mine or his. Expected to slide my blade between his ribs, search his office, signal my brothers. Three weeks of meticulous planning brought me here. Yet here I still stand, breathing.
His jaw flexes. "Perhaps I enjoy watching you squirm."
"I'm not squirming."
"No." Frustration threads the single word. "You're not."
A throat clears from the doorway. Two guards enter carrying a tray heavy with silver domes and too many hothouse roses—an overdone attempt at refinement. Viktor gestures; they arrange the small table by the window, crystal and candlelight flickering against bulletproof glass. Then they retreat.
He turns that cold, aristocratic smile on me.
"Sit."
I could refuse. Instead I move to the chair, noting how he positions himself between me and the only exit. Always calculating.
The food smells divine—filet mignon, glazed vegetables, a Bordeaux that would make Matteo jealous. When I reach for the fork, Viktor's hand closes over mine.
"No." The single syllable brooks no argument. "You eat what I give you. When I give it to you."
Heat flares again, humiliating and undeniable. My fingers tighten around the silver; his grip does not yield.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." He plucks the fork from my hand, cuts a precise square of meat. "Open."
I turn my face away. His free hand catches my chin, thumb pressing the hinge of my jaw until I face him again. The hold is firm, not cruel—yet.
"You can eat from my hand," he says quietly, "or you can starve. Choose."
The words land between my legs like a brand. I part my lips.
He feeds me slowly. Each bite deliberate. His gaze fixes on my mouth; pupils dilate when the tines slide free and his fingertips brush my lower lip. I taste almost nothing—just salt and heat and the faint trace of his skin.
"Tell me about the night Dimitri died."
The question slices through the haze. I swallow, meet his eyes.
"I don't know anything about that night."
"Liar." The fork hovers. "Every detail you remember."
I take the bite he offers, buying seconds. His thumb catches a drop of jus at the corner of my mouth, lingers. The small intimacy burns worse than any slap.
"I only know what I've been told," I say finally. "A meeting between allies turned into a slaughter. We blamed you. You blamed us. But it was the Russians who fired first, trying to make us destroy each other."
He rejects the version with a soft sound of contempt, feeds me another piece. This time his fingers stay against my lips a heartbeat longer.
"I'm not interested in propaganda. I want what you remember."
I draw a slow breath. "I don't remember anything." The admission tastes like copper. "I dream about it every night. Screaming. Blood everywhere. I wake tasting metal, feeling like I'm drowning in guilt I can't name."
The fork stills. Something raw crosses his face—grief, recognition, fury.
"Good," he says, but the venom has thinned.
He lifts the wine glass, holds it to my lips. I drink. His thumb traces the corner of my mouth again, catching an errant drop. The gesture is almost gentle. His breathing fractures, just once.
Then the mask slams down.
He stands abruptly, chair scraping. Calls the guards in clipped Russian. They clear the table while I sit, stomach still hollow, watching half my meal disappear.
At the threshold he pauses, looks back. For a moment I think something kinder flickers behind his eyes.
His smile is winter.
"I hope your hunger makes the nightmares worse."
The door closes. The lock engages.
I remain at the table long after the candles gutter out, tasting wine and meat and the ghost of his fingers against my mouth.