Chapter Fifteen - Annie
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
No thunder rolling over the hills, no rain hammering the glass.
Only stillness, the kind that comes after a storm tears itself out and leaves the world emptied.
Pale morning light bleeds through the curtains, washing the edges of the room in silver.
The air smells faintly of wax and smoke from the candle that guttered out sometime in the night.
I lie there for a moment, still tangled in the heavy sheets, listening to the silence.
My body aches in places I didn’t know it could, a soreness that carries the echo of every movement, every thrust, every way he claimed me.
The memory slams into me before I can stop it—his mouth on mine, his hand gripping my thigh, his voice low and raw in my ear.
Heat flares under my skin, quick and dangerous. I roll onto my side, breath shallow, and my gaze falls on him. Dimitri sleeps beside me, or at least he looks like he does.
The covers are low across his hips, his chest bare, the wounds on his arm wrapped neat and stark against skin. Even in rest, he doesn’t look unguarded. His face is still composed, jaw set, like sleep is just another form of vigilance.
My throat tightens.
I can’t stay.
Slowly, carefully, I ease out from under the covers. The sheet drags against my bare skin, making me flinch at how exposed I feel even in the half-light. My feet find the rug, cool and plush, and I push to standing, keeping my movements quiet.
Each step is deliberate, silent, the way you move when you’re afraid of waking something you don’t know how to face.
I tell myself it was a mistake.
That’s what last night was: a collision of storm and dark, of fear and hunger wound too tight.
Nothing more. My mind clings to the words like a shield, repeating them as I gather the pieces of myself scattered across the floor.
My dress lies crumpled by the bed, a torn scrap of lace beside it, proof I can’t pretend away.
My hands shake as I pick them up, clutching the fabric to my chest.
It was a mistake.
Except the warmth in my chest betrays me. It doesn’t feel like a mistake, not when the memory of his hands still lingers, not when my body still hums with the way he touched me. I want to believe the words, to let them harden into fact, but every time I whisper them in my head, they fracture.
The bathroom mirror doesn’t forgive.
I lean over the sink, twist the tap until cold water gushes, and splash it over my face. Droplets run down my neck, seeping into my collarbone, chasing away the last traces of sleep. I look up, expecting to see the same sharp lines, the same practiced neutrality I wear for the world.
What stares back at me is softer.
My eyes are wide, lips fuller, cheeks flushed. There’s a looseness to my expression I don’t recognize, a trace of something I don’t want to name. Something that makes me look less like the girl who survives on defiance and more like someone who’s already surrendered.
I grip the sink harder, knuckles blanching. “It was nothing,” I whisper to the empty room. The words sound brittle.
I think of him. Of the way his voice wrapped around me, low and certain. Of the way he touched me like he owned every piece of me. The way my body gave itself over, not in fear, but in want. The softness in my reflection mocks me, because it knows.
I drag in a breath, cold water dripping from my chin, and list the reasons I shouldn’t want him.
His world: violence, blood, shadows that eat the light.
His control: the leash around my throat, the cage dressed up in silk sheets and locked doors.
The danger: the man I saw put a bullet in someone’s head without hesitation, who looked at me after like I was the next decision to be made.
I cling to those reasons like they can save me. Like they can build a wall high enough to keep out the heat still curling low in my stomach.
Still, the softness in the mirror doesn’t fade.
I stare at it until my chest aches, until the quiet of the estate presses too heavy, until the pale morning light feels less like safety and more like exposure.
No matter how tightly I hold on to those reasons, I can’t make myself believe them completely.
When I step back into the bedroom, he’s awake.
He’s propped against the headboard, shoulders broad beneath the rumpled sheet, his bare chest still and steady as if he’s been waiting for me. His eyes follow me across the room, unreadable, heavy enough to make my skin prickle.
I freeze in the doorway, clutching my dress tighter to my chest. The silence between us is thick, louder than any storm.
“You left,” he says at last, voice low and calm, but edged with something I can’t quite place.
I shrug, forcing casualness into my tone. “Needed water.”
Dimitri’s gaze doesn’t waver. “And answers, perhaps.”
The words slice too close. My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression steady, dropping my eyes to the fabric in my hands. “Don’t flatter yourself. Last night was…” I trail off, tugging at the dress as though the frayed hem demands my full attention. “…it shouldn’t have happened.”
The pause that follows is long enough to make me wish I’d bitten my tongue.
When he finally speaks, it’s softer, but no less dangerous. “Is that what you want to believe?”
I fumble with the zipper, refusing to look at him. My hands tremble, the metal teeth snagging under my fingers. “It’s the truth.”
The mattress shifts, the sound of his weight moving. My heart lurches. I don’t dare turn, but I can feel him closer, the gravity of him pressing into the room.
“Annie.” My name in his voice is too much—too intimate, too steady. “You can lie to yourself. Not to me.”
I swallow hard, heat climbing my throat. My reflection in the bathroom mirror flashes in my mind: that softness I hated, the telltale trace of something I can’t name. He’s right, and I hate him for it.
So I do the only thing I can; I armor myself in distance.
My hands smooth the dress over my hips, fingers fussing with seams that don’t need fixing. I cross the room without glancing at him, every step measured, careful, like if I pretend hard enough, I can erase the feel of his mouth on mine, his body over mine, the sound of my own voice crying his name.
His eyes burn into me as I reach the door.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
I pause, knuckles white against the frame.
“Say you regret it,” he presses, “and mean it this time.”
The air thickens. I force myself to inhale, to turn slightly, to meet his gaze. His eyes are sharp, but not cruel. Searching. My chest aches with the effort of standing my ground.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” I whisper, voice unsteady, “and I meant it.”
Something flickers across his face—doubt, amusement, I can’t tell. Then he leans back slowly, settling against the headboard again, dismissing me without another word.
I slip out before I betray myself.
The hallway is cool, the marble cold beneath my bare feet. My steps echo too loud, every sound a reminder of how raw I am, how thin my resolve feels. I hug myself tight, nails biting into my arms as if pressure alone can hold me together.
I tell myself I should feel relieved. I walked out. I left him behind in that room, left the sheets tangled with memories I don’t want. That should mean I’ve taken back some control.
My mind won’t quiet.
Each step away from him feels heavier, my resolve fragile as spun glass. The images won’t stop coming: his face caught in candlelight, the rough sound of his voice when he told me I was his, the way my body opened for him despite everything I swore I wouldn’t let happen.
By the time I reach the far end of the hall, I stop and press my back to the wall, sucking in a breath that does nothing to steady me. My pulse still races, my thighs ache with the ghost of his touch, and the heat in my chest refuses to fade.
I whisper it again, one last time, as though repetition will carve it into truth. “It was a mistake.”
The words crumble the second they leave my lips.
I push off the wall, forcing myself onward. The estate stretches long and endless before me, every corridor a reminder that I’m not free, that every choice is bound to him. And no matter how much I try to tell myself otherwise, last night changed something I can’t undo.
I know this isn’t the end of it.
The storm has passed, but the quiet it left behind is more dangerous.
The corridors blur as I move, though my pace is unhurried, measured—every step a performance for invisible eyes. I know someone is watching. There always is in this place. Guards tucked in shadows, cameras feeding to screens I’ll never see,
Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s more than them. That his gaze follows me even when he’s not there.
I reach the staircase, fingers brushing the polished banister, cold and smooth under my palm. The house is too quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe but unsettles. My own heartbeat feels louder than my footsteps, echoing against high ceilings and shuttered windows.
At the landing, I pause, catching sight of my reflection in a tall mirror. Hair tangled, skin flushed, lips still swollen from his mouth. I look away quickly, shame burning hot. The proof is everywhere on me, no matter how much I want to deny it.
I press on, winding through hallways that feel endless, each door the same, each shadow too thick. My room waits somewhere ahead, a cage I’ve grown used to, but tonight it feels different. Smaller. Tighter. Like the walls themselves will whisper what I’ve done.
When I finally step inside, I shut the door harder than I mean to. The sound ricochets in the silence, and I lean against it, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
Sleep won’t come easily—not with the storm still raging inside me, louder than thunder. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, knees hugged to my chest, and let the truth settle in my bones.
I can run from him down hallways, deny him with words, lie to my reflection all I want.
It doesn’t matter. He’s under my skin now.