Chapter 11 – Raelyn
I wake slowly, disoriented, wrapped in warmth that doesn’t belong to my memories.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just breathe.
Then I realize I’m pressed flush against a solid chest, a slow, steady rhythm beneath my ear. An arm is draped heavy across my waist, possessive even in sleep. Konstantin. The weight of him is unmistakable—heat, strength, certainty.
Panic flickers.
Carefully, I try to slide forward, inching away without waking him. The mattress barely shifts.
His fingers tighten at my hip.
Not rough. Not conscious. Just instinctive—like his body refuses to let me go even while his mind sleeps.
A shiver runs straight down my spine.
I freeze, heart thudding, acutely aware of everything: the warmth at my back, the faint scent of soap and something darker, the way his breath brushes the back of my neck. I tell myself it’s just reflex. Muscle memory. Nothing more.
But my body doesn’t believe that lie.
I swallow and stay still, letting the moment pass. His grip loosens slightly after a few seconds, his breathing never changing. I ease forward again, this time successfully, and sit up on the edge of the bed.
The room is dim with early morning light. Pale gray slipping through the tall windows. His room feels different in daylight—less like a fortress, more like a man’s space. Clean lines. Dark wood. Controlled. Everything in its place.
Including him.
I glance back despite myself.
He’s on his side now, arm stretched out where I was, brow faintly furrowed even in sleep. Unfairly beautiful. Unfairly human. And that makes something twist in my chest, sharp and unwelcome.
I stand, wrapping my arms around myself.
Last night wasn’t a dream.
The note. The alarms. His voice in my ear. Stay near me. The way he held me like the world would end if he didn’t.
I don’t know what that makes me.
Wife. Prisoner. Protected asset. Something else entirely.
Behind me, the bed shifts. I turn, and he’s still asleep.
He’s pulled the pillow close to his chest, brow smooth now, breath deep and even. The edge of danger he wears so easily is gone, stripped away by sleep. He looks younger like this. Human.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
I catch myself and scrub it away, like it’s a mistake I can erase if I’m fast enough.
No.
Distance.
I slip into the bathroom and shut the door softly. The shower hisses to life, steam blooming around me, and I let the heat beat against my skin. I stay longer than necessary, letting the water ground me, wash away the weight of last night.
Remember who you were, I tell myself.
Before the walls.
Before the guards.
Before him.
I dress quietly. Practical clothes. Nothing soft. Nothing that invites touch. By the time I leave the room, the bed is empty. Sheets smooth. No sign he was ever there.
Good.
The dining room is already set when I arrive.
Silver gleams. Porcelain plates. Fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, juice—enough food to host a small delegation. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, making everything look warm, generous.
Safe.
My stomach twists.
You don’t feed prisoners like this.
And yet, the guards are still at the doors. The exits are still watched. The mansion still breathes around me like a living thing that refuses to let me forget where I am.
I take a seat slowly, hands resting in my lap.
Lavish breakfast. Locked world.
Whatever I am now, I know one thing for certain—
This place doesn’t know the difference between care and control.
And neither, terrifyingly, does Konstantin.
I’m just reaching for my cutlery when he arrives.
Freshly showered. Immaculate. Coldly composed, like last night never cracked him open at all. He takes the chair beside mine—too close. His thigh brushes mine when he sits, a deliberate invasion of space that makes my spine stiffen.
He doesn’t apologize.
Of course, he doesn’t.
I can feel his attention on me immediately. That quiet, unsettling focus. Like I’m a problem he’s been working on for too long. Like if he just stares hard enough, I’ll finally reveal the answer.
I keep my eyes on my plate, but I can still feel him watching. Measuring. Claiming. I stare at my plate for a long moment, then lift my eyes to him.
“You said you’d uncover the truth,” I say quietly. “About my father.”
His fork pauses mid-air. Just for a second. Enough that I see it.
“Where did he disappear from?” I ask. “Not the story I grew up with. The real place.”
Konstantin sets his fork down carefully. “Finish your breakfast.”
My jaw tightens. “No.”
His gaze slides to me, sharp now. Warning. “Raelyn—”
“Was he alone?” I press. My hands curl in my lap. “Or was someone with him when he vanished?”
Silence. Thick. Controlled.
“Did he leave anything behind?” I ask. “A message. A name. A location that didn’t make sense at the time but does now?”
He exhales slowly through his nose. “You’re asking questions that will make you a target.”
“I already am,” I say. “Because of him. Because of you. Because of Markov.”
That lands.
I lean closer, my voice dropping. “Do you know where he was taken?”
His jaw works. Once. “No.”
“You’re lying.”
He narrows his eyes at me. His hand shifts on the table, fingers flexing. “Because if you step into that part of this world, there’s no stepping back.”
I swallow. “Do you think he’s dead?”
He doesn’t answer.
I laugh once, sharp and broken. “You see? You keep saying you’re protecting me, but you won’t even trust me with the truth.”
His voice drops. “The truth would break you.”
I meet his gaze, unblinking. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Silence settles between us, taut as wire.
“Finish your food,” he says finally.
I don’t argue. I don’t look at him. I pick up my fork and eat, every bite stiff with irritation, with things unsaid clogging my throat. He watches me the entire time. I can feel it. When I’m done, I stand and turn away without a word.
I barely make it two steps before he speaks again. “Come. I want to show you something.”
I pause, then keep walking. He falls into step beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, guiding without touching. The secured wing opens before us, and I immediately understand what this is.
He stops in front of the first window and places his palm flat against the glass.
“Go on,” he says.
I hesitate, then lift my hand and knock once. The sound is dull. Thick. Nothing like glass should sound.
“Laminated polycarbonate,” he says. “Three layers. Bullet-resistant. It won’t shatter. It won’t spiderweb. Even if someone tries.”
“Someone always tries,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Exactly.”
We move on. He gestures to a slim black strip embedded along the ceiling. Almost invisible.
“Motion sensors,” he says. “Infrared and pressure. If anything crosses after curfew, I know before the guards do.”
He presses a button on the wall. Screens flicker to life—camera feeds blooming across the surface. The gates. The garden wall. The hedge.
My breath catches.
“That’s where I was,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he replies at once. “Now I have a view of the place from six different angles.”
My jaw tightens, but he’s already moving again.
A steel door waits at the end of the hall. No handle. Just a smooth panel and a small scanner. He places his thumb against it. The door unlocks with a heavy, final sound.
“Panic room,” he says. “Independent power. Air filtration. No signal leakage.”
He steps inside, flips a switch. The door seals behind us, cutting off the hallway entirely. The silence is absolute.
“If alarms sound,” he continues, calm as ever, “you come here. You don’t wait for me. You don’t look back.”
I fold my arms. “And if I don’t?”
His gaze pins me in place. “You will.”
The door opens again, light flooding back in. As we step out, I glance around the wing—at the cameras, the glass, the walls that don’t feel like walls at all.
“This house really is a fortress,” I say.
He slows, just enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he says. “Because someone dangerous already found you.”
My stomach tightens.
I fold my arms around myself and keep walking, keenly aware of how closely he shadows me and how protected I am.
My stomach tightens.
I don’t answer. I fold my arms around myself and keep walking, pretending I don’t feel how close he is—how his presence brackets me in, shields my back, controls my pace. Protected. Contained. Both at once.
By afternoon, I escape to the library.
It’s the quietest place in the house, tucked away from the main corridors, all dark wood and towering shelves. The smell of old paper and leather settles my nerves a little. I breathe deeper here. Slower.
On a long table near the window sits a neat stack of newspapers.
My pulse stutters.
I recognize my father’s name before I even reach them.
Agent Jonathan Hart.
My fingers hover, then land. I flip through the pages, one by one. Missing person reports. Brief mentions. Speculation wrapped in careful language. A good man. A government asset. Disappeared under “unclear circumstances.”
Every article that ever existed. Collected. Preserved. Waiting.
Of course, he did this.
Konstantin didn’t forbid me from searching. He curated it.
The realization unsettles me more than outright denial would have. This—this feels like kindness dressed in control. Like he’s saying: Here. Look. But only at what I allow.
Hours slip by without my noticing. I read until the words blur, until my eyes burn and my shoulders ache. Outside, rain begins to fall, soft at first, then heavier, tapping against the tall windows like restless fingers.
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
My father’s face rises behind my lids—warm smile, tired eyes, the way he used to promise he’d always come back. My throat tightens.
Then—Click!
My eyes snap open.
The sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too deliberate to be rain.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
Another faint sound—metal shifting. The latch.
My pulse roars in my ears.
“No,” I whisper, barely audible, more instinct than word.