Chapter 5 – Elara
Two days slide past like a dream I can’t wake from.
Roman is a ghost, and I haven’t seen him since he put me out of his office that night.
The door opens, a shadow passes, and then it’s closed again.
A guard stands outside like a monument to my confinement, and his silence is heavier than any chain.
He never speaks or responds to my questions.
They haven’t exactly starved me. The room is soft, almost insultingly kind: a chaise by the window, thick rugs, a stack of books Luka leaves on my desk. Meals arrive on a tray three times a day, a folded napkin, a porcelain plate, and the gentle clack of cutlery.
Luka’s movements are the only thing resembling warmth; he sets the food down as if he’s delivering provisions to an injured animal, never meeting my eyes for longer than a second.
He brings books I choose and then pretends not to notice when I change my mind.
He told me once, quietly, that the facilities are warm and that the bath water is always ready.
That kindness feels like a mercy and a threat all at once.
But kindness doesn’t equal freedom. I’m caged by velvet and a pleasant view of someone else’s manicured courtyard.
I count the cracks in the ceiling and the minutes between the guard’s steps.
I memorize the cadence of the lock. I speak aloud to the empty room, ridiculous, hoarse whispers that scratch the air.
“Is the shipment safe? Has my father noticed my absence?” My questions hang in the silence and return to me cold and unanswered.
I refuse breakfast. I refuse lunch. I tell myself I’m making a point, that withholding my obedience will matter when the right ears hear about it.
The truth is uglier: I’m slipping. The edges of me are frayed, and the steady life I built with varnish and patience threatens to unravel into raw, tremulous threads.
I pace until my feet ache, and then I press my palms to the window and watch the world go on without me—people living ordinary lives unaware of the ledger I tore open.
I pace, my hands pressed against the wall, trying to think, trying to plan.
My chest aches with the questions I can’t answer.
I sit on the edge of the bed. When will someone come for me?
Will my father even notice I’m gone? Even if he hates me, surely he can’t go on without knowing where I disappeared to.
The door suddenly opens, and I don’t even look up.
“Take the food. I’m not hungry.”
“There’ll be no starving in my house, printsessa.”
I snap my head up and see Roman standing there. He fills the doorway with his shoulders, brown hair loose, brushing down to his shoulders, framing his face in a way that makes him impossible to ignore. My first instinct is to rush to my feet, but I force myself to stay seated, calm, collected.
“Are you ready to let me go back to my father?” I ask, voice steady despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
He lowers himself onto the chaise, deliberate, unhurried. “Your father? The man who put you up for sale?” His eyes narrow. “Are you certain you want to go back to him?”
I glare at him. “Whatever his plans for me are, yours are worse. You want me to believe you care about me more than he does?”
“No.” He shakes his head slowly, dark eyes locked on mine. “I’m only here to ask questions. The more honest you are, the more likely you are to be safe.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady my racing thoughts. This is the man who kidnapped me, and yet, somehow, his words carry a weight that makes me hesitate.
“What kind of questions?” I manage, voice tight.
He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, calm and controlled. “About your father. His shipments. The contacts he trusts. Every detail that could make me understand the scope of his network.”
I let out a bitter laugh, almost a snarl. “You think he’d tell me any of that?”
“I think you already know more than you’re admitting,” he says, quiet, deadly certain.
I straighten, jaw tight. “You can threaten me all you want. I don’t know anything.”
“That’s the wrong answer, printsessa,” he says, tilting his head, calm but with an edge that cuts through me like steel.
He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. Every word is enough. “I don’t respond well to lies,” he continues, standing now. His shadow looms over me. “And you’ve already proven you’re capable of sabotage.”
I look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.
“So what now? You’re going to torture me?” I say, voice shaking but defiant.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink. “Not unless you give me a reason to.”
I bite my lip, jaw clenched, and he studies me a beat longer before straightening. “Your food will come soon. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, you’ll talk.”
He moves to the door, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Why are you doing this?”
He pauses at the doorway, glancing back at me with those unrelenting hazel eyes. “Because your father is evil. And you, Elara, are going to help me get revenge on him.”
Then the door shuts, the sound echoing like a lock sliding into place, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing, dangerous awareness of just how trapped I am.
The days blur, but the tension only sharpens. Roman keeps me locked inside the room, always under watch, never letting me out of his sight for long. He questions me at odd hours—about my father’s dealings, about shipments, about the men I saw at that cursed dinner table.
I give him nothing more than I have to. Not because I want to protect my father—I hate him—but because every piece of truth feels like surrender. And I refuse to surrender to this man who stole my freedom.
Sometimes I catch him watching me, and it makes my blood run cold. He studies my reactions, my silence, the way my jaw tightens when I refuse to answer. He’s patient, methodical, but there’s a hunger there, like he’s testing me, probing for the smallest crack.
I refuse to give him one.
Even when he’s gone, I feel his presence, lingering in the corners of the room, in the quiet hum of the air.
I pace, I sit, I read the books Luka brings, but nothing can distract me from the fact that I am trapped.
And yet…there’s a part of me, a dangerous, foolish part, that wants to see what he’ll do next.
I hate myself for thinking it.
I should be afraid of Roman. Every time he comes in here, I should run and hide. But I don’t.
Roman doesn’t act like other Bratva men. He doesn’t leer, doesn’t touch, doesn’t threaten me with anything but his words—and his silence. And somehow, that unnerves me more than violence ever could.
He’s always watching. Studying. Reading me like I’m one of his missions, not a person. Every flick of my eyes, every twitch of my fingers, he notices. I can feel it.
I’ve seen men like my father’s associates—loud, greedy, and cruel in the simplest, dirtiest ways.
Roman is different. His restraint is what makes him terrifying.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice or make promises of pain.
One look from him feels like being stripped bare, and I can’t decide if it’s fear crawling down my spine… or something far worse.
Yes, it’s stupid. The difference is clear, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let my guard down. He’s still my captor, and I’ll treat him as such.
I’m lying on the bed, pretending to read, when a loud noise cuts through the quiet. I pause, listening. Laughter. Real laughter. I set the book down and hurry to the window, peeking through the curtains.
Outside, a few of the guards are gathered near the courtyard, playing some kind of game. They’re drinking, throwing dice, teasing each other. One of them shoves another, and the rest break into laughter again.
It’s…strange.
Back home, my father’s men never laughed. They were shadows in suits. Silent, stiff, terrified of making the wrong move. Here, even the soldiers look human. It’s wrong, unsettling even. Because if monsters can laugh, what does that make the man leading them?
My gaze drifts back to the window, and another thought slowly creeps in—what if I can escape through there?
I push at the frame, testing it. It doesn’t budge. The lock is solid, the kind that would take tools—or brute strength—to break. My stomach sinks. Of course it’s locked. I sigh and turn to climb back into bed—
And gasp.
Roman is standing at the doorway.
It’s been two days since his last visit, and somehow, he looks even more dangerous in silence. His shoulders fill the frame, his eyes catching the dim light like they were made to see in the dark.
“Looking for a way out?” he asks, voice low and calm.
My pulse spikes, hammering against my ribs. Still, I lift my chin. “Wouldn’t you?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just stands there, watching me like he’s deciding what I’m worth. Then he moves. He’s fast, deliberate, crossing the room in a few strides.
He stops in front of me and braces one hand against the wall beside my head. The closeness steals my breath. He smells like leather, smoke, and something darker—control. Up close, his hazel-brown eyes are even more arresting, with gold flecks and a honeyed tone, too sharp for comfort.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says quietly, voice smooth as a blade. “Not until I know whether you’re my enemy…or my leverage.”
I press against the wall, feeling his heat wrap around me and tug me in place I haven’t felt in a long time.
I clear my throat. “Has my father started looking for me yet?”
Roman shakes his head, just as I expected. Of course he hasn’t. My father definitely isn’t going to look for me. He might not even have realized I’m gone.
Roman’s eyes burn into mine, and for one terrifying heartbeat, I feel something spark between us—hatred, yes, but also heat. I push it down and push against his chest.
“Let me go.”
Surprisingly, he lets me go without force. He just steps aside and lets me walk to the bed.
“Can you please leave?” I whisper, curling up on the bed and wrapping my arms around myself as if I could make the world smaller.
Without hesitation, he turns and leaves the room. The door clicks softly behind him, but it doesn’t erase the lingering weight of his presence.
I press my face into the pillow, heart hammering against my ribs. Every nerve in my body is still awake, screaming, but not from fear. Not entirely.
Roman Rusnak isn’t just my captor. He’s a storm, a force that could tear through me and leave nothing but wreckage behind. And somehow, part of me wants to be in that storm.
I clench my hands against the sheets, trying to deny it.
My pulse races with something I can’t name at first, something hotter, sharper than fear or fury.
When I think back to how he stepped into the room, so close, so impossible to ignore, I feel it again: a dangerous pull, a thrill I don’t want but can’t shake.
Attraction.
I shove the thought away, harder this time, because acknowledging it feels like surrender. But my body betrays me anyway. My cheeks burn, my stomach twists. I feel exposed and alive in ways I shouldn’t with a man who could destroy me without a second thought.
And yet…there’s no denying it. When he looks at me, when he enters a room, the world narrows to him.
Roman doesn’t come to see me for a whole week. A week. By now, I’m fraying at the edges, losing track of time. Days blur together. I don’t know if it’s morning or evening, if the sun is up or down. I stare at the walls, counting cracks in the plaster, counting nothing at all.
I feel myself slipping, teetering on the edge of despair. What’s happening in the outside world? Are people laughing? Working? Living their lives while I rot in this gilded cage?
Then, one afternoon, the door swings open. My heart leaps, a mix of hope and terror, and when I see him, instinct takes over.
“You monster!” I lash out, punching his chest as hard as I can. “Let me go!”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look angry. He seizes my fists in one hand, holding me still with a strength that’s both terrifying and infuriating.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that any longer,” he says, voice low, unwavering. His eyes are hard, unyielding. “Pack anything you’ll need. We’re moving. You have ten minutes.”
Before I can respond, before I can even argue, he turns and walks out, leaving me frozen in the middle of the room, pulse racing, fear and anger coiling together like a living thing inside me.