Chapter 7 – Elara
I pace the room, every step sharp with irritation. Roman Rusnak pisses me off more than anyone ever has. How the hell do I go from being locked in his safe house to being locked in his mansion? I’ve basically exchanged one gilded cage for another—my father’s house for a Rusnak’s.
The annoying part? The room is beautiful. Like that’ll make up for anything.
Huge windows overlook the city skyline, the breeze from the vent stirring the sheer curtains. The walls are a soft cream, the furniture sleek and modern, the bed big enough to swallow me whole. The closet is filled with designer clothes Luka must have moved here from the safe house.
If I weren’t trapped, I might have actually enjoyed it.
But no matter how soft the sheets or how perfect the view, a cage is still a cage.
I stop pacing and stare at the door, my pulse ticking faster. How long before he comes to see me? Or is he avoiding me again?
My fingers twitch with the urge to throw something—anything—just to feel like I still have some kind of control.
Just as I contemplate throwing the ceramic vase on the table, there’s a knock on the door.
“Elara? It’s Roman.”
I freeze, fingers tightening around the vase. Of course it’s him. I want to tell him to fuck off, to never knock on this door again—but I need answers. I storm to the door and yank it open so hard it slams against the wall.
“For how long will I be your prisoner, Roman?” I fire at him, my voice trembling with rage. “This is becoming utterly ridiculous. Let me go! You monster!”
He steps inside calmly, shutting the door behind him with that unnerving control that makes me want to scream.
This is out of character for me, but I’m too angry. I’m not done. My anger’s too hot, too wild to hold back. “Are you going to keep me locked up here forever like some wicked witch in a tower? Because that’s—”
“We’re getting married.”
The words hit like a slap. I blink, sure I misheard him. “What?”
He doesn’t repeat himself. He just stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
My throat goes dry. “This has to be a joke.”
“It’s not a joke. The Pakhan ordered it.”
The words land like ice. I’m Asian American, yes, but I know the weight of that Russian title—the men who sit and make decisions no one questions. My knees threaten to give; the room tilts. I clamp my jaw hard enough to taste metal and force my body to stay upright.
Breathe, Elara. Don’t let him see you wobble.
“What gives your Pakhan the right to dictate my life?” I snap, but my voice comes out thin. “I’m not marrying you. I won’t marry anyone, especially not you.”
He watches me with the same unreadable expression he wears like armor. “It’s either that or you die,” he says flatly. “Those are the only two options. I either marry you or kill you. You either marry me or die. The choice is yours.”
My mouth hangs open. For a ridiculous second, I think he’s testing me, baiting some reaction.
But the hard set of his jaw, the slow, patient calm in his voice, and the quiet in the room that narrows down to the sound of my heartbeat tell me he means it.
I see the outline of the world closing: a mansion that won’t let me out, a father who sells people for profit, and men who treat my life like a chess piece.
“Coward’s choice,” I manage at last. The words are small, but they feel like a match in my hand. “Threaten me with death, then present marriage as mercy. That’s your…solution?” Rage threads through my fear, sharpening my tongue. I won’t beg. I won’t placate him. Not yet.
He takes one step closer, and up close, there’s no cruelty in his mouth—only an awful, steady resolve. “Marry me and live,” he says. “Refuse me and die. Tell me which. I do not have time to banter words.”
I look at him—really look—trying to find the man in the armor.
All I see is a ledger of options, a man trained to turn people into advantages.
My chest is a war zone: fear on one side, a wild, furious desire to survive on the other.
I want to spit in his face; I also want to run until my legs fall off. Neither is possible.
“Roman…no.”
“Marriage will protect you,” he says, voice flat as a tombstone. “It puts you inside the family. No buyer touches what’s ours. Not even your father.”
I snarl, the word coming out like a knife. “So now you own me. Same old cage, different lock.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “This is a property swap dressed up as vows.”
He doesn’t argue. He folds his hands behind his back the way a man who’s closed every other door in his life folds them.
It’s calm and inevitable. “The wedding is in two days,” he tells me.
The certainty in those two words lands harder than any raised voice could.
It terrifies me more than yelling ever did.
“I won’t be your trophy,” I say, voice scraping from somewhere low and raw. “I won’t…I won’t play house for you.”
He tilts his head, slow. “You won’t have to,” he says. “You’ll have the protections. You’ll have a legal name. You’ll have whatever limits I consent to put on you. But you’ll be Rusnak, Elara. That’s the only guarantee the world respects.”
I try another angle.
Reason. Because that’s what I know first—logic, facts, solutions.
“He’ll never stop,” I tell him, voice shaking but steady enough to lay out a plan.
“My father will never stop. If you hand me back, I’ll help you take him down.
I’ll give you everything—names, routes, ledgers.
I can unravel him from the inside. Use me.
Don’t marry me.” I speak fast, words tumbling like I can outrun his patience.
“I can be useful. I can make it worse for him than he ever imagined.”
“I already have a plan.” His tone is monotonous.
Next is fury—rage that I let out, sharp and bitter. “You think you’re being noble?” I spit. “You’re a man with a reputation and a chessboard. You’re buying a daughter like a piece you can move. I will never be a part of that.” I pitch my voice so high my throat hurts. “I won’t be bought again.”
Then, when fury proves only fuel for him to tighten his jaw, I beg.
“Please,” the word is as small and ragged as a match.
“Please don’t make me marry you. Don’t make me stand in front of your brothers and sign my life away.
I’ll disappear. I’ll leave the country. Take my passport.
Take my bank accounts. Let me be gone. I’ll never speak of this.
I’ll never come back.” My pleas soak the wool at his sleeve, and for a flash—a heartbeat—something passes across his face, like a shutter closing.
“Think of me as…as expendable,” I whisper. “Use me as a lever, not as a wife. Use me for the ledger leads. Please. I’ll do anything. Anything.” The pleading changes me—strips away dignity like clothing—and I hate myself for it, for the sound my voice makes and the way my body trembles.
When pleading doesn’t move him either, I try leverage of another kind: pity mixed with threat.
“If you make me Rusnak,” I say, choking on the words, “you’ll own my life.
But you’ll own my hate too. I’ll never forgive you.
If you want me to be useful and loyal, you’ll have to earn it.
Otherwise, you get the worst of me: a quiet enemy inside your walls.
” I glance up to catch his eyes, searching for any flicker that might mean he’s human. He doesn’t give me one.
“I don’t care if you hate me, Elara. In fact, I highly recommend it.” His voice is calm—too calm—and that quiet edge slices deeper than if he’d shouted. He turns toward the door like the conversation is over.
“Like I said,” he adds, hand on the knob, “the wedding’s in two days. Prepare for it.”
My mouth opens before I can stop it. “Roman, this is—”
He whirls around, eyes flashing. “Elara, I’m asking you one last time. Marriage or death. Choose. Right now.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and final. My throat dries up. I try to hold his gaze, but my chest feels like it’s caving in.
“Choose,” he growls, stepping closer. “Now.”
“Roman—”
“Now!”
My heart stutters, and before I can think, the words tumble out. “I hate you,” I spit, trembling. “I’ll marry you, but I hate you so much.”
He studies me for a long, silent moment. Then he nods once, like that’s all he needed, and turns to leave.
But I can’t let him go—not yet. “Wait.” My voice cracks. “If I’m going to do this, I want Sasha there. And Vivian, my best friend. I won’t be married without anyone who actually loves me standing by.”
He pauses at the door. I half expect him to say no. If he says no, there’s nothing I can do.
“Sasha will be there,” he says finally. “As family. With Lev. Your Vivian will be invited too.”
I blink, thrown. “You don’t even know Vivian. How—how are you going to find her?”
He glances back at me, expression unreadable. “I have my ways.”
And then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me standing in the silence, half shaking, half hollow, the sound of his words echoing like a sentence I just agreed to serve.
I notice something strange. He doesn’t lock the door this time. Hell, he doesn’t even bother to close it all the way.
For a long moment, I just stare at it, at the narrow gap where the hall light spills through. It should mean freedom. It should mean choice. But I know better.
It’s not mercy. It’s a message.
He’s telling me I can leave if I want to—but that I won’t get far. That the guards outside, the walls, the eyes, all belong to him. Leaving the door open is a pure power move. Bastard.
Somehow, it makes me feel even more trapped than before.
I drag a shaky breath and glance around the room that suddenly feels too small, too polished, too heavy with silence. I can’t stay in here—not another minute.
So I decide to walk. Just to breathe. To remind myself what air feels like.
It’ll be the first time I’ve stepped outside in weeks.
Instead of stepping outside to breathe in the fresh air and smell the flowers I’ve been staring at from my window, I end up wandering through the mansion and find something entirely different.
A library.
It’s massive, two floors, maybe more, the kind of place that smells like dust, wood, and paper.
Every row of shelves is stacked with books of all shapes and ages, their spines glowing under the warm light.
I trail my fingers along them as I walk, feeling the faint hum of something that almost feels like peace.
Then I see it.
Tucked into a quiet corner is a small art space—a stool, a sturdy worktable scattered with paintbrushes of different sizes, tubes of acrylics, jars of water tinted with color, palettes hardened with old paint, sketchbooks, pencils, and a few charcoal sticks.
Beside it stands an easel holding several blank canvases, waiting.
For the first time in weeks, I smile. A real, genuine smile that reaches somewhere deep inside me. This little corner feels like heaven—hidden, unexpected, and mine, even if just for a moment.
I know I should probably ask permission before touching anything in this house. Nothing here belongs to me; hell, I don’t even belong here. But I can’t be bothered to go looking for Luka or Roman.
So I do the next reckless thing.
I sink onto the stool, the cool wood grounding me, and pull the nearest sketchbook closer.
My fingers move on instinct, sorting through the brushes, squeezing paint onto a palette, mixing colors like muscle memory guiding me home.
The smell of paint hits me—sharp, chemical, familiar—and something inside me unclenches.
Before I even realize it, I’m already preparing to paint.
Night falls without me noticing. The sky outside the tall windows is ink-black, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the night air.
I’ve been sketching for hours—furiously, obsessively—like my sanity depends on it. Maybe it does. The paint smudges my fingers, stains my wrist, but I don’t stop. Art is the only thing that still feels like mine. The only thing keeping me from completely unraveling.
When I finally lean back, breathing hard, I blink at the sketch and freeze.
It’s not a flower or a faceless silhouette like I intended. It’s him.
Roman.
His jaw, sharp as a blade. The cold focus in his eyes. The cruel line of his mouth that somehow still looks…human.
I stare at it, my heart pounding, realizing a little too late what I’ve done. I’ve spent the whole night breathing life into the face of the man I swore to hate.
I’m utterly and absolutely doomed. He must not see this.