19. Sofia
SOFIA
Frustration has become like a second skin these days.
It hollows me out and fills in the gaps left behind with molten rage every time I catch sight of another armed enforcer at every corner of this damned estate. Their presence has multiplied overnight, guarding doorways, hallways, outside walkways, even the damn perimeter of the gardens.
The worst part is I know exactly who is behind the increase in security measures.
Rowan might not speak to me anymore and he might barely look at me outside of a passing glance if we happen to run into each other in the hallway, but the sudden escalation sings his name in every heavy bootstep and clipped radio transmission that rolls through this house.
It’s a silent punishment.
A quiet declaration of you will not leave again because I said so.
What I cannot understand is how he managed to mobilize half the Kuznetsov Bratva without Ivan questioning it. Unless Rowan lied, or Ivan believes this is exactly how to handle keeping me inside without having to worry about another rendezvous in the city to “clear my head”.
At this point, I don’t know what to believe about any of them anymore.
Every answer I uncover only fractures the foundation beneath my feet. Every secret I chase reveals three more buried underneath the first one. I feel like I’m living in a labyrinth built on lies and loyalty I can no longer trust to be real.
Over the next few days, I wander the estate like a restless spirit, checking for blind spots that might offer a way out of here. But every potential weak point is reinforced come the next morning, sealed shut as if Rowan anticipated my every thought before I even had a chance to make it a reality.
He watches me from a distance. There’s no warmth or softness like before, nothing resembling the man who held me, kissed me, touched me like I was his. Instead, he observes me with a soldier’s detachment, as if I’m just another threat to be contained.
Each time I catch his eye, that unyielding and unreadable expression stares back. He looks resolute, as if he’s made peace with the idea of being the villain in my story if that’s what it takes to keep me confined within these walls.
But intimidation has never been something that sits well with me. If anything, it sparks rebellion even more fiercely inside my chest. The more Rowan closes in around me, the more determined I become to push back.
So I begin to craft a plan.
Not the impulsive kind that got me dragged into his arms and kissed breathless against the kitchen door like last time.
This one is calculated, pieced together over several nights as I lie awake while sleep evades me, staring at the ceiling and listening to the steady rhythm of guards patrolling the halls outside my door.
If Rowan thinks he can outmaneuver me at every turn, then he has forgotten one critical truth. I am a Kuznetsov and Kuznetsovs do not surrender. We don’t bend to cages, no matter how gilded or guarded they may be.
The days blur into a careful dance of observation and restraint.
I smile politely at the staff and eat the meals placed in front of me.
I let the guards escort me from room to room without complaint.
On the surface, I appear compliant. Broken in.
The perfect little niece who has finally accepted her place inside this fortress.
Inside, I note the shift changes with meticulous care.
I memorize the blind spots in the camera coverage, small gaps created by the angle of the lenses and the way the floodlights cast shadows at certain hours over the grounds outside.
I listen to the rhythm of the patrols, counting seconds between footsteps, learning when the east garden is least watched.
Rowan watches it all.
Strangely, though, he never approaches me or speaks, but I feel his gaze like a physical weight resting on my shoulders all the same.
Sometimes, I catch him in the hallway standing like a shadow at the edge of my vision.
Other times, I feel him by the windows, watching me through the reflection of the glass as his eyes track my every movement through the warped surface.
He is always there just out of reach, a silent sentinel enforcing the cage he helped trap me inside.
It hurts more than I want to admit. I tell myself I hate him for it because that’s easier than admitting the truth I refuse to name.
But at night when the estate grows quiet and I lie alone in my bed, I remember the way his hands trembled against my skin.
The way he whispered my name like a confession at the altar of his god.
The way he looked at me afterward like I was both salvation and damnation wrapped in one fragile package.
I miss him.
That longing only seems to fuel the fire blazing within me.
On the sixth night of my self-imposed recon mission, I slip out of my room just after midnight.
The hallway is dim, lit only by low scones on either side of the space.
I move quickly and quietly, my feet silent on the cold marble as I move, dark clothing blending into the shadows.
I’ve timed this perfectly because I know I only have one shot to make this work.
The guard at the end of the corridor just finished his sweep.
I know he won’t return for another twelve minutes.
I reach the service stairwell at the back of the east wing in record time.
The door is locked, but I’ve watched the staff long enough to know where they hide the spare key tucked behind a loose panel in the molding.
My fingers find it quickly, pulling it out of place before shifting the molding back the way I found it.
The lock clicks open with a soft sound that seems deafening in the silence.
I pocket the key and descend the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step. Every creak of the old wood makes me flinch but I keep moving. Down, down, until I reach the lower level where the delivery entrance sits.
The door is heavy, reinforced steel that will not budge unless the panel on the side of it is engaged.
The number pad is simple, the numbers on it worn from heavy use.
While I don’t know the code to open it, I overheard two guards complaining about the short in one of the wires during a shift change a few days ago.
It takes a few tries to find the correct wires to connect together, but when I do, the light on the panel turns green. Slowly, the door rolls open, pulling in a cold gust of wind that knocks my hair back from my shoulders.
My lungs burn slightly as I step outside.
The cold bites instantly through my thin jacket, but I don’t stop.
I move along the side of the building, keeping to the shadows, heading toward the south end of the property.
It’s the one place with a service tunnel that leads beyond the main perimeter wall.
If I can reach it before the next patrol, I can get over the wall and—
A hand clamps over my mouth at the same time as an arm bands around my waist, hauling me backward against a hard chest. I freeze, terror spiking hot and dizzying through my bloodstream until I smell something familiar on the wind.
Rowan.
His breath is hot against my ear.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” he growls, voice low and rough with something that sounds dangerously close to pain.
I twist in his grip, but he doesn’t let go. His hold is iron strong yet at the same time careful in a brutal way, never once bruising me. Even now, as furious as I know that he is, he handles me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break.
That’s exactly why I take advantage of the opportunity presented to me and bite down on the inside of his palm.
Hard.
He hisses and flinches back but doesn’t release me. “Stop fighting me, Sofia. Unless you want me to hog tie you and throw you over my shoulder. Maybe then, the humiliation will get you to act right.”
I wrench my head to the side, gasping when his hand finally drops from my mouth. “Let me go!”
His arm tightens around my waist. I feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against my back as he begins to drag me backward to the house again. “Stop.”
“No!” I practically scream. “Just let me find out the truth! Why can’t you see I need that?”
He pauses but only long enough to say, “You think this isn’t tearing me apart seeing you this upset? Running off in the middle of the night like a reckless child isn’t going to solve your problems, Sofia. You’re smarter than that.”
“I’m not a child,” I spit out.
“No, you’re not,” he says, his mouth pressing directly to my ear. “You are the most dangerous thing I have ever let close to me.”
The confession hangs between us, sending an electric pulse racing up my spine.
I stop struggling, though it isn’t in surrender.
It’s shock, maybe, or awareness. I become conscious of every place his body touches mine.
His grip loosens, though he doesn’t release me completely.
He slowly turns me in his arms until we’re facing each other.
Rain has begun to fall from the dark skies above us, catching in his dark hair and dusting his shoulders with water. Droplets cling to his lashes, sliding down the harsh line of his cheek, darkening the collar of his shirt where his coat hangs open.
His gray eyes are stormy, conflicted and furious in a way I’ve never seen before.
Rowan is always controlled, even when angry.
But now that ice is cracking, fissures forming just under the surface that go on for miles and miles.
The longer I stare into them, the more those eyes fill with something I can’t quite name.
Something that looks an awful lot like fear.
“Then why did you let me?” I whisper.
I don’t know why I ask.