3. Alina #3
My legs are stiff, half-numb from hours spent curled in front of the fire, but adrenaline laces through me the moment I head for the door. I cross the room in three strides and wrap my fingers around the door handle, finding myself letting out a small, stunned breath when I actually move it.
It turns…
It actually turns.
For a moment, I just stand there frozen by the shock of it. Nothing in this place is accidental. Sasha Sokolov doesn’t make mistakes like this. His men don’t either. So why?
I don’t have time to unravel the logic. Whether it’s divine intervention, a guard shift happening at the right time, or simple neglect, I’m not wasting the opportunity.
I pull the door open an inch and peek through the crack. The hallway beyond is dim, washed in a soft amber glow from the sconces lining the walls. The bulbs flicker every few seconds with the faux flame setting, casting momentary shadows that stretch and retract like restless creatures.
There are no guards in sight, no heavy boots pacing or hushed voices spilling from down the hallway.
There is nothing but silence.
The estate hasn’t been this quiet since I got here.
There has always been some kind of movement going on, but apparently, tonight is different.
Whoever had been stationed outside my door has vanished.
Either they’ve retired for the night believing my outburst at dinner left me too defeated to try anything…
Or there’s been a shift change, giving me a temporary blind spot.
Either way, I’d be an idiot not to use it.
I pull the door closed behind me, careful not to let it click too loudly when it slides into the jamb again. I gather myself with a deep inhale and then begin down the hallway. The sconces stretch my shadow across the wall, elongating my body in unnatural and frankly grotesque ways.
I reach the end of the hallway and pause at the intersection where a narrow staircase winds down toward the main floor.
My hand braces against the banister beside me as I head down the stairs and try to orient myself once I reach the bottom.
Looking around, I have no real sense of the layout of this place.
Every hallway in front of me looks the same, every turn looks just familiar enough to be the last.
It’s like this house has been designed to mirror a labyrinth, deliberately deceptive to swallow people like me whole before ever getting the chance to see even a sliver of sunlight.
I draw in a shaky breath and force myself to focus, eyes darting to the corners of the two hallways in front of me. They drift up toward the ceiling slowly, finding no small lenses glinting back at me, no blinking red lights pointed my way.
The absence of cameras feels… suspicious.
Sasha Sokolov doesn’t strike me as the type of man to leave anything unmonitored. He is meticulous—obsessively so. He’s the type of man who sees ten moves past everyone else. There’s no universe in which he wouldn’t monitor his own estate.
So, where are the cameras?
I scan back up the staircase again and then around to the hallways ahead, slower this time.
A cold realization prickles down my spine.
Unless the surveillance system is meant to be invisible. That the cameras are integrated into the sconces, the molding, the vents, tiny enough to evade a casual sweep but sophisticated enough to transmit everything back to some hub stationed deep inside this estate.
What if he’s watching me right now?
My gaze flicks back to the shadows clinging to the stairwell.
The silence feels unnatural, but continuing to stand here and debate it isn’t an option. If Sasha is watching, then he already knows what I’m doing. If he isn’t, then this might be the only sliver of opportunity I’ll ever get to play my own hand at his game.
The thought propels me forward.
I swallow the panic clawing up my throat and take a tentative step toward the next hallway on the left. My ears strain for footsteps, for voices or the sharp crack of a gun being cocked and aimed at my head to take me out.
Thankfully, nothing comes and I end up following the hall down to another one intersecting it. My hand remains on the wall as I use it to guide me. The smooth texture of the wallpaper is comforting in a strange way, giving me something to focus on other than my own terror.
Right as I turn the corner down another hallway, a thin ribbon of light spills from the crack beneath one of the doors, stopping me dead in my tracks. I stand there for a moment, holding my breath as I freeze in place.
Voices drift out into the hallway, too soft for me to hear what’s being said.
Out of instinct, I step closer, leaning forward while tilting my head just enough to press against the door. The voices on the other side are muffled but clear enough that I can make out what they’re saying.
“…risk too much keeping her there,” a voice says, one I don’t recognize. “She’s a liability.”
Another voice answers, calm, unbothered, and unmistakably Sasha’s. “She’s leverage. Leverage is never a liability for the Iron Pact.”
My breath catches.
Iron Pact?
The words slam into me with the cold weight of some ancient instinct buried within me.
Papa had said the name once years ago. He’d been drunk that night from cognac and exhaustion after a late Duma vote. He’d whispered it the way priests whisper their final confessions to their gods on their deathbeds, with reverence… and dread.
Four families, he'd said—Sokolov. Kuznetsov. Volkov. Malyshko. A quadrant of power so absolute that even the FSB didn’t dare breathe too hard in their direction.
An alliance stitched together with blood and money and the unspoken promise that anyone who challenged it wouldn’t simply lose, they’d vanish.
I’d laughed at the time, thinking it was hyperbole in the way that politicians like him loved to exaggerate their enemies to justify their paranoia and put more security details on their loved ones.
Papa loved his melodrama, and I’d simply chalked it up to that before quickly forgetting about it altogether.
But had it been real all along?
Suddenly, the voices cut off. My breath stalls as I register the sound of footsteps moving toward the door. Before I can retreat and melt back into the shadows and pretend I was never here, the door swings open.
Light floods the hallway, harsh and blinding after the dim hush I’ve been hiding in. I flinch instinctively, my eyes burning as I lift a hand to shield them.
Sasha fills the doorway.
His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, dark fabric loosened just enough to suggest this meeting was never meant to be professional. The hallway light catches his eyes and turns them sharp and reflective like a wolf caught mid-hunt beneath moonlight.
For a split second, I can’t see past him. Then my vision adjusts, and the detail that shouldn’t be possible slams into me.
His office is empty.
There are no chairs pushed back, no figures lingering in the corners. No sign of the two men whose voices I heard just moments ago.
It’s as if they never existed at all.
A chill slides down my spine.
Where did they go?
Sasha’s gaze flicks over me, taking in my slippered feet and clenched hands, the way my shoulders are set like I’m bracing for the impact of whatever wrath he’s going to throw my way.
“Eavesdropping,” he finally murmurs.
The word isn’t accusatory. Honestly, it isn’t even angry.
It’s certain.
I swallow hard but force my spine to remain straight. If this house has taught me anything so far, it’s that hesitation reads like weakness and that’s simply not something I can afford when measuring up against a man like him.
Not if I hope to make it out of this alive.
I lift my chin. “I was looking for my things.”
His brow arches a fraction.
“You took my phone and my laptop,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “I want them back.”
A soft huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh but not quite. “They’ve been confiscated.”
My eyes widen despite myself. “That’s my personal property.”
Sasha studies me for a long moment, and something like amusement flickers beneath the surface of his expression. It’s subtle, barely there, but it’s enough to make my skin prickle.
Then he shifts.
It’s a slow, deliberate lean to one side. He rests his shoulder against the doorframe, both arms coming up to cross over his chest. The movement is casual and unguarded like he has all the time in the world and nowhere else he needs to be that would prevent him from finishing this conversation.
It makes my pulse spike.
Men like him don’t relax unless they already have the upper hand.
He lets the silence stretch between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I become acutely aware of every small thing, from the faint hum of the lights in his office behind him to the soft rustle of fabric as he breathes and the way my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Finally, he speaks again.
“Personal property,” he repeats, tasting the word. “That’s a generous interpretation.”
My jaw tightens. “They’re mine. You can’t go around stealing things that aren’t yours.”
“I’m not. I’m cutting you off from the outside world. I thought that was quite obvious.”
I take a step closer before I can second-guess myself. “You can’t just isolate me from everything. I have a life outside of here that I will get back to. What happens when people try to reach me and can’t? Won’t that look suspicious?”
“You’re under my roof. Anything that leaves this house, anything that connects you to the outside world, becomes a liability.
That’s not a privilege I’m willing to give you to exploit, much less gamble on the possibility that you will behave yourself.
” The certainty in his voice steals the air from my lungs.
“But—”
“No.”
The word is final.
Sasha straightens from the doorframe and steps forward just enough to close the distance between us. He isn’t exactly invading my personal space or touching me, but he’s close enough that I feel his presence like a heavy pressure weighing over me.
“Go back to your room, Alina.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver through me. I glance past him to his empty office behind him.
The door behind him remains open.
An invitation? Or a warning?
“And if I don’t?” I ask, my eyes flicking back to his.
“Then your consequences stop being hypothetical. It’s your choice whether you want to test my patience or not.” The words are unemotional and sound far more frightening than if he had shouted them at me.
I hesitate, just half a second longer than I should.
In that sliver of time, my mind spirals through possibilities faster than my body can react.
I imagine shoving past him, slipping into his office while he’s momentarily unprepared to look for my phone and laptop wherever he’s hidden them, all the while proving to myself that I still have some agency left in this house.
The temptation is intoxicating.
So, so damn tempting.
I hate this feeling of standing here knowing answers are only a few steps away and being told I’m not allowed to reach for them. I hate the way he’s framed this as a choice when it’s anything but. I hate that he knows exactly how much I want to push him.
Because he does know.
He watches me with those same cold, unblinking eyes, his expression unreadable, his body utterly still. He doesn’t move to block the doorway any further. He doesn’t raise his voice or gesture toward the guards I know are lurking somewhere just out of sight.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence between us stretches. It feels like a silent dare. Go on. Try it.
I know that look. I’ve seen it before on men who are certain of the outcome, men who don’t need to bluff because they’ve already won. As much as I want to take that step forward to force the issue and prove I’m not as powerless as he thinks, I know the truth.
Even in the best-case scenario, I won’t come out on top.
This is his house, his territory, his rules.
Every inch of this place favors him. Every locked door, every unseen guard, every missing camera angle all works against me. I’m not just outmatched. I’m playing on a board he designed with pieces he controls, and we both know it.
My jaw tightens as I make my decision.
Slowly, I step back instead of forward. I break eye contact first, not because I’m afraid but because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me give in and crumble.
I walk back down the hallway without running and without looking over my shoulder even though I can feel his gaze burning into my back.
Each step feels like retreat and survival all at once.
I hate that he won. That I let him. But as I disappear into the shadows of the corridor, one thought settles cold and sharp in my chest.
This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.