3. Via
VIA
The SUV comes to a stop and my stomach does a slow, nauseating roll.
I’m officially screwed.
I don’t even need to look out the window to know we’ve reached the stronghold. The silence alone is a giveaway—the kind of silence you only get when you’re deep inside a compound surrounded by several tons of concrete and enough thermal cameras to track a squirrel’s heartbeat.
Great. I’ve traded a gilded cage for a high-tech dungeon. Progress.
Ilya doesn't wait for Dimitri to open the door. He unclips his seatbelt and looks at me. His eyes are dark and focused. It makes me want to shrink into my seat, but I raise my shoulders an inch higher, not backing down from his eyes.
"We're here," he says, almost growling. Doesn’t he know how to speak like a human? Tsk. "Try to behave, Viallentinka. I’d hate to have to carry you in front of the staff. It sets a bad precedent for my authority."
"Your authority is about as impressive as your conversational skills, Ilya," I snap, though my voice is a bit thinner than I’d like.
I try to pull my shattered veil away from my face, but my fingers are still shaking.
"And if you think I’m walking in there like a blushing bride, you really are delusional. "
I expect him to argue back, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches across, grabs my arm, and drags me toward his side of the car.
"Let go!" I shriek, the panic from the cathedral flare-up suddenly spiking again. The smell of his leather seats, the scent of the gunpowder still clinging to his suit—it’s too much.
I launch myself at him the second his feet hit the pavement.
I don’t think, I just react. I’m not a princess right now. I’m a cornered animal.
I swing my fists, my heavy lace sleeves fluttering like broken wings. I manage to catch him in the jaw with a sharp knuckle, but it’s like punching a brick wall. He doesn't even grunt in pain.
"I told you," he growls, his hand snaking out to catch my wrists. "Stop."
"Make me!" I scream. I lean forward and sink my teeth into his shoulder. I bite down hard, wanting to taste blood, wanting to leave a mark that he can’t wash off. I can taste the expensive wool of his suit and the salt of his skin.
He goes rigid and for a second, I think he’s going to strike me.
His grip on my wrists tightens until the bone feels like it might snap, and a low, guttural sound erupts from his throat.
But he doesn't hit me. He just hauls me against his chest, pinning my arms between our bodies, and lifts me off the ground.
"You really are a little beast, aren't you?" he rasps into my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
"I'll kill you!" I snarl, kicking my legs wildly. My white heels fly off, one of them hitting the side of the SUV with a loud thwack. "I'll bite your throat out next time! Put me down, you monster!"
He ignores my screaming, tucking me under his arm like a bulky piece of luggage and walking toward the massive front doors.
The stronghold is exactly what I expected. Cold, imposing, and smelling of lemon wax and old money. The foyer is a cavern of grey limestone and floor-to-ceiling windows that probably have enough bulletproof coating to withstand a tank shell.
Two women are waiting by the stairs. One is older, her grey hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks like it’s pulling her eyebrows into her hairline.
She’s wearing a black dress and an expression that says she hasn't smiled since the Cold War.
The other is younger, maybe twenty, with wide, terrified eyes and hands that are currently twisted into the fabric of her apron.
"Welcome home, Pakhan." The older woman dips her head slightly before looking back up, and her eyes flick to me, yes, the same me that is currently hanging upside down, dress bunched up, screaming my head off, and she doesn't even blink.
What the hell? Is this a norm here? Are they all crazy?
"Yara," Ilya grunts, not slowing down. "Tell the kitchen we’ll eat in an hour. Sasha, prepare the North Suite."
The younger girl—Sasha, I guess—nods frantically, her gaze darting between me and Ilya like she’s watching a bomb with a five-second timer. She looks like she wants to run, and honestly? I can’t blame her.
"Is this the welcome committee?" I shout, my face flushed purple from being upside down. "Because I have some feedback! The service is terrible and the manager has an oversized ego and a seriously undersized personality!"
Ilya stops dead.
I feel his muscles bunch under me. He’s about to say something, probably something threatening involving a basement—I don’t care, he can go to hell—when a small, melodic sound echoes through the foyer.
It’s a laugh.
I twist my head as much as I can, seeing a girl standing at the top of the marble staircase. She looks about fifteen, beautiful dark hair but eyes that are soft and currently sparkling with amusement.
She finds this… me… amusing? Oh, how the mighty has fallen. In just a matter of seconds, I was going to marry a stable man and live a good life. Now I’m upside down on my fiancé’s murderer’s shoulders and a kid is laughing at me.
Just kill me now. Nothing matters anymore.
The kid is wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, looking like a normal teenager trapped in a Gothic horror novel.
"Ekaterina," Ilya says, his voice losing some of its edge, "go back to your room."
Who is she? His daughter? If this devil has a daughter, then the world is coming to an end.
"But Ilya, she’s funny," the girl says, leaning over the railing. She looks at me, a grin spreading across her face. "Did you really just say my brother has an undersized personality? Nobody says things like that to him. They usually just shake and agree with whatever he says."
"That's because they're sane," I yell back, still dangling from his arm. "I've officially lost my mind, so I might as well speak the truth. Are you his sister? Run while you can, honey! He’s a one-star experience!"
The girl, Ekaterina, laughs again, a bright, genuine sound that seems to bounce off the cold stone walls. I see Ilya’s jaw set, his black eyes flashing with frustration but also surprise.
The fuck? People don’t look happy around here?
"Ekaterina, room. Now," he commands, but the bite is gone from his tone.
She rolls her eyes, a move I deeply respect, and disappears back up the stairs, but not before giving me a little wave.
I like her.
Ilya doesn't say another word. He goes down a long, winding corridor and stops at a set of heavy oak doors, kicks them open, and finally drops me onto a bed.
I hit the mattress and immediately scramble backward, my heart hammering. The room is beautiful in a terrifying way—velvet curtains, a fireplace, and a bed large enough to host a small village. But as I look around, a cold realization hits me.
There are no windows.
The walls are solid stone, covered in silk wallpaper, but there isn't a single pane of glass. It’s a luxury bunker. A windowless suite designed to keep things in just as much as it keeps things out.
Oh, God. My chest heaves up and down as my breath shortens. The walls of the room suddenly feel like they’re leaning in toward me. I can’t breathe. I need a window. I need to see the sky. I need to know there’s an out.
"You can't do this," I whisper, my resilience vanishing as the walls start to close in. "Ilya, please. I need... I can't stay in a room without windows."
Ilya stands by the door, his silhouette tall and dark against the hallway light. He watches me, his expression unreadable. He doesn't mock me. He doesn't yell. He just watches my chest heave as I struggle for air.
"It’s for your safety, Viallentinka," he says, and for a second, he almost sounds like my father. "Petr’s men can’t shoot through three feet of reinforced concrete."
"I don't care about the concrete! I can't breathe!"
"You're breathing just fine," he says coldly. "Sasha will be in with water and a change of clothes. Don't try to leave. The door is biometric. You touch the handle, and an alarm sounds in my office."
"I hate you," I sob, grabbing a silk pillow and hurling it at him. "I hope you choke on your own spit!"
He catches the pillow with one hand, tosses it back onto the bed, and leaves. The sound of the door locking is a heavy, digital chirp that feels like a nail being driven into my coffin.
I collapse onto the mattress, burying my face in the duvet. It smells like him, that metallic, tobacco-and-fire scent that I’m starting to realize is going to be the only thing I smell for a very long time.
A few minutes later, the door chirps again. Sasha scurries in, carrying a tray with a crystal pitcher of water and a stack of folded clothes. She looks like she’s walking on eggshells, her eyes fixed on the floor.
"I... I brought your water, Miss," she whispers, setting the tray on the nightstand.
I sit up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "Thanks, Sasha. Is the 'Miss' part of the rules, or can we just use my name?"
Sasha flinches. "The Pakhan... he has many rules. Rule one is silence unless spoken to. Rule two is never touch the walls. Rule three is..." She pauses, her voice trembling. "Rule three is never say no to him. He doesn't like the word 'no'."
Well, he’s going to have a very frustrating week, then, because 'no' is my favorite word.
"Is there a rule about how many times a day I’m allowed to wish for a giant sinkhole to swallow this house?" I ask, trying to regain myself by not thinking about the fact that I’m in a windowless room and I might never see natural light again unless the stupid, ugly monster wants me to.
Sasha doesn't laugh. She just stares at me with a look of pure shock. "Please, Miss. Just do what he says. He’s... he’s not a man you want to anger. I’ve seen what happens to people who cross the Ghost."
"The Ghost?"
"That’s what the they call him," she whispers, looking toward the door as if he might hear her through the solid oak. "Because he’s everywhere, and you never see him coming until it’s too late."
She leaves quickly, the door locking behind her.
I stand up and start pacing the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. I check the dresser, and it’s nothing but silk robes and expensive lingerie that looks like it was designed to be ripped off. I check the bathroom and it’s marble everywhere.
I sit back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Okay, Via. Think. You grew up with Petr Denisov. You know how these men think. They think they’re the lions and we’re the gazelles. But lions are predictable. They’re lazy. And they’re always overconfident.
I look at the biometric lock on the door. It’s high-tech, which means it has a power source. And power sources can be manipulated.
I’ve had worse Tinder dates than this. Well, okay, maybe not worse, but definitely more boring. At least this guy is interesting to look at, even if he is a psychopathic kidnapper with a "Ghost" nickname.
I lie back, staring at the dark velvet canopy above me.
I'm getting out of here. Even if I have to bite every single person in this house to do it.
The walls are still closing in, and the lack of windows is a constant, screaming pressure in the back of my mind, but I won't break. I won't let him see me shatter.
I’m Viallentinka Denisova. And I’m going to be the biggest headache Ilya Kovalevskii has ever had.