5. Via
VIA
I’m staring at the velvet canopy of the bed, counting the individual tufts of fabric, because if I look at the walls for one more second, I’m going to start hyperventilating and I might just die like that.
This place is beautiful, sure. It’s got silk wallpaper and furniture that probably costs more than a suburban house, but it’s still a box. A windowless, oxygen-deprived box that smells like Ilya’s expensive tobacco and the lingering, humiliating heat of what he did to me last night.
Don’t think about last night. Think about literally anything else but that.
My skin feels too tight for my body. It’s a familiar prickling, restless energy that comes right before I lose my mind. I need to see the sky. Or a tree. Honestly, I’d settle for a patch of grey asphalt at this point.
The digital chirp of the door lock makes me bolt upright. I grab a silk pillow and clutch it to my chest, my heart doing that annoying hummingbird thing again.
The door swings open, and it’s not the giant, obsidian-eyed monster this time. It’s his sister. She’s carrying a tray with a silver cloche, looking a little bit like a conspirator in a heist movie.
"Hi,” she says sheepishly.
“Hi,” I whisper and run my hands through my hair. “How come you’re the one feeding the prisoner?”
“I-I told Sasha I’d bring it," she says, closing the door behind her. She sets the tray on the table and looks at me, her head tilted. "Are you okay? You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin."
"That’s because I am," I say, my voice sounding scratchy.
I swing my legs off the bed, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet.
"Ekaterina, right? Tell your brother I’m developing a very specific and very violent form of claustrophobia.
If I don't get out of this room, I’m going to start eating the upholstery. "
She giggles, and for a second, she looks like a normal fifteen-year-old instead of a Pakhan’s sister. "He’s in a mood today. Even Dimitri is staying out of his way. He said you’re 'restricted' until further notice."
"Restricted. Like a convicted felon?" I stand up, pacing the small length of the room. "I can’t be in here, Ekaterina. I’m serious. I’m starting to see the wallpaper move."
"He’s just worried," she says, sitting on the edge of a velvet armchair. "Our father... he kept us locked up too, before he died. Ilya says it’s the only way to keep the family safe. Especially now."
I stop pacing and look at her. She looks lonely.
It’s a look I recognize because I’ve spent twenty years perfecting it in front of a mirror.
"Safe isn't the same thing as living, honey. My father did the same thing. Gilded cage, silent guards, the whole bit. And look where it got me. I’m currently a 'repossession' in a windowless bedroom. "
Ekaterina bites her lip. "He’s never brought anyone here before. Not like this."
"I’m special," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "I’m the only girl in the city who’s bitten him and told him his suit is cliché. Now, help me out. I just need a change of scenery. Five minutes. Ten.”
She looks at the door, then back at me. I can see the rebellion warring with the fear of her brother.
"Ilya is in the basement strategy room," she whispers. "He won't be up for a while. There’s a library on the third floor. It has skylights."
"Skylights?" I practically trip over my own feet. "Ekaterina, if you take me to a place where I can see the sun, I will be your best friend for life. I will teach you how to hack your brother’s Netflix account. I’ll even show you how to apply winged eyeliner without poking your eye out."
She laughs, standing up. "He’ll kill me. He really will."
"He won't kill you. He’ll just growl and look grumpy. I’m the one who’s in the line of fire. Come on. Live a little."
She hesitates for another heartbeat, then nods. “Okay… let’s go to the library? He rarely visits there.”
“I’ll go anywhere with you, Ekaterina,” I say with a grateful smile, and she giggles and uses her own biometric pass on the door, and the sound of it opening feels like a victory.
The walk through the stronghold is a blur of grey stone and silent, lethal-looking men in black suits who go rigid when they see us. Ekaterina walks with her head down, but I keep mine up. I want them to see me.
The library is a massive, two-story room filled with the scents of old paper and leather. And there, in the center of the ceiling, is a series of thick, reinforced glass panels.
I stand directly under them, closing my eyes and tilting my head back. The sun is pale, filtered through the morning clouds, but it’s there. It’s real. I can feel the weight of the building lifting off my chest.
"Better?" Ekaterina asks.
"Infinitely," I breathe. I look around the room. "This is quite a collection. Does Ilya actually read these, or are they just for show?"
"He reads military history," she says, pulling a heavy book from a shelf. "And maps. He loves maps. I like the stories. The ones where people go on adventures and don't end up in armored cars."
We spend the next hour sitting on the floor between the stacks.
I find out she’s obsessed with historical romances and that she sneaks out to the gardens when the guards are changing shifts.
She’s smart, but she’s been kept in the dark so long, her curiosity is starting to turn into a desperate kind of hunger.
"He’s not always like that," she says, tracing the gold foil on a book spine. "He’s just... he’s had to be that way for so long, I think he forgot how to be Ilya. Since our mother died..."
I go still. The mention of her mother is like a cold finger touching my spine. "What happened to her?"
Ekaterina’s voice goes small. "A hit. Five years ago. She was in the garden. Ilya saw it. He was seventeen. He killed the men who did it, but... he’s been obsessed with security ever since. He won't even let me have a phone."
"He’s protecting you from the world he’s creating," I say, and for the first time, I feel a tiny, microscopic sliver of empathy for the monster. "It’s a vicious cycle."
"I want to be like you," she says suddenly, looking at me with wide eyes. "You aren't afraid of him. You talk back. You make him look... human."
"I'm terrified of him, Ekaterina. I just hide it behind a very expensive wall of sarcasm." I stand up, brushing the dust off the silk robe Sasha gave me. "But you’re right. We shouldn't be the ones hiding. If they want to be warriors, fine. But that doesn't mean we have to be the trophies."
"There’s a weapons room," Ekaterina says, her eyes lighting up with a sudden, mischievous idea. "Ilya says I’m too young, but I know where the key is. He keeps it in the library desk. I want to see the 'Queen’s Blade' he bought at the auction."
I lighten up. Even though my PTSD stems from trauma of violence, I’ve found that weapons, looking at them at least makes me happy. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a Mafia princess and it’s in my blood? I have no idea. "A weapons room? Now you’re talking my language."
We sneak down the hall to a side door. Ekaterina pulls a heavy brass key from a hidden drawer and unlocks it. The room is small, windowless, of course, and lined with glass cases. It smells of gun oil, cold steel, and that sharp scent of a firing range.
"Look at this one," Ekaterina gushes, pointing to a silver-hilted dagger. "It’s supposed to be from the Romanov collection. Imagine being a woman back then, carrying this under your skirts. Total badass, right?"
"Total badass," I agree, leaning over the case. "I’d probably just accidentally stab myself in the thigh, but the aesthetic is on point."
We’re laughing, gushing over the displays and making jokes about how we could take over the city with a pair of antique swords and some sass, when the door behind us swings open.
The sound is a heavy thud of a boot.
Ilya walks in. He isn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and ink. He looks tired, his jaw shadowed with stubble, but his presence still fills the room.
He sees Ekaterina first. "I thought I told you to stay in the West Wing."
"We were just... looking," Ekaterina says, her voice losing its confidence.
Ilya doesn't look at her for long. His gaze swings to me. He doesn't look angry. He looks... focused. He walks past us toward a workbench at the back of the room.
"Since you’re here," he grunts, "you might as well learn something useful instead of looking at jewelry."
He reaches into a leather holster on the bench and pulls out a matte-black handgun. He sets it on the table and begins to disassemble it.
Click. Slide. Thwack.
The sounds are loud in the small, echoing room. He picks up a rag soaked in gun oil, the chemical scent suddenly filling my nostrils.
Click.
The sound of the slide racking.
The room starts to tilt. The grey stone walls of the weapons room vanish, replaced by the white marble of a sunroom twenty years ago. The smell of gun oil is suddenly the smell of my mother’s perfume and the copper tang of blood.
Click.
I can see the muzzle flash. I can see the way my mother’s head snapped back. I can hear the wet, heavy thud of her body hitting the floor.
"Via?"
Ekaterina’s voice is far away. I’m gasping for air, but there isn't any. The air is made of gunpowder and stone dust. I try to reach for the table, but my hands aren't mine anymore. They’re small. They’re covered in red.
"Via, what’s wrong?"
I collapse.
My knees hit the floor, but I don't feel the impact. I’m hyperventilating, the world narrowing down to a single, piercing point of light. I’m crying, but there’s no sound, just the raw, jagged scraping of my breath against my throat.
"Mama," I whisper. "Please, don't. Mama."
Hands are on me. Large, heavy hands. I try to fight them, my mind screaming Monster! Monster!, but I can’t move. My muscles are locked in a state of pure, primal terror.
"Ekaterina, leave immediately," a voice commands.
"But Ilya—"
"Please, Ekaterina!"
The door slams. The sound is like a gunshot, and I let out a sharp, broken shriek, burying my face in my hands. I’m sobbing now. I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside out.
"Breathe, Viallentinka."
Ilya is on the floor with me, pulling me into his lap, his massive chest a wall against my back. He wraps his arms around me, his grip so tight it’s almost painful, but it’s the only thing keeping me from floating away.
"Breathe with me," he rasps, his mouth near my ear. "Come on. In. Out. Do it, Via."
I try. I sync my breaths to the slow, steady rhythm of his heart. I can feel the vibration of his voice in his chest, a low, grounding hum. He doesn't move. He just holds me through the waves of panic.
"It’s not real," he whispers. "You’re in my house. You’re safe. No one is coming for you."
It takes forever. Minutes? Hours? I don't know. But slowly, the sunroom fades. The smell of blood is replaced by his scent, tobacco, fire, and the faint, clean smell of soap. The shaking starts to subside, leaving me hollow and exhausted.
I’m leaning against him, my face pressed into the crook of his neck. I can feel the beat of his pulse, and for a second, it’s not terrifying. It’s life.
I pull back slowly, wiping my face with the sleeve of my robe. My eyes are burning, and my throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass. I look at him, and for the first time, his cold exterior is gone. He’s looking at me with a look so intense, so raw, that I have to look away.
"You should have told me," he says, his voice a low, rough thread.
"What? That I’m a broken mess who can't handle the sound of a gun?" I try to find my sass, but it’s a pale, weak thing. "I told you, Ilya. I’ve spent twenty years in a cage. Some things don't just go away."
I try to stand up, my legs feeling like jelly. He helps me, his hand steady on my arm. He doesn't let go even when I’m steady.
"You went to the library," he says, his obsidian eyes scanning my face.
"I needed a window," I say, my chin lifting a fraction. "I told you I’d eat the upholstery. Ekaterina just helped me find a snack."
I’m waiting for the lecture. I’m waiting for the punishment. But he just stares at me, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, his touch almost reverent. The possessiveness in his gaze is terrifying.
"Go back to your room, Viallentinka," he says softly. "I’ll have Yara bring you tea."
"I don't want tea. I want a window."
"You have the skylights," he says, his grip tightening for a split second. "And you have me. That’s all you’re getting today."
I turn and walk out, trying to keep my shoulders back. I can feel his eyes on me the whole way down the hall.
I'm in trouble, I think as the door to my windowless suite chirps shut. I’m in so much trouble.
Because for a second, when he was holding me on that floor, I didn't want to leave.