Chapter 36 #2
Run? Barefoot? My subconscious mocked, and I bit back a groan. Of course, he’d taken my shoes too. And where was my bag, anyway? I tried to recall, but the hazy memories from earlier weren’t cooperating. Then it hit me—my bag was in the lounge area.
Of course, it was. Damn it.
I took a deep breath, the ache in my legs and the throb in my head reminding me how wrong this could go. Slowly, carefully, I treaded toward the lounge, every nerve in my body on high alert. The thought of Judas sitting there, waiting for me with that infuriating smirk, sent a shiver down my spine.
But it couldn’t get any worse now, could it?
I peeked around the corner and dread pooled in my stomach. My luck had already run out today; if he was in there, I was done for. Steeling myself, I took another cautious step, praying I wouldn’t find him lounging in one of those oversized chairs, watching me with those cold, cruel eyes.
But then again, with my luck, he might just be sitting there, waiting for me to make a fool of myself once more.
I was careful—so careful—but clearly not enough.
The next moment, my elbow grazed the edge of a vase perched precariously on one of the corners.
Time seemed to slow as it wobbled, teetering on the brink of disaster.
Instinct kicked in, and I lunged forward, catching it just before it could shatter against the floor.
Relief flooded through me, a small victory in this twisted game.
But my happiness was short-lived.
I felt it—the chill that seeped into the air, wrapping around me like a cold, clammy hand. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and my breath caught in my throat. It took everything in me not to turn around, not to confirm the presence I knew was there.
He was watching me.
I could feel his gaze pinning me in place.
I clenched the vase tighter, my knuckles turning white as I fought the urge to bolt.
But running wasn’t an option. Not with him sitting there.
And now there was no escape.
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. There was no avoiding it now. Slowly, with every ounce of courage I could muster, I turned around.
There he was.
He looked every bit the demon I knew him to be—cruel and merciless, with a hint of satisfaction curling at the corners of his lips. The smirk that played there was both infuriating and terrifying, as if he took pleasure in my fear, in the way I’d been caught in his web with no way out.
His powerful hands rested on the arms of the chair. He didn’t need to say a word; his presence alone was enough to make me feel small, powerless, and utterly at his mercy.
“Going somewhere?” he mused.
I gulped and tore my eyes away from him with difficulty when my eyes caught something I should have noticed sooner.
I ceased breathing. Blinked once, and then twice, desperately trying to chalk this up to another play of my imagination, a manifestation of my demons and hallucinations.
Maybe I was exhausted to the point that I was fabricating things.
Stumbling three steps back, my back met the icy wall, and the edge of the table dug into my side. The pain exploded on my skin, and my mouth parted in horror as I grasped the view in front of me.
No, this was real.
I was not dreaming or hallucinating. In front of the couch, there were several pictures scattered; some lined up and others on the plush Italian carpet.
No, the pictures didn’t startle me. Not a bit.
It was the awfully familiar faces on the photos that took my breath away, replaced with tangible fear and dread.
My head snapped at the living nightmare sitting on the couch with his legs widened and back resting smugly against the leather.
One arm sprawled over the edge of the couch, while in the other hand, a picture was capsized between his fingers.
He was now wearing his casual clothes, grey sweatpants and a thin cotton shirt in the cold, whereas I felt my bones shaking, looking like a man highly composed- normal, even.
But there was nothing normal about him.
Even from a distance, the danger radiating from him was tangible, aiming like daggers at my chest. His expression remained neutral, a mask more terrifying than a smirk, for I knew the horrors it concealed.
Beneath that facade lurked a killer—a lethal, cold-hearted predator who wouldn’t hesitate to obliterate anything or anyone in his path.
His scrutinizing gaze was fixed on the photographs in his hands, assessing me with unnerving intensity.
My heart pounded erratically as I forced my shaky legs to carry me closer, momentarily pushing aside the instinctive fear his presence evoked. The only thing that mattered now was the faces in those photos—the familiar faces of my mother, my deceased father, and my little brother, Mikhail.
I knew I shouldn’t jump to conclusions or snap at him, shouldn’t allow myself to tremble before him. But Judas Romanovski was a storm, and I was merely the fragile vessel caught in its unrelenting fury.
“Why… why do you have these?” My voice wavered, but I didn’t stop at the other side of the table.
My legs wobbled as I crouched down, collecting the pictures with trembling hands.
I swallowed hard. They were indeed my family’s pictures.
Anger surged through the fear, throbbing and intense, and I glared at him.
“You promised you’d keep them away if I agreed to your terms.”
“You haven’t agreed yet.” His cold voice sliced through my chest like a blade.
He leaned forward, the shadows deepening around his eyes, turning them into dark abysses. “Promises are fragile things, Ptichka, easily shattered. Like bones.”
I shivered as I clenched my fists. “But you said—”
“I say many things,” he said casually, flipping the photo in his hand. Photo of my brother.
I stared at him in disbelief. Did that mean he’d hurt my family?
No. No way I’d let him do that. I had spent all my life wanting to be with my family and become my mother’s little helper, and now he wanted to ruin that for me.
I didn’t even want to ask why he was doing this, knowing his answer would be as twisted as his soul.
I flinched as he shifted, leaning over my crouched frame. His presence was suffocating, a reminder of how tall and broad he was, how his physique could consume all the air and life around him. His shadow swallowed me whole.
“Do you want to see them safe? Do you want to see them untouched?” His fingers brushed a stray strand of my hair; the motion was tender. Almost. “Then give me what I want. Surrender.”
His words wrapped around my throat like a noose, tightening with every syllable.
I could feel the icy tendrils of his manipulation, perfectly designed to break me, to bend me to his will.
I didn’t know why he suddenly was making me go through the same torment he did two days ago, or why he was starting the same conversation when he gave me four days to prepare.
My breath hitched. Or was it… because he saw me with Ivan. I knew men like him could be extremely unbearable and possessive, believing everything they set their eyes on belonged to them, but I kept that thought at the edge.
“No,” I whispered, more to myself than to him, trying to summon the strength to defy him. “I won’t let you.”
He chuckled sinisterly, the sound settling in my bones hauntingly. “Oh, but you will. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect them. You’ll become my puppet, dancing to my every command.”
His eyes bored into mine, and the vortex of darkness pulled me in.
I realised I had no choice.
This was the game we played. And he’d always win. But to me, this was a game. This was survival. And in this world, survival was cruel. It was merciless. Just like him.
I wanted to scream, to lash out, but I knew it would be futile. My only hope was to steer his storm, to survive his wrath, and pray that somehow I could protect the ones I loved.
“You’re a monster,” I muttered. So, he was ready to stoop this low.
He smiled, which never reached his eyes. “Indeed. But I’m the monster holding the strings. Dance for me, or watch your world burn.” And then he ruffled my hair. I winced. “And this was the end of your third day. Tomorrow night, be ready, Ptichka. My dick’s ecstatic to meet your cunt.”