Page 143 of Porcelain Lies

“Zaychik,” I murmur, studying the lines of her body through the feed. The camera quality is excellent — I can see every detail, from her slightly parted lips to the way her hair spreads across the pillow.

My thumb traces the outline of her face on the screen. She looks vulnerable like this, all her usual defiance softened by sleep. The sight stirs something possessive in my chest, drowning out the lingering effects of hope and whiskey.

This is better than running. Here, in this moment, I can watch over what’s mine without revealing any weakness. Without letting emotion cloud my judgment.

I switch camera angles, checking the security of her wing. Everything remains exactly as it should be — locked down, controlled, safe. The certainty of it steadies me, washing away the dangerous softness of earlier thoughts.

This is what I do best. Control. Protect. Keep my world in perfect order.

Stella shifts in her sleep, drawing my attention back to her feed. I can’t afford such weakness, not with Maranzano’s threat still looming. Not with Whitmore’s betrayal still fresh.

The cameras provide distance. Safety. They let me watch without risking the dangerous pull she seems to have on me. This is enough.

This is control.

I pull up Stella’s browsing history, scanning the timestamps and URLs. Medical journals. Research papers on fetal development. Pregnancy nutrition guides. My lips curve slightly — she’s taking this seriously.

Good.

I lean back in my chair, scrolling through her searches. No attempts to contact anyone. No social media. Just endless scientific articles and academic papers. The level of detail in her research impresses me. She’s not just skimming headlines; these are dense medical texts that would give most people headaches.

“Khorosho.” I nod, satisfied.

The biomarker data shows she’s following the diet plan too. Even her exercise routine stays within the prescribed limits.

I didn’t expect this level of dedication. This willing immersion in protecting what’s mine.

I set the phone down, rubbing my temples. Hours of surveillance footage, and I’m still watching. This isn’t like me. I don’t obsess over women — they’re a distraction, a liability.

But Stella…

“Blyad.” I’m clearly fixated on her and it’s becoming a problem. I don’t do emotional attachments. They’re messy, unpredictable. Yet here I am, watching her breathe through security feeds like some lovesick teenager.

Control is slipping through my fingers. The carefully maintained walls I’ve built over decades are cracking. Between Bobik’s treatment, the business threats, and this… thisthingwith Stella, I can’t seem to find my usual cold focus.

“Pizdets.” The word tastes rough on my tongue. I’m losing my edge, letting emotions cloud my judgment. And the worst part?

Some small, traitorous part of me doesn’t want to stop it.

Chapter Forty-Two

Stella

I need to get out of this room.

The walls of my comfortable cage close in after another day of mindless routines and isolation. The manor’s oppressive silence drives me outside for my nightly walk, desperate for fresh air and a change of scenery.

It’s early evening, and moonlight bathes the perfectly manicured grounds in silver as my feet carry me along familiar paths. As I pass the road that leads to the front gates, I catch the familiar sight of one of the security guards doing his nightly patrol.

“Like you need another reminder that you’re a prisoner here,”Boyana mutters.

As I reach the pool area, movement catches my eye. Diana sits there, elegant as always, in a royal-blue silk robe.

Shit.

I freeze, unsure whether to retreat or acknowledge her presence. But she spots me before I can decide.

“Join me,dorogaya.” Her accent thickens around the endearment, hand patting the space beside her. “I could use some company now that my brother’s run off on business. I hate it when he’s gone for so long.”

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