Page 35 of Chain Me

“Does he ever talk about her?”

“No.” I shake my head. “None of us do. Not anymore. Alexi threw himself into computers a few years after she died. Like if he could master technology, he could control that part of reality at least. Create his own world where things made sense.”

The morning air grows heavier with unspoken grief. Twenty years later, and the wound still feels raw when I prod it.

“It's strange,” I hear myself say. “Sometimes I'll hear someone humming, and for a split second...” I trail off, unable to finish.

Katarina's fingers thread through mine. She doesn't push for more, just sits with me in the weight of these half-formed memories, these ghosts that never quite fade.

15

KATARINA

My back presses against the cool sheets of my bed, but I can’t find rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see Erik’s face twisted in anguish as he speaks about his mother. The vulnerability in his voice haunts me.

I trace my fingers over the marks he left on my skin. Each bruise tells a story of possession, of need, of something darker that calls to parts of myself I never knew existed.

“Damn it.” I roll onto my side, curling into myself.

The practical part of my brain screams at me to focus. There’s a guard change at two AM. The security cameras have a three-second delay. I memorized the compound’s layout days ago. All the pieces for escape sit ready, waiting for me to make my move.

But my chest aches when I imagine leaving. The way Erik’s hands trembled when he touched me in the forest and how his voice cracked as he told me about the accident—revealed the man beneath the soldier. A man who just wants to be seen.

I press my face into the pillow, inhaling deeply. It still carries his scent from earlier when he fucked me before returning to his own room. After I wandered out of the compound, he decided sleepovers in his room were off-limits. My body respondsinstantly, remembering the weight of him, the demanding press of his fingers.

“This isn’t Stockholm Syndrome,” I whisper to myself. But isn’t that exactly what someone with Stockholm Syndrome would say?

I sit up, running my hands through my tangled hair. The truth burns in my throat—I’m falling for him. Not because he’s my captor. Not because of some twisted trauma bond. But because in those unguarded moments, when he lets his walls crack, I see a soul that matches my own darkness. Someone who understands what it means to be caught between duty and desire.

My fingers find the tender spot on my neck where his teeth mark me. The sharp sting grounds me in reality. This isn’t some romance novel where love conquers all. He’s still an Ivanov. I’m still a Lebedev. And no matter what my heart wants, our families’ blood feud won’t simply disappear because we’ve shared our bodies and our pain.

I pad down the hallway in bare feet, my silk robe whispering against my thighs. The kitchen light spills into the dark corridor, and I pause. Someone’s already there.

Erik slumps at the counter, a bottle of whiskey beside him. His usual rigid posture is gone, replaced by something loose and dangerous. The glass in his hand tips precariously.

My stomach clenches. I should turn back, but my feet betray me, carrying me forward.

His head snaps up at my entrance, those dark eyes finding mine. “Katarina.” My name rolls off his tongue so easily.

“I was just...” I gesture vaguely at the fridge. “Hungry.”

“Hungry.” He repeats the word, testing it. The glass hits the counter with a sharp clink. “Or running?”

I take a step back. “I should go?—”

Erik moves faster than any drunk man should, blocking my retreat. His hand wraps around my wrist, not hurting but firm enough that I can’t pull away. “Sit.”

“Erik—”

“Sit.” The word carries more weight this time, an edge that makes my spine straighten. He pulls out the stool next to him.

I perch on the edge of the chair, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scent of whiskey fills my nose. Erik’s thumb traces circles on my captured wrist, sending shivers up my arm.

“I said sit, not hover like you’re about to bolt.” His other hand finds my hip, tugging me fully onto the stool.

The counter’s cold under my elbows as I settle. Erik hasn’t released my wrist, and I don’t dare pull away. Not when he’s like this—all coiled tension and unpredictable edges.

The tense silence stretches between us as Erik releases my wrist and slides the bottle across the counter. He stands abruptly, moving to sit directly across from me. The kitchen island becomes a battlefield, with him on one side and me on the other.

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