“You belonged to your father,” he says. “And he sold you without even looking back. I’m just collecting what he put on the table.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. Not in front of him.
“Let me go,” I whisper.
“No.”
That one word is final. Brutal.
My legs shake. I feel lightheaded, like I might pass out. I press both palms to his chest, trying to push him away. He doesn’t budge.
“Please,” I say, though I hate myself for it. “You’re scaring me.”
His brows draw slightly together. The smallest crease in his otherwise perfect composure.
Good. Maybe I can get to him.
His hand falls away from my throat slowly. Not a release—more like a pause. A promise.
I stumble a half step back, gasping for air I hadn’t realized I was missing. My hands stay raised, shaky between us, useless.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, voice hoarse. “Whatever this is. You don’t have to be him.”
He blinks, just once. The mask slips for a heartbeat. Then it’s back.
He steps in again—closer than before, crowding me into the wall until I can feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“I’m nothing like your father,” he says, deadly calm. “That’s why you’re still standing.”
I don’t understand what that means, but I know he means it.
The worst part is that he believes it.
He turns his back on me again, and this time he does walk away, vanishing down the hall before I can say a word.
He leaves me pressed against the wall, lungs burning, heart hammering like a warning bell in my chest.
I slide to the floor, knees tucked to my chest, hands pressed over my mouth.
I don’t cry, but I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together.
I sit there on the floor for what feels like forever, my back pressed to the wall, legs curled beneath me like I’m trying to vanish into the architecture. My body feels hollow, my skin too tight, my chest aching with each shallow breath. I don’t know if I’m shaking from fear or rage—or both—but I can’t move. Not yet.
The sound of footsteps breaks the silence. Heavy. Slow. Measured.
I look up just as the figure rounds the corner. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black with a presence that feels less like a man and more like a storm given shape. He doesn’t draw his weapon. Doesn’t bark an order. Just stops a few feet from me and studies me with cool, unreadable eyes.
“You’re Alina,” he says. His voice is deep, calm, not unkind. “I’m Dima.”
I don’t answer, but I don’t think he expects me to.
“I’m here to take you back to your room,” he says after a pause.
I clench my jaw. “Is that what we’re calling it now? My room?”
His expression doesn’t change. “It’s where you’ll be safest.”
Safe. What a fucking joke. Still, I don’t argue. My legs are stiff and sore as I stand. I try not to wobble, try not to show just how weak I feel. Dima waits patiently, saying nothing, his posture relaxed but unmistakably ready. Like if I tried to bolt again, he’d be faster.