Page 9 of Dark Possession
As we walk, my mind flickers back to the paperwork I was handed earlier—her name, Alina Petrov. A common enough name in this region, unremarkable on paper. Just another woman thrown to the wolves, another transaction. But now, with her walking beside me, she isn’t just ink on a page. She is something else entirely—something unpredictable, something that doesn’t quite fit the mold.
Her steps are measured, careful. Not hesitant, not fearful. Calculated. I glance at her from the corner of my eye, watching how she carries herself—how she keeps her chin up, her shoulders squared despite the weight pressing down on her. There’s a quiet defiance in her, buried beneath that controlled exterior. She’s pretending to be composed, but I can see the tension in her fingers, the way she keeps her hands still at her sides, resisting the urge to clench them.
I think back to the auction. At the moment I was supposed to be focused on Sergei, I was instead watching her. I had one of my men look for his next appearance, declaring that he wasn’t at the auction. It was a lie my men could discover easily if they investigated, but they would never question me on it.
I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that I’d missed him because I was distracted. Because of her.
The thought irritates me.
We reach the end of the hall, and I push open the door, stepping aside. The room is quiet, dimly lit by the faint glow of the city beyond the windows. It’s minimalist but comfortable—a large bed, a dresser, a small seating area near the window—no locks on the inside.
“This is where you’ll stay,” I say, my voice even.
She hesitates for half a second before stepping inside. Her eyes sweep the space, still scanning, still cataloging. She doesn’t touch anything, doesn’t linger too long on any one detail.
As her gaze lands on the bed, I see the tension beneath the act. The subtle way her shoulders resist curling inward, the way her breath is steady but slightly too controlled. A survivor’s instinct.
That smile from the auction—it had been a mask, meant to sell a fantasy. Now, standing in my home, she’s unreadable, her expression schooled into something neutral, careful. Smart. But I don’t trust what I can’t read.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch between us. She stands near the foot of the bed, still taking in her surroundings, still searching for something. A way out? A weakness?
“You haven’t asked where you are,” I say finally, my voice smooth, deliberate. “Who I am.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp and unwavering. “I asked how long I was staying, and you didn’t answer. I assumed it didn’t matter.”
The answer is quick, too quick. Bold. A woman with nothing to lose wouldn’t care where she was. But a woman planning her next move? She wouldn’t ask, either.
I take a slow step toward her, and I smirk, just slightly. She’s already proving to be more interesting than I expected.
“Why were you there?” I ask, tilting my head slightly. The question is simple, but the answer won’t be. I want the truth, but more than that, I want to see how she delivers it. The way she chooses her words, the way her body reacts—these things tell me more than the response itself. My training kicks in—years spent perfecting the art of control, interrogation, and strategy.
The Irish military made sure of that. I elected to supplement my skillset with military training from several foreign governments, strategizing that it would make me a formidable asset for whatever bratva family I ended up with. My time has given me valuable inside information for the Irish, the Italian, and even the Americans. Every movement, every glance, every silence—I was trained to extract information, to dismantle resistance, to use psychology as a weapon. I adapted those skills for the bratva, where the battlefield isn’t dirt and blood but power and deception.
Alina doesn’t flinch. Her gaze holds steady, her shoulders squared despite the tension coiling just beneath her skin. “Why were any of us there?”
A deflection. A weak one. My lips curl slightly. She’s testing me. Playing this game like she has any control over the pieces. I close the distance between us—not fast, not aggressive, just enough to watch her reaction. Just enough to remind her who holds the power here. Her pulse flickers at the base of her throat, a tiny betrayal. She’s trying to remain indifferent, but her body is telling a different story.
I lift my hand, brushing my fingers along her neck, feeling the warmth of her skin and the way she stiffens just slightly beneath my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Alina…why were you there?” I repeat, lowering my voice and making it clear that this time, I expect an answer.
Her breath is steady and measured, but her gaze drops. “I needed the money.”
A lie? Maybe. There’s truth in it, but not the whole story. I narrow my eyes, watching for the smallest hint of hesitation. “For what?”
For a second, just a second too long, she hesitates. The flicker of uncertainty, the momentary shift in her expression—it’s all I need to confirm she’s holding something back.
“For things.” She shrugs, trying to brush it off, but her voice is too forced, too casual.
"Things," I repeat, letting the word hang between us. “How much money did you get paid?”
She folds her arms across her chest. “Fifty thousand.” The words come out quieter than before, and I notice the way her cheeks pink at the confession. Embarrassment? Shame?
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You sold your soul for fifty thousand?”
I step back just enough to watch her reaction. Her jaw tightens, her fingers curling slightly at her sides. The flicker of anger in her eyes is unmistakable, like something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to boil over.
"I hope it was worth it," I say, my voice laced with mockery, pressing just hard enough to see if she’ll break.
