Page 8 of Dark Possession
The limo winds through the city, then the city limits, and then the countryside before finally reaching an estate and slowing. I watch through the window as the driver taps a code into an electric box of some sort and drives through a set of gates as they open, and then we drive slowly past sprawling lawns and manicured stone paths.
A mansion looms ahead, its lights casting a yellow glow that’s no doubt supposed to be welcoming. They make my stomach churn.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong to him.
The vehicle pulls to a stop in a circular drive in front of a set of steps leading to the front entrance, and my heart leaps into my throat. My throat tightens around the lump.
Somehow, I know I won’t receive an answer, but I ask the question anyway. “How long am I supposed to stay?”
A frown flickers between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t answer.
The driver opens the door, and the man steps out first, his shoes clicking sharply against the pavement as he walks toward the house. After a moment, I climb out after him.
A guard at the entrance nods at him and gestures for me to follow.
I do. I have no choice. The heavy doors of the mansion close behind me with a finality that sends a chill through my spine. There’s no turning back.
Whatever comes next, I’m his.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lev
THE HOUSE IS quiet, save for the soft click of the heavy door shutting behind me. Dima, the housemaid, is already waiting. Her posture is stiff, hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes carefully lowered.
Housemaids in the bratva are usually passed down from one generation to the next, their children serving the same family—a tradition of loyalty. But I had to hire Dima myself, plucking her from a list of vetted candidates. She came with solid recommendations, yet I don’t trust her completely—I don’t trust anyone. But she knows her place, and that’s enough. For now.
I rang ahead to tell Dima of Alina’s arrival and to prepare a guest room.
“I’ve prepared the guest room for Miss Alina,” she says, her voice even, almost rehearsed. There’s no curiosity in her tone, no hint of judgment. Just efficiency. “Shall I take her there?”
I flick my gaze to Alina, watching her carefully. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shift uneasily the way most do when they step inside a place like this. Instead, her eyes move, slow and deliberate, cataloging. The high ceilings, the dim lighting, the dark wood paneling. She’s memorizing details. Assessing.
“I’ll do it myself.” My voice is clipped, final. Dima nods, stepping aside immediately, as she should.
Alina doesn’t react to my decision, but I see the sharp inhale she takes as she crosses the threshold. She’s wary but not fearful. Curious but cautious. She doesn’t shrink, even when Dima’s gaze flicks over the thin slip she’s still wearing from the auction.
I don’t know why they don’t dress them properly after they’re sold. She’s bound to be cold.
I try to see my home through her eyes. The long, grand hallway stretches before us, the polished floors gleaming like dark glass under the low, golden glow of recessed lighting. White marble stairs curve upward, the railings gleaming, smooth from years of maintenance. To someone else, this might scream wealth, power, prestige. But to me, it’s just another fortress. A gilded prison where I control every inch, every shadow.
She stops for half a second, her gaze flicking over the framed artwork along the walls—original pieces worth small fortunes. She doesn’t linger. She doesn’t seem impressed. That intrigues me.
“Keep moving,” I say, my voice low, controlled.
She doesn’t argue. Just steps forward, falling into step beside me as we move up the stairs. Silent, alert.
I slow my pace slightly, letting her absorb the weight of each step, the hush of the space around us. Let her wonder what’s waiting behind the door at the end of the hall.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She hasn’t spoken since crossing the threshold.
“Not what you expected?” I ask, voice quiet, testing.
Her head turns slightly, just enough for me to catch the flicker of something in her expression—curiosity, maybe. Wariness.
“No,” she says simply. Then, after a beat, “But nothing ever is.”
I slide my palm across my jaw to hide the involuntary response that twists my lips.
