Page 31 of Twisted Pact
“Move me where?”
“My countryside estate. It’s more isolated and has a better security infrastructure. Harder to surveil without being detected.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Of course. More isolation. More control. Exactly what I need.”
“Mila—”
“Don’t. Just tell me when we’re leaving so I can pack whatever belongings you’ll permit me to take.”
I want to make her understand that every decision I make comes from genuine concern rather than a need to dominate her life, but explaining that would require admitting things I’m not ready to say out loud.
Instead, I just tell her, “Pack for an extended stay. We leave in two hours.”
9
Mila
The countryside estate looks more like a fortress than a home.
Iron gates close behind us as trees swallow the long driveway, cutting off any view of the main road.
Perfect.
Alexei parks in front of a massive stone structure that probably started life as an aristocrat’s hunting lodge before the Kozlov family turned it into a secure location for hiding inconvenient people. The architecture is beautiful in a cold, imposing way. Grey stone and tall windows reflect the overcast sky.
“Home sweet prison,” I grumble as I climb out of the car.
“You’re being dramatic.” Alexei grabs my bags from the trunk like they weigh nothing. “This place has everything you need.”
“Except freedom.”
“Freedom to do what? Get yourself killed?”
I don’t bother responding. We’ve had this fight three times already on the drive, and neither of us is budging. He thinks I’m reckless. I think he’s suffocating. Round and round we go.
Inside, the place is surprisingly warm for a fortress, with hardwood floors, leather furniture, and a fireplace big enough to stand in. Someone clearly uses it from time to time, though I doubt Alexei spends many weekends here when Moscow keeps him busy.
“Your room is upstairs.” He leads me up a wide staircase to the second floor. “First door on the right. Private bathroom. If you need anything, I’m across the hall.”
Of course, he is.
He sets my bags inside a massive bedroom. The bed is enormous. Windows overlook the forest behind the estate. Everything is tasteful and expensive and absolutely suffocating.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he tells me before disappearing.
I wait until his footsteps fade before I start exploring. The bedroom reveals nothing interesting, just furniture, an empty closet, and a bathroom stocked with generic toiletries. But the hallway outside holds more promise.
I count six bedrooms on this floor, though most of them look unused. But one door at the end of the hall is cracked, and I see bookshelves through the gap.
I shouldn’t snoop. I should go back to my designated prison cell and accept my fate like a good little captive.
Instead, I ease the door open and slip inside.
A massive desk anchors the room. Bookshelves climb every wall. But it’s the books themselves that make me stop and stare.
I was expecting business texts, or maybe some Russian classics for show. What I find instead is an eclectic collection that reveals more about Alexei Kozlov than any conversation we’ve had.
Philosophy. Art history. Poetry. Modern literature mixed with antique texts. Books in Russian, English, French, and what looks like German. Some are pristine. Others have cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
