Chapter Four

Mikhail POV

The moment she stepped into the room, I watched her eyes. The massive four-poster bed dominated the room, but it wasn't what made her breath stop. It was the weapons displayed on the far wall, whips, knives, things I didn't have names for, all gleaming under the chandelier's light.

Good. 

I smirked, stepping closer. “Ah. You like my collection?”

Seems the little ghost prefers her mute defiance. Fine, let's leave it that way.

I shoved her toward the bed. She stumbled, her cheap wedding dress tearing at the seams.

“Take it off.” I commanded.

The command hung in the air between us. I watched as her fingers shook as they went to the buttons. Slowly, she unbuttoned.

“Faster,” I snapped, lighting a cigarette. “Or I'll cut it off you.”

The first button slipped free. Then the second. With each one, her breathing grew more ragged. By the time she reached the last, tears blurred my vision.

But I didn't flinch. Her tears didn't move me.

I watched the dress pooled at her feet. My gaze caught a silver locket hanging on her slim neck.

“What's this?” My voice came out darker than I intended. 

I stepped forward, grabbing the delicate chain.

“P-please. It's all I have of…” she begged. But before she could finish her sentence, the chain snapped in my fist, hitting the floor.

“Sentiment is weakness,” I said coldly, crushing the locket under my boot. “And I won't have a weak wife.”

She stared blankly at me. And a single tear slipped free before she could stop it.

I exhaled a stream of smoke through my nose, studying her nakedness with detached appraisal. Too thin. Too pale. “Turn around.” I commanded.

But she didn’t move. 

I grabbed her shoulders and spun her around.

I froze.

Her back was a ruin.

Thick roped scars criss crossed her skin. Some old and silvered, others still fresh from recent discipline. 

I traced my finger on one without thinking. It was rough beneath my touch.

“Who did this?” I asked, my voice was dark.

Her breath hitched. “M…my father. When I was twelve. For spilling tea on…”

My hand clamped over my mouth. “Quiet.” I hushed.

For a moment, I considered backhanding her. For her defiance. Forget tears. For not trying to escape.

But instead, I turned her to face me, my voice dark. 

“On your knees.”

She dropped immediately, her body acting on instinct. I cupped her face, wiping away her tear with my thumb.

“Look at me.” I said softly. 

She looked up at me, her face expressionless. But I could feel her trembling. 

My lips curved into a smile.

“Your father,” I said slowly, “is a dead man.”

I released her and walked to the door. “Sleep. Tomorrow, your real training begins.”

The door lock clicked behind me. 

And for the first time in decades, I felt something other than boredom.

I took a deep breath. The cigarette smoke burned my lungs. 

Dmitri leaned against the wall, smirking. “So? Is the little ghost as broken as she looks?”

I crushed the cigarette under my boot. “Worse.”

And more interesting.  

As I walked away, I couldn't stop seeing those scars on her back. Straight lines with perfect spacing. Nickolas Orlov's handiwork.  

“Get tailors here tomorrow morning,” I told Dmitri. “Black clothes. Good ones.”

He blinked. “You're keeping her?”

I shot him a look that silenced further questions.

The truth was I hadn't decided yet.  

The girl confused me. She cried over a stupid necklace but didn't scream when I grabbed her. She looked weak but stabbed me without blinking.  

She is like a puzzle. 

And I hate puzzles.

The security monitors flickered as I watched the footage from her room.  

She hadn't moved from where I left her. Still kneeling naked on the floor, touching the broken locket.  

Pathetic. I hissed.  

But...  

I zoomed in. Her lips were moving.  

I rewound and turned up the sound.  

“...watch over me.”

Is she praying? To who?

My jaw tightened. Stupid. 

Sentiment makes people weak.  

I should punish her for it.  

I called a number I hadn't used in years.  

A raspy voice answered immediately. “Da?”

“Orlov's bastard daughter,” I said. “I want all her records. Everything.”

There was a laugh. “Careful, Volkov. You sound invested.”

I hung up without replying.

I looked back at the screen. She finally moved. Crawling to bed like a wounded animal. She curled into herself with her back against the headboard. Her eyes fixed on the door.  

Watching.  

Waiting.  

Just like me.  

I retired into my room.

The dossier arrived at dawn. 

I flipped through the pages. There was nothing special. Nothing important. Just pictures of her at galas, being used as a maid for her sisters.

Then, a photo fell out. Young Liliana, covered in blood with empty eyes.  

I tapped the pictures, amused. 

I walked into her room without knocking.  

She woke up fast. No yawning, no confusion. Just instant alertness.  

Good.  

I threw black clothes at her feet. “Put these on.”

She looked at them. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” I glared.

For a second, I thought she'd refuse. Then she reached for the clothes.  

I turned around. Not to be nice, but to watch her in the mirror.  

Smart. She kept the sheet around herself as she dressed. Positioned herself near the bed frame.  

When she finished, I turned back. The black clothes fit her well.  

“Better,” I said.  

Up close, I saw the dark circles under her eyes. The bites on her lips from nervous chewing.  

“Your father beats the weakness out of you,” I said slowly, lifting her chin. “I'll beat the strength back in.”  

She didn't make a sound, she just stared at me.

I walked to the door. “Follow me.”  

She didn't ask where. She just followed me quietly.

Smart girl.  

The door of the basement creaked open. 

The training room smelled like sweat and gun oil.

Liliana froze when she saw the mats, the weapon racks, and the metal chair in the corner.  

I didn't blame her. The chair looked scary.  

“Today,” I said, taking a knife off the wall, “you learn to hold this right.”

She looked at my bandaged chest, where she stabbed me. “Why?” Her voice was cracked like an old cassette.

“Because,” I flipped the knife and gave it to her, “next time you stab me, I want you to do it properly.”

For the first time, something flickered in those dead eyes. 

Interest.

I smiled.  

Now the real fun begins.