Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

THE ROOM UPSTAIRS

AURORA

The first thing I did after Aleksandr left was search his room.

Not because I was curious about him.

I wasn’t.

I didn’t care what books he read.

Didn’t care what kind of clothes he wore.

Didn’t care what he kept inside the drawers beside his bed.

I searched because I needed a weapon.

A phone.

A key.

Anything that could get me out of this place.

I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps in the hallway.

Then I counted to thirty.

Slowly.

One.

Two.

Three.

My hand remained wrapped around the lock.

By ten, my heart was beating faster.

By twenty, I had convinced myself he was going to come back.

By thirty, the hallway remained silent.

I turned around.

His room looked different without him in it.

Bigger.

Less threatening.

Still dark.

Everything about Aleksandr seemed to be dark.

Black furniture.

Gray walls.

Charcoal bedding.

Dark wooden floors.

Even the curtains were nearly black.

There were no photographs on the nightstands.

No family pictures on the walls.

Nothing personal except the books.

Hundreds of them.

Two entire walls were covered with shelves.

That surprised me.

The Brute read?

I almost walked over to inspect them.

Then stopped myself.

No.

Phone.

Keys.

Weapon.

Escape.

I went to the nightstand first.

The top drawer contained a watch, a charging cable, a small flashlight, and two bottles of medication.

I picked one up.

Painkillers.

Prescription.

Aleksandr Volkov.

Seeing his full name printed on something as ordinary as a pharmacy bottle felt strange.

It made him too real.

I put it back.

The second drawer was locked.

Interesting.

I pulled again.

Nothing.

I looked around.

There had to be a key.

I searched the top of the nightstand.

Under the lamp.

Behind it.

Nothing.

I moved to the other side of the bed.

That drawer opened.

Empty except for a black leather notebook.

I hesitated.

Not useful.

Unless it contained passwords.

Or addresses.

I opened it.

Russian.

Every page.

Of course.

I flipped through quickly.

Numbers.

Names.

Dates.

Most of it meant nothing to me.

I recognized Nikolai’s name twice.

Then another word repeated several times.

Volkov.

I closed the notebook and returned it exactly where I’d found it.

Next was the dresser.

Shirts.

Underwear.

Socks.

More black.

Did this man own anything that wasn’t black?

I opened another drawer.

Gun.

I froze.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

It was sitting beneath a folded shirt.

Black handgun.

My mouth went dry.

I knew almost nothing about guns.

I had fired one once.

Years ago.

At a supervised range.

I hadn’t liked it.

Too loud.

Too powerful.

But right now?

That gun looked like freedom.

I reached for it.

My fingertips touched the grip.

Then I stopped.

Think.

If I took it, what would I do?

Shoot Aleksandr?

Could I?

I pictured him walking through the door.

Me pointing the gun.

His face.

His dark eyes.

His size.

Would he stop?

Would he laugh?

Would I actually pull the trigger?

I didn’t know.

That was dangerous.

Because if I pointed a gun at a man like Aleksandr, I needed to be willing to use it.

Otherwise I was just handing him another weapon.

I swallowed.

Still—

I picked it up.

Heavy.

Much heavier than I remembered.

I checked the side.

I had no idea whether it was loaded.

My thumb moved toward—

The bedroom door unlocked.

I nearly dropped the gun.

Panic exploded through me.

I shoved it back beneath the shirt.

Slammed the drawer.

Turned.

The door opened.

Aleksandr entered carrying a tray.

His eyes found me immediately.

Then the dresser.

Then me.

I stopped breathing.

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

The tray contained eggs.

Toast.

Fruit.

Coffee.

Water.

My stomach growled before fear could stop it.

Aleksandr looked at the dresser again.

“You search.”

Not a question.

I lifted my chin.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed.

I immediately realized how ridiculous the lie was.

One of his drawers was still partially open behind me.

“You’re bad liar.”

“I wasn’t searching.”

“What were you doing?”

I glanced at the drawer.

Then him.

“Looking for clothes.”

He looked down.

I was still wearing the thin white gown.

That part was at least believable.

Aleksandr set the tray on the small table.

Then walked toward me.

My body stiffened.

One step.

Two.

I backed away.

His gaze dropped to my feet.

He stopped.

The distance between us was still several feet.

“What drawer?”

“What?”

“Clothes.”

I pointed.

He opened a different drawer.

Pulled out a black T-shirt.

Then sweatpants.

He held them toward me.

I didn’t move.

He tossed them onto the bed instead.

“Bathroom.”

I looked at the clothes.

Then him.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once.

I grabbed them.

Walked into the bathroom.

Locked the door.

Then checked it twice.

I hated that he had already seen me naked.

Hated remembering that shower.

The freezing water.

His hands scrubbing dirt from my shoulders because I had been too weak to do it myself.

I changed quickly.

His shirt came almost to my knees.

The sweatpants were ridiculous.

I rolled the waistband three times.

Then rolled the ankles.

I looked in the mirror.

My hair was still tangled.

My face looked thinner.

There was a bruise along my jaw that had turned yellow around the edges.

Another near my collarbone.

I touched it.

Nikolai.

My stomach tightened.

Gone for one week.

Seven days.

Approximately.

I had seven days without Nikolai in the house.

Seven days to figure out where I was.

Seven days to learn the layout.

Seven days to escape.

Maybe less.

I opened the bathroom door.

Aleksandr was standing beside the dresser.

The drawer.

The one with the gun.

Open.

My heart stopped.

The gun was in his hand.

He looked at me.

I froze.

“You touched.”

It wasn’t a question.

I said nothing.

His eyes hardened.

“Did you?”

My mouth went dry.

“Yes.”

He stared.

I waited for anger.

For shouting.

For him to grab me.

Instead, he removed the magazine.

Checked the weapon.

Then looked at me again.

“You know how use?”

“A little.”

“Little gets people killed.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I didn’t answer.

He slid the magazine back into place.

Then opened the locked drawer beside his bed using a key from around his neck.

He put the gun inside.

Locked it.

My stomach sank.

There went that option.

He tucked the key beneath his shirt.

“You search room again, don’t touch weapons.”

“Why?”

His eyebrows pulled together.

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“Because gun.”

“I noticed.”

“Because you don’t know how use.”

“I could learn.”

His expression changed slightly.

“From who?”

“You.”

He stared at me.

For one ridiculous second, neither of us spoke.

Then—

“No.”

I crossed my arms.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re prisoner who wants escape.”

At least he wasn’t stupid.

“I could protect myself.”

“From?”

I looked directly at him.

“You.”

Silence.

His face didn’t change.

I expected anger.

Instead, he nodded once.

“Fair.”

That answer unsettled me more than anger would have.

I looked away.

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know.”

“You hurt me.”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

“You work for the man who kidnapped me.”

“Yes.”

“You helped keep me downstairs.”

“Yes.”

Every answer was flat.

No excuses.

No attempt to make himself better.

I hated that.

It would have been easier if he’d defended himself.

I could have argued.

Instead, he accepted every accusation like they were facts.

Because they were.

“I hate you.”

The words came quietly.

Aleksandr looked at me.

I meant them.

Maybe not in the deep, personal way people hated someone they’d known for years.

But I hated what he represented.

I hated the fear I felt when he walked toward me.

I hated remembering his fist tangled in my hair.

I hated that he had chained me.

I hated that he had brought me food afterward and confused everything.

I hated that he had stopped the doctor.

I hated that part most.

Because monsters weren’t supposed to have rules.

Aleksandr didn’t argue.

He didn’t tell me I was confused.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t say I would change my mind.

He simply said—

“Okay.”

My chest tightened.

I looked away.

“Food.”

He pointed toward the table.

“I’m not hungry.”

My stomach growled.

His eyebrow lifted.

“Your stomach disagrees.”

I hated my stomach.

I walked toward the table.

There was enough food for two people.

“Is this all mine?”

“No.”

I sat.

He sat across from me.

My body immediately tensed.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Aleksandr noticed everything.

He poured coffee into one mug.

I reached for the water.

“Eat.”

“I’m going to.”

He took a drink.

I picked up a piece of toast.

Butter.

Actual butter.

I spread some over it.

My hands trembled slightly.

I tried hiding it.

Aleksandr’s gaze dropped.

“You’re still weak.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes lifted.

I remembered yesterday.

Stop saying fine.

I almost smiled at the memory.

Almost.

Then I caught myself.

There was nothing funny about any of this.

I took a bite.

The toast tasted incredible.

I ate slowly.

Eggs next.

Then fruit.

Strawberries.

Blueberries.

Orange slices.

Fresh.

Cold.

Sweet.

I nearly closed my eyes.

Aleksandr ate without speaking.

Good.

I didn’t want conversation.

I wanted information.

My eyes moved toward the windows.

Mountains.

Forest.

No buildings visible.

No roads.

Nothing.

“How far are we from the nearest town?”

He didn’t look up.

“No.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is.”

“What country?”

“No.”

“Is that your favorite word?”

“Today.”

I glared at him.

He continued eating.

“What happens if there’s an emergency?”

He looked up.

“What emergency?”

“I don’t know. Fire.”

“We leave.”

“How?”

“Door.”

I stared.

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t smiling.

I couldn’t tell whether he was joking.

Probably not.

“What if you’re not here?”

“Guards.”

My stomach tightened.

“What guards?”

“The ones you’ve seen.”

“I don’t want them coming in here.”

“Neither do I.”

That caught my attention.

“Why?”

He drank his coffee.

“Because they’re idiots.”

“That’s not what Nikolai said.”

“What did Nikolai say?”

“That there were twenty men in this house and he didn’t trust any of them.”

Aleksandr’s expression didn’t change.

“He was right.”

I stopped eating.

“Why?”

No answer.

“Aleksandr.”

His eyes lifted.

“Why doesn’t he trust them?”

“Because trust gets people killed.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true.”

“Do you trust Nikolai?”

Silence.

Interesting.

I leaned back.

“He’s your brother.”

“I know.”

“Do you trust him?”

Aleksandr placed his fork down.

“Eat.”

I almost laughed.

“So that’s a no.”

His eyes sharpened.

I immediately regretted pushing.

Not because he moved.

He didn’t.

But something about him changed.

The Brute appeared again.

That coldness.

The man from the basement.

The man everyone moved away from.

I lowered my gaze.

Not surrender.

Survival.

There was a difference.

I finished my eggs.

Aleksandr said nothing else.

When we were done, he stood.

I immediately stiffened.

His gaze moved over me.

Then toward the bathroom.

“Shower.”

“I showered yesterday.”

“You smell better than yesterday.”

I stared at him.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He gathered the dishes.

“Shampoo in bathroom.”

I blinked.

“You got shampoo?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at me like the question was stupid.

“Because you asked.”

I hadn’t expected that.

“Oh.”

“Soap too.”

“Okay.”

“Toothbrush.”

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

A toothbrush.

Such a stupid thing.

Such a normal thing.

I hadn’t brushed my teeth in eight days.

“Thank you.”

He looked away.

“Don’t make big deal.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Good.”

“You’re really bad at comforting people.”

“I wasn’t comforting.”

I believed him.

He walked toward the door.

My heart jumped.

“Where are you going?”

The question came too quickly.

He stopped.

Looked back.

I hated myself for asking.

Not because I wanted him here.

I didn’t.

But being alone in a strange room wasn’t the same as being safe.

And there were twenty men in the house Nikolai didn’t trust.

Aleksandr seemed to understand the question beneath the question.

“Training room.”

“For what?”

“Training.”

“Obviously.”

His mouth twitched.

Barely.

“Downstairs.”

“How long?”

“Hour.”

I nodded.

He reached for the lock.

“Stay here.”

“Wasn’t planning on sightseeing.”

His eyes met mine.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Sightsee.”

I folded my arms.

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t.”

He opened the door.

Then looked at me.

“Lock it.”

“I know.”

He left.

I locked the door immediately.

Then waited.

Thirty seconds.

One minute.

Two.

I walked to the window.

Training room.

Downstairs.

One hour.

Good.

I had one hour.

I started searching again.

Aleksandr was organized.

Annoyingly organized.

Nothing useful was left where a prisoner could easily find it.

The gun was locked away.

No phone.

No spare keys.

No wallet.

No documents in English.

I searched beneath the mattress.

Nothing.

Behind books.

Nothing.

Inside the closet.

Clothes.

Shoes.

Two locked metal cases.

Nothing I could open.

Then I found the balcony door.

It was hidden behind one of the heavy curtains.

My heart nearly stopped.

A door.

Glass.

Handle.

Lock.

I grabbed it.

Turned.

Nothing.

Locked.

I searched around the frame.

No keyhole.

Electronic.

Of course.

I pressed my face against the glass.

The balcony extended maybe ten feet.

Stone railing.

Beyond it—

trees.

Lots of trees.

The ground was far below.

Third floor maybe.

Possibly second, depending on the slope.

Too high to jump.

But a balcony meant outside.

Outside meant possibility.

I examined the door again.

There was a small keypad beside it.

Four digits.

I stared.

Four numbers.

Ten thousand possibilities.

Not helpful.

Unless Aleksandr used something obvious.

Birthday.

Year.

Last four digits of something.

I knew nothing about him.

I tried 0000.

Red light.

1234.

Red.

1111.

Red.

A small warning appeared.

ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING BEFORE LOCKOUT.

“Damn it.”

I stopped.

One attempt.

Don’t waste it.

I moved away.

Maybe I could watch him enter the code later.

If he ever used the balcony.

I returned to the bookshelves.

Maybe maps.

I scanned titles.

Russian.

Russian.

More Russian.

Then English.

Military history.

Weapons.

Organized crime.

Psychology.

A few novels.

I pulled out an atlas.

My heart raced.

Maps.

I opened it.

World map.

Useless unless I knew where we were.

I flipped to mountains.

North America.

Europe.

Asia.

Snow-covered peaks and dense forest didn’t narrow much.

I needed clues.

Architecture.

Weather.

Sun position.

Accent.

Food.

Nothing enough.

Then I heard voices outside the bedroom.

I froze.

Male.

Not Aleksandr.

I closed the atlas.

Returned it.

The voices came closer.

Russian.

Laughter.

Then English.

“Brute downstairs?”

Another man answered.

“Yes.”

My blood went cold.

They were right outside.

I moved away from the door.

The handle turned.

Locked.

Silence.

Then—

another turn.

Harder.

My heart slammed.

A man laughed.

“Locked.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe she wants company.”

My stomach dropped.

I backed toward the bed.

Another laugh.

“Boss said no touching.”

“Boss is gone.”

“Nikolai finds out, he’ll cut your dick off.”

“Only if he finds out.”

My skin went cold.

I looked around.

Weapon.

Anything.

Lamp.

Too heavy.

Book.

Useless.

The bathroom.

Lock.

I started toward it.

The door handle moved again.

Then someone knocked.

Three times.

“Aurora.”

I froze.

They knew my name.

“Open.”

I didn’t answer.

“Aurora.”

Another voice.

“We bring food.”

Laughter.

I’d already eaten.

They knew that too.

I backed toward the bathroom.

The handle stopped moving.

Then something metallic scraped near the lock.

Oh God.

Were they trying to open it?

I ran into the bathroom.

Locked the door.

My breathing became too loud.

I searched.

Razor.

Aleksandr’s razor.

I grabbed it.

Not enough.

Shampoo bottle.

Hair dryer.

Nothing.

Outside, I heard the bedroom door click.

My entire body went cold.

No.

Footsteps entered.

I covered my mouth.

Two men.

Maybe three.

Russian voices.

Laughing.

I backed away from the bathroom door.

There was nowhere else to go.

No window.

No second exit.

I held the razor in both hands.

The doorknob turned.

Locked.

A knock.

“Aurora.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Go away.”

Laughter.

“She speaks.”

“Go away!”

One man said something in Russian.

The other laughed.

Then—

silence.

Not gradual.

Immediate.

The kind of silence that happened when something dangerous entered a room.

A voice came from the bedroom.

Low.

Cold.

Russian.

Aleksandr.

I didn’t understand the words.

I didn’t need to.

A man answered quickly.

Aleksandr said something else.

A thud hit the wall.

I jumped.

Someone cursed.

Another crash.

Then Aleksandr spoke in English.

Probably for me.

“Out.”

One of the men muttered something.

Aleksandr’s voice dropped.

“Now.”

Footsteps.

Fast.

The bedroom door slammed.

Silence.

I remained in the bathroom.

Razor clenched in my hand.

My knees shook.

A knock came against the door.

I gasped.

“Aurora.”

Aleksandr.

I didn’t answer.

“They’re gone.”

I stared at the door.

My throat wouldn’t work.

“Aurora.”

“What?”

My voice broke.

“They’re gone.”

I swallowed.

“How did they get in?”

Silence.

“Aleksandr?”

“They have override key.”

My fear turned into anger.

“You told me nobody could come through that door.”

“I was wrong.”

That answer shocked me.

Not an excuse.

Not they weren’t going to hurt you.

Not you’re overreacting.

I was wrong.

My eyes burned.

“I want another room.”

“No.”

“Then I want a lock they can’t open.”

“I’m fixing it.”

“How?”

“Open door.”

“No.”

A pause.

“Okay.”

I blinked.

I expected him to demand it.

He didn’t.

“I stay outside bathroom.”

I looked at the razor.

“Why?”

“So you know nobody comes in.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

I sank onto the edge of the bathtub.

Minutes passed.

He didn’t knock again.

Didn’t order me out.

Didn’t try the handle.

I could see his shadow beneath the door.

Still.

Waiting.

Eventually my grip on the razor loosened.

My hands hurt.

I set it beside me.

“Who were they?”

“Guards.”

“I know that.”

“Sergei and Pavel.”

“What did they want?”

Silence.

My stomach twisted.

“What did they want, Aleksandr?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

My eyes filled.

“Did they come in because of me?”

“Yes.”

“What were they going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know.”

His shadow shifted.

“They didn’t get chance.”

That wasn’t enough.

Not remotely.

But I didn’t want the answer either.

I stood.

Walked toward the door.

My hand hovered over the lock.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Are they gone?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know?”

“You don’t.”

Always that.

You don’t.

Because I had no reason to trust him.

I unlocked the bathroom door.

Opened it slightly.

Aleksandr stood several feet away.

His knuckles were bleeding.

A small smear of blood marked the corner of his mouth.

My eyes widened.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Not all mine.”

My stomach rolled.

I opened the door farther.

The bedroom was empty.

The main door stood closed.

Aleksandr had dragged a heavy chair beneath the handle.

I stared.

“That’s your solution?”

“For now.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped me.

I immediately covered my mouth.

Aleksandr looked at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You laugh.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I’m terrified and apparently losing my mind.”

He looked toward the chair.

“Maybe.”

I stepped into the bedroom.

Still holding the razor.

His eyes dropped to it.

Then returned to my face.

He didn’t ask for it.

“Are you going to hurt them?”

I asked.

“Already did.”

“I mean more.”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

My fear returned.

“What are you going to do?”

“Not your problem.”

“It is when they’re trying to get into the room I’m locked inside.”

His jaw tightened.

“They won’t again.”

“Because you’re going to kill them?”

He stared at me.

I wished I hadn’t asked.

“Are you?”

“No.”

Relief came.

Then he added—

“Not for this.”

My relief disappeared.

Jesus.

He walked toward the door.

I backed away.

He noticed.

Stopped.

“I need phone.”

I looked at the table.

A phone sat there.

I hadn’t seen him put it down.

He pointed.

“Bring.”

I stared.

“Why can’t you get it?”

“Because you move away every time I move toward you.”

Heat touched my face.

He wasn’t mocking me.

Just stating fact.

I walked toward the phone.

Picked it up.

The screen lit.

Locked.

But for one second—

I saw something.

Weather.

34°F.

And beneath it—

6:42 AM.

Location hidden by a notification.

Damn it.

I handed it toward him.

He reached.

I flinched when our fingers nearly touched.

He stopped before contact.

I placed the phone on his palm.

He took it.

No comment.

He called someone.

Russian.

Fast.

Angry.

I watched.

His voice was frightening when he was angry.

Not loud.

That was worse.

Quiet.

Controlled.

Whoever was on the other end spoke quickly.

Aleksandr ended the call.

“Someone comes to change lock.”

“Someone you trust?”

“No.”

I stared.

“Wonderful.”

“I’ll be here.”

That should not have made me feel better.

It did.

I hated that.

“Can I ask you something?”

He wiped blood from his knuckles with a cloth.

“You ask anyway.”

“Why do they call you the Brute?”

He stopped.

My stomach tightened.

Maybe that had been a bad question.

His eyes lifted.

“Because people like names.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s enough.”

“What did you do?”

His expression changed.

“Things.”

“What things?”

“Things you don’t want know.”

I thought about the blood on his knuckles.

The gun.

The way those men had gone silent the second he entered.

Maybe he was right.

“Have you killed people?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

My stomach turned.

“How many?”

He resumed wiping his hands.

“Don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Because I don’t count.”

I stared.

Fear moved through me again.

Cold.

Heavy.

This was what I needed to remember.

Not shampoo.

Not breakfast.

Not the doctor.

This.

Aleksandr Volkov killed people so often he didn’t know how many.

I tightened my grip on the razor.

His eyes moved to it.

“I won’t take it.”

I frowned.

“What?”

“The razor.”

He nodded toward my hand.

“Keep.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes you feel safer.”

I stared at him.

“Would it stop you?”

“No.”

The answer chilled me.

At least he didn’t lie.

“Then what’s the point?”

“Fear doesn’t care about point.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

So I said nothing.

The lock was changed an hour later.

Aleksandr made me stay in the bathroom while three men worked.

I didn’t argue.

When they finished, he showed me the new lock.

No override from outside except his fingerprint.

Fire alarm automatically released it.

There was also a manual deadbolt inside.

I tested it.

Twice.

Aleksandr watched.

“Happy?”

“No.”

“Better?”

I hesitated.

“A little.”

He nodded.

No smile.

No I told you so.

Nothing.

He went to the dresser and pulled out another shirt.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

He removed the bloody one.

I immediately looked away.

Too late.

Scars.

His back was covered with them.

Not small.

Not accidental.

Long pale lines crossed his shoulders.

One ran from his left shoulder blade toward his waist.

Another cluster looked—

I stopped looking.

I didn’t want to know.

“Bathroom is free,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then change in there.”

He glanced at me.

“My room.”

“I’m in it.”

“Unfortunately.”

I glared.

He pulled on the clean shirt.

“You can leave.”

“No.”

“Then use bathroom.”

“I shouldn’t have to hide in a bathroom because you can’t keep your clothes on.”

His eyebrow lifted.

“It was shirt.”

“I noticed.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Also heard.”

I almost smiled.

Again.

I hated that.

I walked toward the couch.

Sat.

The razor remained beside me.

Aleksandr noticed but said nothing.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

The question came unexpectedly.

His expression changed.

“I don’t know.”

“What does Nikolai want?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“You admit that very easily.”

“Better than bad lie.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

Anger flared.

“Why?”

“Because information can be dangerous.”

“I’m already kidnapped by the Russian mafia. I think we’ve passed dangerous.”

He looked at me.

“You haven’t.”

The anger disappeared.

My stomach tightened.

“What does that mean?”

No answer.

“Aleksandr.”

He walked toward the window.

“Leave it.”

“No.”

He turned.

Something in his face made me stop.

Not because he threatened me.

Because he looked—

Tired.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Then it disappeared.

“Nikolai is gone seven days,” he said.

“I know.”

“Use seven days.”

“For what?”

“Eat. Sleep. Get strength back.”

“Why?”

“Because you need it.”

“For what?”

His eyes met mine.

“Whatever comes after.”

Cold slid through my veins.

“Do you know what’s coming?”

“No.”

“Another lie?”

He looked out the window.

“Not completely.”

I hated that answer.

I stood.

“What is he going to do to me?”

Aleksandr didn’t turn.

“I don’t know.”

“Sell me?”

Silence.

My heart accelerated.

“Is he going to sell me?”

“No.”

“Give me to someone?”

“No answer.

Oh God.

“Aleksandr.”

He turned.

“I don’t know his full plan.”

“But you know part.”

“Yes.”

“What part?”

His jaw tightened.

“He wants you for something.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Obviously.”

“He hasn’t told me what.”

“Then what do you know?”

“That you matter.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because of Whitney?”

“Maybe.”

“Because of Avery?”

“Maybe.”

“Because of my family?”

Something changed.

Tiny.

But I saw it.

My entire body went still.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your face.”

“My face?”

“You reacted.”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

He looked annoyed now.

Good.

That meant something.

“What about my family?”

“Nothing.”

“You know something.”

“No.”

“You just said you’re a bad liar.”

“I said you’re bad liar.”

“You’re worse.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

I stepped closer without realizing it.

“What do you know about my family?”

“Nothing that helps.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Aleksandr.”

“No.”

“Stop saying no!”

My voice rose.

His expression hardened.

I didn’t care.

For the first time, anger was stronger than fear.

“My family is probably losing their minds! Whitney probably thinks I’m dead. Everyone I love has no idea where I am, and you’re standing there telling me you know something but refusing to tell me!”

“I said nothing that helps.”

“That’s my decision.”

“No.”

“I hate you.”

The words came again.

Sharper this time.

I meant them.

His expression didn’t change.

“Okay.”

That made me even angrier.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Yes.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Then stop repeating things people already tell me.”

I stared.

He stared back.

And then I realized—

He was right.

I had repeated myself.

I hated that even more.

I grabbed a pillow from the couch.

Threw it at him.

Aleksandr caught it with one hand.

Silence.

My eyes widened.

Why had I done that?

He looked at the pillow.

Then me.

I waited.

He walked toward the couch.

I backed up.

He stopped.

Then tossed the pillow onto the opposite end.

“Bad weapon.”

My mouth fell open.

“You’re an asshole.”

“That one I’ve heard too.”

I actually laughed.

One sound.

Short.

Unexpected.

It died immediately.

Because Aleksandr smiled.

Barely.

But enough.

And something about seeing that expression on his face frightened me more than his anger.

Because for one second—

he didn’t look like the Brute.

He looked like a man.

And I couldn’t afford to see him that way.

I stepped backward.

His smile disappeared.

I sat on the couch.

Pulled my knees up.

Looked toward the window.

Outside, the mountains were beautiful.

Untouched.

Free.

I reminded myself of the basement.

The chain.

My hair in his fist.

The gun.

The bodies he admitted to creating.

The men afraid of him.

That was Aleksandr.

Not the man who bought shampoo.

Not the man who changed a lock.

Not the man who caught a pillow and almost smiled.

Those things didn’t erase what he was.

I wouldn’t let them.

Because Nikolai would return in seven days.

Maybe sooner.

And whatever happened after that—

Aleksandr had already told me I would need my strength.

So I would eat.

I would sleep.

I would watch.

I would learn.

And the first chance I got—

I would run.

Even if the Brute came after me.