CHAPTER FOUR

The first thing Zane noticed was the silence.

Heavy.

Smothering.

He woke up startled, the tangled sheets and furs beneath him felt alien against his skin. The faint scent of lavender and old stone clung to the air around him. And for a moment, half a moment, he didn't move. Didn't even breathe.

Memory crashed into him, rough and brutal.

The auction.

The cold eyes in the crowd.

The clink of cigarette lighters.

The man—Andrei.

The price paid in millions.

Zane clenched his teeth against the bile he could feel rising in his throat.

His body ached, a dull hum of bruises beneath his skin. His wrists burned faintly from where the shackles had bitten into them, leaving angry red rings. But he was whole. He was breathing.

And he was alone.

No guards at the door.

No locks on his limbs.

It felt wrong.

A trap too sweet not to reek of poison.

He couldn’t allow himself get distracted and bewitched by the beauty and wealth that surrounded him.

Slowly, Zane sat up, the furs sliding off his naked body. His muscles protested, stiff from exhaustion and malnutrition. The room spun briefly before steadying itself. Pale morning light leaked through the thick curtains, specks of dust dancing in the slanted beams.

The food still sat on the table near the window, untouched. Cold now, but still edible. His stomach twisted painfully at the scent—roasted lamb, spiced rice, tart-sweet fruits.

Zane ignored it.

He pushed himself off the bed, bare feet sinking into the plush rug. Every movement was careful, wary. He padded silently to the window, pulling the heavy curtain aside just enough to peer out.

High walls.

Iron gates.

Beyond them, only trees, trees, and more trees, endless, thick and nothing. It was just him, them, here, for miles.

He thought to himself, escape wasn’t impossible.

Just improbable.

Zane let the curtain fall back into place.

They hadn't stripped him of everything. No, they hadn't. They had left him his mind, his will. His anger.

That would be their mistake.

He moved through the room, cataloging every detail automatically — the old-fashioned lock on the bathroom door, the single ventilation grate near the ceiling, the distance from the window to the ground below. It wasn’t far, but the landing would be brutal. He could break an ankle. Snap a rib.

Better a broken body than a broken spirit.

Still, he didn’t act yet.

He would bide his time.

The bathroom was luxurious — another slap in the face. Deep marble tub. A standing shower with rainfall jets. Thick towels embroidered with gold. The water ran hot as soon as he turned the tap, steaming the mirror in seconds.

Zane hesitated, staring at his reflection.

What he saw made his throat tighten. He couldn’t recognise this person that stared back at him.

A stranger.

Hollow cheeks. Shadowed eyes. Faint bruises painting his ribs and hips in black and blue. The faint, healing line of a split lip.

His hair—a once-gleaming halo—hung limp and filthy against his forehead.

This wasn’t him.

This was what they had tried to make of him.

Gritting his teeth, he stripped off the remains of his dignity and stepped into the shower.

The water stung, scorching tender flesh, but he endured it, scrubbing until his skin turned raw, until the water swirling down the drain ran pink from the wounds he bore. He would not cry, not even when the tears and pain stung at his eyes, he would not cry.

By the time he emerged, he felt human again.

Or something close to it.

Someone had left clean clothes folded neatly on the bed: black drawstring pants, a soft white shirt, both simple but clearly expensive. Another subtle manipulation — the illusion of freedom.

Zane dressed mechanically, refusing to feel grateful for anything these monsters offered him.

A soft knock at the door.

Three knocks, sharp, precise and rhythmic.

Zane froze, heart leaping into his throat.

Before he could react, the door creaked open slightly, and Andrei’s voice slid through the gap — low, casual, deadly calm.

"Breakfast is ready downstairs. You may join me, if you wish."

Not an order.

Not a demand.

A choice.

Zane stared at the door long after the footsteps faded away.

He could stay here.

Starve himself in stubborn defiance. Rot in this gilded cage.

Or he could go downstairs.

Face the wolf who thought he could tame him.

Zane squared his shoulders.

You survived worse, he told himself.

You survived everything they threw at you. You can survive him, too.

And he would.

Not because Andrei was merciful.

But because Zane was unbreakable.

He found the dining room without difficulty, following the scent of coffee and something warm and savory through the labyrinthine halls.

Andrei sat at the head of a long table, one hand cradling a mug, the other flipping lazily through a newspaper. His black hair was still damp and glistening from a recent shower, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing the forearms of a man that had held life in his hands. He looked disgustingly relaxed, like this was any other morning and not the aftermath of human trafficking.

A second plate had been set across from him — fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bread, a small bowl of berries.

An offering.

Or bait.

Zane stepped into the room silently.

He didn’t sit.

Andrei didn’t look up right away. He took a slow sip of coffee, then finally lifted his gaze, pinning Zane with that same cool, assessing stare from the night before.

"You look better," Andrei said mildly.

As if they were old acquaintances catching up after a long trip.

Zane said nothing.

He stood, every inch of him coiled in tension, daring Andrei to make the first move.

The silence stretched, sharp as a knife’s edge.

At last, Andrei folded the newspaper and set it aside. He gestured lazily to the chair opposite him.

"Sit. Eat."

Zane didn’t move.

Andrei’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Very well. Stand, then. Your choice."

Minutes slid by, heavy and slow. The sweet smell coming from the table before him tortured his aching stomach.

Finally, Zane moved — not because of the command, but because he chose to. He pulled out the chair and sat stiffly, refusing to touch the food. Refusing to show weakness.

Andrei didn’t comment. He returned to his coffee, leaving Zane alone with his silence and his burning pride.

For the first time since waking in this new, twisted chapter of his life, Zane felt something like clarity take form inside him.

He would not beg.

He would not bend.

He would wait.

Learn.

Strike.

He was going to survive. He would enact his vengeance even if it killed him.