Chapter 4 – The Gilded Cage.

Elena's POV

 "Do you understand me, Doctor?”

I nod slowly, the weight of it settling in my chest like concrete.

“Good,” she says. “Then eat.” She walks out without another word.

The door doesn’t lock this time but I don’t feel any freer.

The suite is quiet again, too quiet. No hum of monitors, no movement outside the door, just that low static silence that makes it feel like I’m already being punished for breathing.

I sit for another minute, trying to convince myself to eat. I don’t. Instead, I get up and head for the door, half-expecting it to be locked anyway. It isn’t.

The hallway is just as cold. White walls, clean floors, no voices, no footsteps. Only the distant whir of cameras tracking movement—subtle, but I feel it.

Curiosity’s louder than fear right now, and I’ve already made one bad decision today. What’s one more?

I walk carefully, letting my fingertips skim the walls as I pass room after room. Most of the doors are sealed—heavy, reinforced, deadbolted from the outside. When I try the handles, they don’t budge.

Then I find one that does. The lock is old. The latch loose. Someone forgot about this one.

I glance down the hall, then reach into my pocket. The only thing they didn’t take was a pair of tweezers I’d slipped into my bra earlier, half on instinct. I angle one into the lock, twist gently, and—

Click. I open the door.

The smell hits first—dust, metal, something sharper underneath. 

The lights are dim, but I can see enough. Walls lined with weapons—knives, antique rifles, things I don’t even recognize. Framed photographs, black-and-white and grim, men with the same hard eyes, the same bone-deep cruelty.

There are bloodstained suits behind glass. A coat with a bullet hole dead center on the chest. And carved into the wooden floor near the back wall, in thick Cyrillic letters, is one word.

Volkov.

In the center of the room, under a spotlight, sits a glass case holding a gold-plated revolver. Ornate and Personal. 

This isn’t a home. It’s a legacy built on war.

“Interesting place to snoop.”

I jump, twisting fast as my heart slams against my ribs.

Dante stands in the doorway, shirtless, his bandage already dark with blood, and the way he’s leaning there tells me he knows exactly how this looks and doesn’t care.

“I didn’t know this was off-limits,” I say, even though the lie tastes thin the second it leaves my mouth.

He pushes off the frame and steps inside, slow and unhurried, his eyes sweeping the room before settling back on me. “You did,” he says. “That’s why you picked the one lock that still opens.”

I cross my arms, more to keep myself steady than anything else. “I needed air. The place is suffocating.”

“That’s the point,” he replies, stopping a few feet away. “If you can breathe too easy, you start thinking you have options.”

I glance toward the door, then back at him. “You collect weapons and dead men’s suits now? Is that supposed to scare me?”

His mouth twitches like he’s amused. “No. It’s supposed to remind people who built this house and why it still stands.”

I don’t respond, mostly because I don’t trust my voice.

He lifts his arm slightly, and I notice the way his jaw tightens as blood seeps through the bandage. “You’re the one who patched me up in the alley,” he says. “Fix it again.”

I stare at him. “Here? You bleed where you’re standing,” I say flatly. “That leg needs proper care, not a walk through your personal museum.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t give orders here, Doctor.”

I meet his gaze anyway. “Then don’t pretend this is optional. If you want me to keep you alive, you’ll follow instructions.”

For a second, the air goes tight. Then he smiles, slow and sharp. “Good. I was hoping you’d still have teeth.”

He turns toward the hall. “Come on. Medical suite.”

I hesitate only long enough to grab my spine back into place before following him, knowing full well that curiosity may have bought me more attention than I can afford.

We walk in silence. His stride is slower now, the limp more pronounced, but he doesn’t ask for help. Of course he doesn’t.

By the time we step back into the medical suite, the tension between us feels heavier than the air itself.

He climbs onto the counter without waiting to be told, settling like he owns the space—and maybe he does. He leans back slightly, legs apart, posture loose but watchful. The kind of man who bleeds out like it’s a hobby and still expects everyone else to play by his rules.

“Get on with it,” he murmurs, gaze steady.

I grab a pair of scissors and move closer, cutting through the soaked bandage without a word. His skin is too warm. Infection’s creeping in.

“You shouldn’t be walking on this leg,” I say under my breath as I peel the last of the gauze away.

“I shouldn’t be breathing,” he answers, his tone dry. “Yet here we are.”

I clean the wound, biting back the urge to lecture him again. My hands are steady now, not because I’m calm, but because I know how to focus when everything else is unraveling.

“You’ll need antibiotics,” I say. “And actual rest. No more midnight shootouts.”

He lets out a quiet laugh—low, rough, amused. “You say that like you’re disappointed.”

I glance up at him. “I don’t enjoy watching people die.”

“Then don’t watch,” he says easily, his eyes fixed on my mouth like he’s already imagining better uses for it. “Just keep me alive.”

I tape down a fresh bandage and step back quickly, suddenly too aware of how close we were standing.

“You really don’t care, do you?” I ask, keeping my voice even. “About what people see when they look at you?”

He tilts his head slightly, the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I care what you see.”

I freeze for half a second, not sure if he’s joking, testing, or serious—and not sure which one would be worse.

“I see a man with a death wish,” I say quietly.

“And I see a doctor with shaky hands pretending she’s not scared.”

I bristle, heat rising in my face. “I’m not scared of you.”

To Be Continued...