2. Self Destruction

Yvaine's POV

Daughter?

My head snapped toward the speaker. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, the complete opposite of the shock on my face, studying me with quiet ownership.

“What?” I whispered.

“You’re taking her nowhere,” Grandmother answered, voice steady despite the anger. She pushed a small pile of photographs across the table. “These prove nothing.”

My hand left my grandmother’s shoulder and slowly picked up one of the photos.

It was my mother, smiling the same bright smile from the pictures on my bedroom wall, resting her head on a man’s shoulder. The man in the photograph was the same man sitting across from us.

The photo grew heavy in my fingers and slipped to the floor. My heart began pounding hard against my ribs.

I looked at him again. He was already watching me, unblinking.

“I see you’ve been waiting for me to show up,” he said.

It was true. I had always wanted to meet him. I had envied the children who spoke of fathers and mothers, though I never admitted it aloud.

“You should leave my house. Now,” Grandmother said, voice rising as she pointed to the door.

The man stood, then stretched out his hand toward me.

“Let’s go.”

For one brief second I almost took it. The longing I had carried for years pulled at me. Instead, I clutched the fabric of my dress and turned my face away, fighting the sudden burn behind my eyes.

He sighed and lowered his hand.

“I’m taking my daughter today,” he told my grandmother with finality, reaching for his black walking stick. 

“I’ve raised her for sixteen years. You don’t get to barge in and take my only family.” Grandma told him as he moved to leave the table.

“She’ll live a better life with me.” The man spoke confidently.

“Her life is good here.”

“Are you coming or not?” he asked me.

I kept my eyes down and my hand on my grandma’s shoulder, fighting the sudden urge to cry. This was nothing like the reunion I had sometimes imagined. I had imagined he would come with fruit baskets, share meals with us, and tell me stories about my mother. 

But this felt cold and wrong.

The man gave a soft, almost amused chuckle and walked out, his stick tapping the floor.

Grandma finally looked at me and offered a small, apologetic smile. I returned it, rubbing my grandmother’s shoulder while she tried to steady her breathing.

Then rough hands seized both of my arms and yanked me backward.

“What are you doing?” I cried, struggling.

“No!” Grandma shouted, rising from the chair. “You are not taking her!”

The market man stepped forward and shoved the old woman hard. She fell back against the chair and did not get up.

“ Grandma!” I screamed, panic cracking my voice.

“Shut up,” the man snapped, patience gone. He stepped closer. “Now, how are we going to fix that market habit of yours?”

I spat straight into his face when he leaned closer.

The slap came instantly, splitting my lip. Before I could recover, a thick cloth pressed hard over my nose and mouth. The sharp chemical smell filled my lungs. I fought with everything I had, kicking, twisting, trying to scream… but the strength drained from my body far too quickly. My eyelids grew heavy. The last thing I felt was Grandma’s still form on the chair and my own body going limp in their hands as the darkness swallowed me whole.

….

The first thing I felt was the cold metal around my wrists and ankles.

I opened my eyes to the low hum of engines and soft lighting. Only months later would I learn that the thing carrying me away was a private jet.

Nikolai De Luca sat across from me, perfectly calm, watching me like I was a puzzle he had already solved.

“Listen carefully, Yvaine,” he said, voice low and even, before I reacted. “You have two options. You comply with my rules, and no one gets hurt. Your grandmother continues living her quiet little life. That village boy you like so much, Alan, is it? He stays breathing. But if you try any thing stupid, like trying to run”

He leaned forward slightly.

“I will burn that farm to the ground with your grandmother inside it. And I will make sure Alan dies slowly, knowing it was because of you.”

The words settled in my chest like ice.

I stared at him, heart slamming against my ribs, the cuffs biting into my skin. Every part of me wanted to scream, to spit in his face the way I had spat at his man earlier. But the image of Grandma falling against that chair flashed behind my eyes.

I had no real choice.

“…I’ll comply,” I forced out.

A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. “Good girl.”

He sat back and gestured to one of the men to remove the cuffs. My wrists burned as they took it off.

“You will learn our ways,” Nikolai continued. “You will train and become useful. In return, your grandmother remains untouched, and I will allow you to write to your village boy, under supervision. Your letters will be checked. One wrong word, and the deal ends.”

I looked out the small window at the clouds. The village already felt like a different lifetime.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

“Home,” he replied simply. “Your real home.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed the rage and fear until they sat heavy in my stomach.

I would play along.

For now.

……

The mansion was a fortress dressed as a palace. High walls and cameras, and men with guns who never quite looked away from me. 

My room was large and beautiful and felt like a dungeon. The first night I sat on the edge of the bed for hours, still wearing the clothes I had been taken in. I didn’t cry. I was too angry and too terrified to cry. When I finally lay down, I kept my eyes open until the sky started to lighten, replaying Grandma’s face as she fell, replaying the exact tone of Nikolai’s threat.

I made myself a quiet promise in the dark.

I will survive.

I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. And one day, I will find a way out.

Training began immediately. I was taught how to hold a gun. How to take one apart and reassemble it blindfolded. I mastered how to smile while counting exits and weaknesses in the room. How to speak with the kind of cold politeness that made dangerous men listen. My instructors were harsh, and some seemed to enjoy pushing me until my hands shook and my palms bled. 

I hated how quickly I improved.

I was good at it. That was the worst part.

One afternoon, after I disarmed a man twice my size during a sparring session, I caught my reflection in the gym mirror. My face was calm and my eyes were steady in a way that scared me. For a second I didn’t recognize myself.

Every skill I absorbed made me feel further away from the girl who used to sell vegetables and blush when Alan brought her flowers. She felt more like someone I had only read about.

At night I wrote short, careful letters. I told Grandma I was safe and that I was being treated well. I told Alan I missed the sound of the market and the way he always pretended to find my favorite flowers by accident. I wrote nothing real. Nothing that could be used against them. When I handed the letter over, the man who took it didn’t even try to hide that he would read every word.

I kept their responses in a small box under the loose floorboard in my closet, the only place that felt secretly mine.

Months passed.

Then a year.

I stopped counting days and started counting letters instead. Each one became proof that they were still alive, that my obedience was buying them time. I clung to that thought the way a drowning person clings to driftwood.

My reflection kept changing. My posture was straighter. My gaze was steadier. My voice no longer trembled when I spoke to men twice my size. Nikolai began bringing me into meetings. He would watch me from the corner of the room while I spoke, the way a man watches an investment that is finally beginning to return profit.

And every night, when I put another carefully written letter into the box, I felt a little more of the old Yvaine slip away.