Chapter 3: The Gilded Cage

November 13, 2024 | 4:00 AM | The Pantheon Penthouse, The Olympus Casino

Silk.

Ava's eyes snapped open to foreign luxury against her skin. Her hands flew to her body, fingers finding designer pajamas she'd never owned.

Her own clothes were gone.

Someone had undressed her. Touched her unconscious body. Redressed her like a doll.

Her stomach lurched.

She bolted upright, bare feet hitting cold marble. The room spun in a blur of white and gold—pristine walls, crystal fixtures, everything screaming money and control.

Her fingers checked her neck, her arms. No injuries except the acrid ghost of chloroform scorching her throat.

Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed Vegas sprawled below, a glittering infection of light against desert darkness. The city looked small from here. Distant. Unreachable.

The air tasted wrong. No antiseptic sting. No rust or alley decay. Just the cloying sweetness of lilies mixed with leather and something else.

Power.

She lunged for the door.

Locked.

Electronic. No visible mechanism to pick or break.

The windows next. Her surgeon's fingers traced the glass edges, recognizing the thickness instantly. Bulletproof. Even if she could shatter it, the forty-seven floor drop would finish what the glass started.

The bathroom had no lock from inside. The closet opened to designer dresses in her exact size.

Every exit sealed. Every detail planned.

Her medical bag—gone. Phone, wallet, the carefully crafted identity of Ava Thorne. All erased.

She was nothing but flesh wrapped in silk.

The door whispered open.

Damian Volkov entered, and the air pressure shifted like the room itself recognized its master.

He'd changed. Black slacks that cost more than her monthly rent. White shirt open at the throat, revealing the edge of professional bandages. Her work keeping him alive.

He didn't speak.

Instead, he circled her. Slow. Deliberate. A predator cataloguing prey.

She could smell him now—expensive cologne that probably had a French name she couldn't pronounce. But underneath, gun oil. Copper. The metallic tang of violence that no amount of money could wash away.

"Let me go."

Her voice held steady, but her pulse jumped at her throat. She knew he could see it. Those grey eyes missed nothing.

"You saved my life."

He stopped behind her, close enough that his heat pressed against her back. His breath stirred the hair at her nape.

"That creates a debt."

She spun to face him, defiance overriding wisdom. "Then we're even. I'll send you a bill."

The movement trapped her against the window. Cold glass at her spine, his body blocking escape. She'd played directly into his positioning.

His smile was a blade wrapped in silk.

"Oh, I don't think you understand the currency I deal in, Doctor."

He stepped back, giving her space that felt more like a demonstration of control than mercy.

"Lights. Dim fifty percent."

The room obeyed instantly, shadows pooling in corners.

"Temperature. Down two degrees."

The air chilled against her silk-covered skin.

Every system bent to his will. Just like everything else in this tower.

Just like he expected her to bend.

His fingers found her jaw. Not rough. Not gentle either. Inevitable.

The same fingers that had been slick with blood hours ago now traced her skin with unnerving delicacy.

"You're mine now, Ava." His thumb brushed her pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm. "The sooner you accept that, the easier this becomes."

She jerked away, needing distance from his touch and what it did to her equilibrium.

He let her go, moving to a leather chair positioned like a throne. The casual way he settled into it screamed ownership. Of the space. Of the city spread below.

Of her.

"You have two choices."

Grey eyes tracked her every breath.

"Fight this and be miserable. Or accept it and be comfortable."

He paused, letting the words sink like hooks into her skin.

"Either way, you're not leaving."

Something hot and sharp twisted in her chest. Not quite fear. Fear she could handle. This was more dangerous—the way he studied her like she was an equation he'd already solved.

"I think it's time you understood exactly who you saved tonight."

He gestured at the wall. Screens flickered to life in perfect synchronization.

"And what world you've just entered."

The footage stole her breath.

Her clinic. Grainy street camera angles showing her arriving yesterday morning. The timestamp reading 5:47 AM. Her usual time.

"This is from yesterday?" Her voice cracked slightly.

"Every camera in this city feeds into my system." He tapped something on a slim tablet. The screens shifted. "Traffic cameras. ATM security. Private business feeds."

More footage populated the screens. The coffee shop where she bought her morning espresso. The medical supply store. Her apartment building's entrance.

All pulled up in seconds. Days, weeks of her life accessible at his fingertips.

"No." The word escaped without permission.

"Three keystrokes." His fingers danced across the tablet. "That's all it takes to see where Ava Thorne has been. Where she shops. Who she talks to."

The violation hit deeper than waking in strange clothes. He could reconstruct her entire life with a few commands.

"You think this is impressive?" Her voice cut sharp despite the tremor in her hands. "Pulling up street cameras?"

"Every camera in Vegas answers to me, Doctor." He touched his tablet. The screens shifted—inside the coffee shop, the pharmacy where she bought supplies, even ATM footage. "Past or present. I own the eyes of this city."

"Who the hell are you?"

He rose from the chair, moving toward her with deliberate steps.

"Damian Volkov." The name rolled off his tongue like a death sentence. "Pakhan of the Volkov Bratva. The man who owns every shadow in Vegas."

The Russian mafia. The word from the clinic clicked into place. Pakhan—the boss.

"Though after last night..." His grey eyes glinted. "I suppose you could say I'm your employer."

"I have a job."

"Had." He corrected. "That clinic is already being cleaned. Your apartment, emptied. Ava Thorne's debts, paid. Her lease, terminated."

Each word hammered into her chest.

"You can't just—"

"I already have." He stopped inches from her, close enough she could see the faint lines of pain around his eyes. "The woman who walked into that clinic tonight no longer exists."

"Then who am I supposed to be?"

His smile turned possessive.

"Mine."

She forced herself not to step back. Not to show how the word scraped against every independent bone in her body.

"What do you want from me?"

"Your skills, obviously. A private physician with your talents is worth more than gold in my world."

"Bullshit." The profanity surprised them both. "You don't kidnap someone for their medical degree. What do you really want?"

Something dangerous flashed in his expression. Approval mixed with anticipation.

"Clever little thing." He reached out, fingers ghosting along her jaw again. "You're right. It's not just your medical skills, though they're exquisite."

His thumb traced her bottom lip, and she bit down the urge to bite it.

"It's the way you looked at me. No fear. No worship. Just... calculation." His voice dropped lower. "Do you know how rare that is? How valuable?"

"I'm not a collectible."

"No." He agreed. "You're much more interesting than that."

The wall screens went dark with another gesture, leaving them in shadow and city lights.

"Your new life starts now, Ava. Fight it, and I'll simply tighten the cage. Accept it..."

He let the promise hang between them.

"Accept it and what?"

"And you'll have access to resources you can't imagine. Protection from whatever you're running from. Power most people only dream of."

Her heart stuttered. He'd seen through her that easily.

"I'm not running from anything."

"Liar." The word was almost affectionate. "But don't worry. Your secrets are safe with me. After all..."

He leaned close enough that his words brushed her ear.

"Now they're my secrets too."