Chapter 18

Reina’s POV

I stared at him, trying to understand what kind of man said things like that so calmly. The lake moved softly around us while he rowed like he had not just unsettled me again.

I looked away first.

I was learning something dangerous about Rai Mikailov. He didn’t always need threats. Sometimes words from him did worse things. They stayed in my head long after he was done speaking.

The boat drifted closer to the far side of the lake where tall trees stood around the water. It was quieter there. No guards. No engines. No voices. Just wind, water, and him.

I hated that this was the safest I had felt since being taken. He tied the boat to a small wooden post and stepped out first. Then he held out a hand to help me.

I looked at it….Then at him.Then I stepped out by myself.

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled.

“Still stubborn.”

I brushed past him.

The ground was soft with grass and fallen leaves. A narrow path led deeper into the trees. I didn’t know why he brought me here, but I knew better than to ask too many questions. With Rai, answers usually came with a price.

He walked beside me, hands in his pockets, relaxed like this was a normal afternoon.

Nothing about him was normal.

After a few minutes, we reached a small cabin hidden between the trees. It was old but clean. Smoke came lightly from a chimney. Someone maintained it.

He opened the door and stepped aside for me to enter first.

I hesitated.

He noticed. “If I wanted to trap you, Petalo, I wouldn’t need a cabin.”

My jaw tightened. I walked in.

Inside was simple. A couch, wooden table, shelves, a stove, two windows facing the lake. It felt warm in a way the mansion never did. Lived in. Quiet. Human.

I turned slowly, confused.

This place did not match him.

He shut the door behind us and walked to the kitchen side of the room. “Sit.”

I stayed standing.

He gave me one look. “That wasn’t optional either.”

I sat. He opened a cupboard, took out a kettle, and filled it with water.

I blinked.

Rai Mikailov was making tea.

He caught my expression without turning around. “You look shocked.”

I reached for my paper and wrote. “You don’t look like someone who makes tea.”

He read it when I held it up and let out a short laugh. The sound, rich and warm.

“And what do I look like?”

I wrote again.

“Someone who poisons it.”

This time he laughed properly. Deep and brief.. Again.

It changed his face, he looked normal, human like a typical.. Boyfriend …I hated noticing that too.

He placed two cups on the table and brought the kettle over once it was ready. Then he poured for both of us and sat across from me.

There was no guards... No shouting. No blood.

Just tea. I kept waiting for the trick.

He leaned back in his chair. “Relax. You look like you’re waiting for me to shoot someone.” My fingers tightened around the cup.

He noticed that too. He noticed everything.

I looked out the window instead. The lake was beautiful from here.

I had forgotten places like this existed.

“Do you like it?” he asked…I turned back slowly. Was he really asking me if i liked it? Why did he care?

I wrote.

“Why bring me here?”

He read it and was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Because no one screams here.”

Something in his tone made me look at him harder.. Not cold. Not mocking.

He was just…Tired. Only for a second.

Then it was gone…I looked down at my tea.

Maybe I imagined it.

He stood and walked to one of the shelves. From a drawer underneath, he pulled out a small box and placed it in front of me.

I frowned.

He sat again. “Open it.” I didn’t move.

He raised a brow. “You think it’s a bomb?”

I slowly opened the lid….Inside was a set of colored pencils and a sketchbook.

I stared.

Then looked up at him.

He shrugged like it meant nothing. “You’re always writing on scraps of paper. It annoys me.”

My chest felt strange…No one had bought me something in years. Not without wanting something ugly in return.

I touched the pencils carefully…He watched my hands, not my face.

I wrote slowly.

Why?

He read it and leaned back. “You looked bored.”

That was a lie…We both knew it.

I looked down before he could read too much in my face.

I turned the sketchbook over in my hands. It was plain and new. Clean pages waiting for something.

I had not drawn since before my voice was gone. Before my father changed. Before Grace turned the house into poison.

My fingers almost shook…He stood and walked to the window, giving me space.

That surprised me more than the gift.

I opened the first page and picked a pencil. At first nothing came. My hand felt stiff. Then slowly, I began.

Lines…. Shapes... Water…. Trees.

The lake outside.

Minutes passed in silence. Real silence. Not heavy silence. Not fearful silence…When I forgot myself, drawing always came easy.

I nearly jumped when his voice came beside me.

“You do that well.”

I hadn’t heard him move. He was standing over my shoulder, looking down at the page.

My body reacted instantly.

I went still…He noticed and stepped back one pace. Only one.

Still, it was something.

I wrote without looking at him.

“I used to draw a lot.”

He read over my shoulder. “Why did you stop?”

I paused…Then wrote.

“Life.”

He went quiet again…Then walked away.

This time he moved to the stove and started cooking something.

I stared…Again.

What kind of criminal kidnapped women, threatened people, then cooked lunch in a cabin by a lake? I was starting to think madness was contagious.

The smell of garlic and butter filled the room. My stomach betrayed me with a growl.

He looked over his shoulder. “Good. At least one honest sound comes out of you.”

I glared at him and he smirked.

I hated how often he did that now. Like getting reactions from me amused him more than violence ever could.

He served food onto two plates and placed one in front of me. Pasta. Simple, hot, fresh.

I hesitated…He sat with his own plate. “If I wanted you dead, Petalo, I have easier methods.”

I took a bite.

Then another…It was good. Very good…I looked at him in disbelief.

He ate calmly. “What now?”

I wrote quickly.

“You cook too?”

He read it. “There was a time I had to do many things myself.”

That answer opened ten more questions.

But I knew better than to ask them. We ate quietly and when I finished, I wrote one more thing before I could stop myself.

“Who are you here?”

He looked at the paper for a long time. Then at the cabin. Then at the lake outside.

“No one important.”

I knew that was the biggest lie he had told me yet. The air changed suddenly when a phone rang. His phone.

He answered immediately. His face hardened as he listened. Every softness, every strange calm from this place vanished in seconds.

“Yes.” “No. Wait for me.”

He ended the call and stood.

I knew that version of him. The real one. The dangerous one.

“We’re leaving.”

My stomach tightened…Whatever peace existed here was over. I closed the sketchbook and stood slowly.

He looked at it, then at me. “Bring it.”

I held it to my chest.

He opened the door and cold air rushed in.

Before I stepped out, I glanced back once at the cabin…At the table. The cups. The unfinished tea. The pencils.

A small, impossible place where Rai Mikailov almost looked human. Then I followed him outside, back toward the lake, back toward the world where monsters belonged.