บททั้งหมดของ MINE TO OWN : บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The morning came with a hash wind along with the usual quiet. The snow outside the estate was cleaner today, more crystalline. But inside, everything had shifted. Zane felt it in the air, in the way the servants moved around him with eyes lowered just a fraction longer. In the way the guards nodded, almost respectfully. Andrei had not said a word since the attempt. Not about the blood. Not about the body. Not even about Zane.But the silence wasn’t cold. It was anticipatory, waiting.Zane stood in the eastern courtyard now, his breath visible in the cold air, his hands protected in black leather gloves. The sword in his hand was heavier than it had been yesterday or maybe his muscles were just still aching from the beating Mikhail had given him in the name of training. No punches had been withheld. That was the rule. If Zane was to become useful, there would be no softness. There would only be skill. And strength could only be bought with pain."Again," Mikhail barked from across the

Fyodor did not call for Zane. He hadn't, not since the last summoning. Instead, a servant delivered the summons like a secret whisperped into an envelope and tucked away until it's delivery. Zane had grown used to these small gestures that carried weight far heavier than the silence surrounding them. He entered Fyodor’s study just after dusk. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the quiet and subtle, almost inaudible screeching of old records spinning. It was Tchaikovsky playing, slow and mournful. There was no fire in the hearth and the room was full of shadows cast by tall lamps and the pale flashes of the storm outside the tall windows. Fyodor was seated, of course, with his cane by his side. Glass of dark liquor in hand, his eyes looked like twin blades above a sea of wrinkles and stillness. They—his eyes— did not rise to greet Zane. They only waited. Always measured. Zane stopped several feet away and bowed slightly, a display of something between obedience and wariness.

The halls beyond the council chamber were dim, lined with ancient oil portraits and guarded by silence. Zane walked half a step behind Fyodor, matching his pace without question. The old man didn’t use his cane to walk that morning not because he didn’t need it, Zane thought, but maybe because he wouldn’t be seen leaning when the estate’s eyes might still be watching. They passed no servants and no one followed them. Fyodor’s voice came without warning. “Do you know what this house was built on?” Zane didn’t answer. He sensed it wasn’t really a question. “Not marble,” Fyodor continued. “Not oil. Blood. Debt. Sacrifice. And the ability to see a man’s worth before he sees it in himself.” Zane said nothing. Fyodor stopped at a long arched window overlooking the inner gardens, now covered in snow. “My brother thinks he can claim what he could never build. My sons fight in silence, hoping their shadows strike first.” He turned slightly, just enough for Zane to see the side of his fac

The snowfall had thickened by the time they returned to the estate. It covered the grounds completely. Zane didn’t go to his quarters, not yet he didn’t. He didn’t want to sit in silence staring at the walls, wondering where Andrei had gone or if he’d ever truly been beside him at all. Instead, he walked. He walked past the conservatory, past the unused ballroom, past corridors lined with ancestral portraits whose stares now seemed to follow him with their judgment. He stopped only when he reached the glass corridor overlooking the eastern gardens. There, Joana was already seated—draped in pale lavender silk and fur, like she’d been waiting. “You always end up here,” she murmured, not looking at him. "Like a wandering ghost." Zane didn’t answer right away. He stepped beside her and stared out at the white expanse of snow, watching it erase all footprints. “Do ghosts ever leave?” She smiled faintly. “Only when they’re seen.” A moment passed. “They say you’re rising.” Zane’s

It was nearing dusk when Zane stepped into the southern courtyard—the one without cameras, the one left unguarded by design. Snow still fell and the cold in the air had teeth, but he moved like the chill didn’t touch him. He was shirtless again, his skin humming with heat as he sparred with one of the estate’s chosen trainers. The movements were quick, sharp causing the beading of sweat at his temple, breath measured and sure. He struck, deflected, spun, dropped, disarmed. He didn’t know how long Andrei had been watching. From the shadowed edge of the corridor, Andrei stood still as stone, his coat open, eyes locked on every movement Zane made. It had started as a curiosity. Now it was something else. Something harder to contain. The instructor reset. Zane took his stance again. Andrei stepped forward. "Leave us." The words were quiet, but final. The trainer turned without question and disappeared through the archway. Zane straightened, sweat glistening across his collar