I don’t respond, because he’s not wrong. Fire illuminates. Fire destroys. But the heat still lingers in my palm like a mark. Like a promise.
And I’m not sure I want it to fade.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I reach to check it.
Unknown:Next time the lights go out, I won’t stop.
11
IN THE SPACE BETWEEN
YAKOV
They don’t realize I’m listening to every word they say.
Two guards, whispering just outside my door, trying to keep their voices low, but not low enough.
“Storm’s too rough. Roads are a mess,” one says.
“That’s what they’re saying,” the other replies with a dry chuckle. “Sokolov didn’t want her driving back with that Colombian still sniffing around.”
Rage floods my system, hot and violent. That bastard is still lurking around her. If I wasn’t locked in this cage, I’d have already carved his heart out for daring to threaten her.
My body stills. My mind doesn’t. It moves fast—cataloging, deducing, reorienting around this new variable. Mila is here. Under the same roof. Not in the safety of her apartment or the structure of our scheduled sessions. She’s somewhere in this house, unguarded. Mine for the taking.
I lie on my bed, unmoving, eyes open, watching shadows shift across the ceiling. But it’s not the weather keeping me awake.
It’s her.
The memory of her voice, quiet but certain. The way her fingers felt against mine, brief but irrevocable. The look in her eyes when I told her she should fear me, and she didn’t.
That moment cracked something open. I haven’t been able to close it since.
Three hours pass. Restless. Pointless.
Then I move.
Lying still makes me vulnerable. Imagining is worse. Better toknow. Better to see the terrain for myself.
The lock isn’t a joke.
It’s Bratva-grade—complex, redundant, rigged to flag tampering and freeze access. Designed by men who’ve contained monsters before.
But none like me.
I’ve studied its rhythm for weeks. Counted the delay between the green light and the magnetic release. Watched how the night shift gets lazy, trusting steel and code to do their job.
They shouldn’t.
A sliver of tempered metal from the back of a picture frame, shaped by hand. Pressure applied just right.
Seventy-four seconds later, the door clicks open.
Not because the lock is weak.
Because I’m better.
The lights are dim. Cameras sweep in predictable arcs. I know the pattern. I know the blind spots. I slide past them like shadow.
