Chapter 3
Three days passed in golden silence.
The estate was a palace — cold, pristine, and completely empty of warmth. I moved through it like a ghost, testing boundaries. The kitchen was stocked. The gardens were open. A library held thousands of books. But every exit was watched. Every window reinforced. And Viktor...
Viktor was nowhere.
I hadn't seen him since that first night. Not at meals, not in the halls, not even a shadow. Just the quiet presence of guards, Irina's clipped instructions, and the suffocating awareness that I was being observed.
By the third morning, the silence was worse than the fear.
I found the library and sank into a leather chair, pulling a book at random. But I couldn't focus. My mind kept circling back to the same questions: Why me? What did he want? And what was he waiting for?
That evening, I broke a rule.
I left my room after midnight. The hallway was dark except for thin strips of light beneath closed doors. I moved silently, barefoot on marble, following the faint sound of voices.
Down two flights of stairs. Through a corridor I hadn't explored. The voices grew louder — men, speaking in Russian. I pressed my back against the wall and inched toward the cracked door.
Through the gap, I saw them. Viktor sat at the head of a long table, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing tattooed forearms. His face was stone. Four men surrounded him, all armed, all tense.
One of them slammed a photo on the table. I couldn't see it from my angle.
"Volkov's men crossed the border last night," the man said. "Three dead. They're sending a message."
Viktor's jaw tightened. "Let them."
"Boss, if they find out about the girl—"
"They won't."
The room went silent. Viktor's voice had dropped into something lethal.
"No one touches her. No one speaks of her. She doesn't exist outside these walls. Am I clear?"
Murmurs of agreement. But one man — younger, bolder — leaned forward.
"With respect, Viktor... why her? If Volkov finds out you're keeping Novak's daughter, he'll use her against you."
Viktor's gaze lifted slowly to the man who spoke. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Yuri," Viktor said softly. "If you question me again, I'll remove your tongue and mail it to your mother."
No one spoke after that.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, heart hammering. *Volkov's daughter.* They'd said my father's name like it meant something — something dangerous.
Who was my father? Really?
What had he been involved in beyond gambling debts?
I backed away from the door. Too fast. My heel caught the edge of a table in the hall, and a vase wobbled. I grabbed it — too late.
It shattered on the marble floor.
The voices inside stopped.
I ran.
Barefoot, breathless, I flew up the stairs. But I only made it to the second-floor landing before a hand closed around my wrist like iron.
I was spun around, my back hitting the wall.
Viktor.
He stood inches from me, his chest barely rising, as if he hadn't exerted any effort at all. His eyes burned silver in the dark — furious, searching, dangerous.
"What did you hear?" he said. Not a question. A command.
"Nothing," I breathed.
His grip tightened. "Don't lie to me, Sera."
My name on his lips did something I didn't expect. It sent heat through my chest like a match striking.
"I heard enough," I whispered. "Who is Volkov? Why does he care about me?"
Viktor's jaw clenched. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling the wild gallop of my heart.
"You weren't supposed to hear that."
"Then maybe you shouldn't keep me in a house full of secrets."
His eyes narrowed, but something shifted in them — surprise, maybe. Or something worse.
He leaned closer. So close I could smell him — sandalwood and smoke and danger.
"You want the truth?" he murmured.
I nodded, unable to speak.
His lips brushed my ear.
"Your father didn't just owe me money, Sera. He stole something from me. Something I've been hunting for ten years."
My breath caught. "What?"
His hand released my wrist but didn't leave my skin. His fingers trailed up my arm — featherlight, possessive.
"You," he whispered.
The word detonated in my chest.
Before I could react, he stepped back, his mask sliding into place again.
"Go to your room," he said coldly. "And don't come downstairs again."
He turned and disappeared into the dark.
I stood there, trembling, my back against the wall, his word echoing through me like thunder:
*You.*
What did that mean? What was I to him?
And why did part of me — the part I couldn't control — want to follow him into the dark and find out?
The estate was a palace — cold, pristine, and completely empty of warmth. I moved through it like a ghost, testing boundaries. The kitchen was stocked. The gardens were open. A library held thousands of books. But every exit was watched. Every window reinforced. And Viktor...
Viktor was nowhere.
I hadn't seen him since that first night. Not at meals, not in the halls, not even a shadow. Just the quiet presence of guards, Irina's clipped instructions, and the suffocating awareness that I was being observed.
By the third morning, the silence was worse than the fear.
I found the library and sank into a leather chair, pulling a book at random. But I couldn't focus. My mind kept circling back to the same questions: Why me? What did he want? And what was he waiting for?
That evening, I broke a rule.
I left my room after midnight. The hallway was dark except for thin strips of light beneath closed doors. I moved silently, barefoot on marble, following the faint sound of voices.
Down two flights of stairs. Through a corridor I hadn't explored. The voices grew louder — men, speaking in Russian. I pressed my back against the wall and inched toward the cracked door.
Through the gap, I saw them. Viktor sat at the head of a long table, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing tattooed forearms. His face was stone. Four men surrounded him, all armed, all tense.
One of them slammed a photo on the table. I couldn't see it from my angle.
"Volkov's men crossed the border last night," the man said. "Three dead. They're sending a message."
Viktor's jaw tightened. "Let them."
"Boss, if they find out about the girl—"
"They won't."
The room went silent. Viktor's voice had dropped into something lethal.
"No one touches her. No one speaks of her. She doesn't exist outside these walls. Am I clear?"
Murmurs of agreement. But one man — younger, bolder — leaned forward.
"With respect, Viktor... why her? If Volkov finds out you're keeping Novak's daughter, he'll use her against you."
Viktor's gaze lifted slowly to the man who spoke. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Yuri," Viktor said softly. "If you question me again, I'll remove your tongue and mail it to your mother."
No one spoke after that.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, heart hammering. *Volkov's daughter.* They'd said my father's name like it meant something — something dangerous.
Who was my father? Really?
What had he been involved in beyond gambling debts?
I backed away from the door. Too fast. My heel caught the edge of a table in the hall, and a vase wobbled. I grabbed it — too late.
It shattered on the marble floor.
The voices inside stopped.
I ran.
Barefoot, breathless, I flew up the stairs. But I only made it to the second-floor landing before a hand closed around my wrist like iron.
I was spun around, my back hitting the wall.
Viktor.
He stood inches from me, his chest barely rising, as if he hadn't exerted any effort at all. His eyes burned silver in the dark — furious, searching, dangerous.
"What did you hear?" he said. Not a question. A command.
"Nothing," I breathed.
His grip tightened. "Don't lie to me, Sera."
My name on his lips did something I didn't expect. It sent heat through my chest like a match striking.
"I heard enough," I whispered. "Who is Volkov? Why does he care about me?"
Viktor's jaw clenched. His thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling the wild gallop of my heart.
"You weren't supposed to hear that."
"Then maybe you shouldn't keep me in a house full of secrets."
His eyes narrowed, but something shifted in them — surprise, maybe. Or something worse.
He leaned closer. So close I could smell him — sandalwood and smoke and danger.
"You want the truth?" he murmured.
I nodded, unable to speak.
His lips brushed my ear.
"Your father didn't just owe me money, Sera. He stole something from me. Something I've been hunting for ten years."
My breath caught. "What?"
His hand released my wrist but didn't leave my skin. His fingers trailed up my arm — featherlight, possessive.
"You," he whispered.
The word detonated in my chest.
Before I could react, he stepped back, his mask sliding into place again.
"Go to your room," he said coldly. "And don't come downstairs again."
He turned and disappeared into the dark.
I stood there, trembling, my back against the wall, his word echoing through me like thunder:
*You.*
What did that mean? What was I to him?
And why did part of me — the part I couldn't control — want to follow him into the dark and find out?