Chapter 4
I didn't sleep that night.
His voice clung to me like smoke: *"He stole something from me. You."*
What did that mean? How could my father have stolen me from a man I'd never met? I lay in the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling, my mind spiraling. Every answer I reached only bred more questions. My pulse still thrummed where Viktor had gripped my wrist — a phantom hold I couldn't shake.
By dawn, I made a decision.
I wouldn't wait for answers anymore. I'd take them.
The estate woke slowly. Guards rotated shifts at six. Irina appeared with breakfast at seven — black coffee, fruit, toast on a silver tray. She never spoke more than necessary, and today was no different.
"I want to see him," I said.
Irina set the tray down. "Mr. Kozlov is unavailable."
"He's avoiding me."
"He's busy."
"With what? Threatening people? Keeping me prisoner?"
Irina's eyes flickered — the first crack I'd ever seen in her composure. Then she straightened.
"I'll pass along your request."
She left. The lock clicked.
I waited two hours. Then three. By noon, fury had replaced fear entirely. I paced the room like a caged animal, fists clenched. This man had ripped me from my life, locked me in luxury, whispered impossible things in the dark — and now he hid from me like a coward?
No.
I found the window latch. It was reinforced, yes — but not unbreakable. Using a hairpin from the vanity and sheer desperation, I worked the mechanism until it popped. Cold air rushed in.
Two stories up. A trellis below, thick with ivy.
Stupid? Yes. But I was past caring.
I climbed down. The ivy cut my palms, and my bare feet scraped against stone. When I dropped to the ground, I crouched in the garden shadows, scanning. One guard near the east gate. Another patrolling the fountain. A gap — thirty seconds, maybe less.
I moved.
The estate grounds were vast — manicured hedges, stone paths, a greenhouse in the distance. I didn't head for the exits. I headed for the west wing, where I'd heard voices last night. Where Viktor conducted his darkness.
The side entrance was unlocked. I slipped in.
Inside, the west wing was colder — all dark wood and iron fixtures. No decoration. Functional. Military. I followed the corridor until I reached a heavy oak door, slightly ajar.
Voices inside. Viktor's — unmistakable — and another man's.
"...she's asking questions," the other man said.
"Let her."
"You can't keep this up forever. Either tell her, or—"
"Or what?" Viktor's voice dropped. Lethal quiet.
"Or Volkov will tell her first. And you know what happens then."
Silence.
I pushed the door open.
Both men turned. Viktor's second — a dark-haired man with a scar across his temple — reached for his holster. But Viktor raised a hand, stopping him.
His silver eyes found mine. Something flashed in them — not anger. Something rawer.
"Leave us," Viktor said to the other man.
The scarred man hesitated, then walked past me without a word. The door closed.
We were alone.
Viktor stood behind his desk, illuminated by a single lamp. He looked dangerous in the half-light — shadows cutting his cheekbones, tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched beside him.
"You climbed out a window," he said. Not a question.
"You locked me in a room."
His jaw flexed. "For your safety."
"I don't care about safety. I care about the truth." I stepped forward, hands trembling but voice steady. "You said my father stole me from you. Explain."
Viktor watched me — that slow, calculating gaze that made me feel naked and known.
"Sit down," he said.
"No."
Something almost like respect crossed his features. He picked up the glass, swirled it, set it down again.
"Twenty-three years ago," he began, "I made an arrangement with your mother."
My heart stopped.
"My... my mother died when I was born."
"She didn't die," Viktor said. "She was taken. By your father."
The floor tilted beneath me.
"Your mother came to me for protection," he continued, voice low. "She was in danger — from people more powerful than your father could imagine. I agreed to shelter her, and in exchange..." His eyes locked on mine. "She promised me her firstborn."
Air left my lungs.
"That's insane," I whispered.
"It's fact."
"You're saying — what — that I was promised to you before I was even born?"
Viktor set down his glass. "Your mother broke the agreement. Ran with your father. Disappeared. I searched for years." His voice dropped. "For you."
I stumbled back. "This isn't real."
"It's very real, Sera." He moved around the desk, closing the distance between us. "Your mother knew what you'd become. She tried to hide you from this world."
"What world? What am I?"
Viktor stopped before me. Close enough to touch. His hand lifted, hovering near my face but not making contact.
"Something rare," he murmured. "Something worth killing for."
I couldn't breathe. "What does that mean?"
His fingers brushed my jaw. Electric. Devastating.
"It means," he whispered, "that you were never just a waitress, Sera. And your father didn't sell you to pay a debt." His thumb traced my lower lip. "He returned what was always mine."
My knees buckled.
Viktor caught me — one arm around my waist, holding me against him. Solid. Warm. His heartbeat steady against my chest.
"I won't hurt you," he said against my hair. "But I won't let you go either."
I should have screamed. Should have clawed. But his arms felt like the first safe place I'd known, and I hated myself for it.
"You're a monster," I whispered into his chest.
His arms tightened.
"Yes," he said. "But I'm your monster."
His voice clung to me like smoke: *"He stole something from me. You."*
What did that mean? How could my father have stolen me from a man I'd never met? I lay in the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling, my mind spiraling. Every answer I reached only bred more questions. My pulse still thrummed where Viktor had gripped my wrist — a phantom hold I couldn't shake.
By dawn, I made a decision.
I wouldn't wait for answers anymore. I'd take them.
The estate woke slowly. Guards rotated shifts at six. Irina appeared with breakfast at seven — black coffee, fruit, toast on a silver tray. She never spoke more than necessary, and today was no different.
"I want to see him," I said.
Irina set the tray down. "Mr. Kozlov is unavailable."
"He's avoiding me."
"He's busy."
"With what? Threatening people? Keeping me prisoner?"
Irina's eyes flickered — the first crack I'd ever seen in her composure. Then she straightened.
"I'll pass along your request."
She left. The lock clicked.
I waited two hours. Then three. By noon, fury had replaced fear entirely. I paced the room like a caged animal, fists clenched. This man had ripped me from my life, locked me in luxury, whispered impossible things in the dark — and now he hid from me like a coward?
No.
I found the window latch. It was reinforced, yes — but not unbreakable. Using a hairpin from the vanity and sheer desperation, I worked the mechanism until it popped. Cold air rushed in.
Two stories up. A trellis below, thick with ivy.
Stupid? Yes. But I was past caring.
I climbed down. The ivy cut my palms, and my bare feet scraped against stone. When I dropped to the ground, I crouched in the garden shadows, scanning. One guard near the east gate. Another patrolling the fountain. A gap — thirty seconds, maybe less.
I moved.
The estate grounds were vast — manicured hedges, stone paths, a greenhouse in the distance. I didn't head for the exits. I headed for the west wing, where I'd heard voices last night. Where Viktor conducted his darkness.
The side entrance was unlocked. I slipped in.
Inside, the west wing was colder — all dark wood and iron fixtures. No decoration. Functional. Military. I followed the corridor until I reached a heavy oak door, slightly ajar.
Voices inside. Viktor's — unmistakable — and another man's.
"...she's asking questions," the other man said.
"Let her."
"You can't keep this up forever. Either tell her, or—"
"Or what?" Viktor's voice dropped. Lethal quiet.
"Or Volkov will tell her first. And you know what happens then."
Silence.
I pushed the door open.
Both men turned. Viktor's second — a dark-haired man with a scar across his temple — reached for his holster. But Viktor raised a hand, stopping him.
His silver eyes found mine. Something flashed in them — not anger. Something rawer.
"Leave us," Viktor said to the other man.
The scarred man hesitated, then walked past me without a word. The door closed.
We were alone.
Viktor stood behind his desk, illuminated by a single lamp. He looked dangerous in the half-light — shadows cutting his cheekbones, tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. A glass of amber liquid sat untouched beside him.
"You climbed out a window," he said. Not a question.
"You locked me in a room."
His jaw flexed. "For your safety."
"I don't care about safety. I care about the truth." I stepped forward, hands trembling but voice steady. "You said my father stole me from you. Explain."
Viktor watched me — that slow, calculating gaze that made me feel naked and known.
"Sit down," he said.
"No."
Something almost like respect crossed his features. He picked up the glass, swirled it, set it down again.
"Twenty-three years ago," he began, "I made an arrangement with your mother."
My heart stopped.
"My... my mother died when I was born."
"She didn't die," Viktor said. "She was taken. By your father."
The floor tilted beneath me.
"Your mother came to me for protection," he continued, voice low. "She was in danger — from people more powerful than your father could imagine. I agreed to shelter her, and in exchange..." His eyes locked on mine. "She promised me her firstborn."
Air left my lungs.
"That's insane," I whispered.
"It's fact."
"You're saying — what — that I was promised to you before I was even born?"
Viktor set down his glass. "Your mother broke the agreement. Ran with your father. Disappeared. I searched for years." His voice dropped. "For you."
I stumbled back. "This isn't real."
"It's very real, Sera." He moved around the desk, closing the distance between us. "Your mother knew what you'd become. She tried to hide you from this world."
"What world? What am I?"
Viktor stopped before me. Close enough to touch. His hand lifted, hovering near my face but not making contact.
"Something rare," he murmured. "Something worth killing for."
I couldn't breathe. "What does that mean?"
His fingers brushed my jaw. Electric. Devastating.
"It means," he whispered, "that you were never just a waitress, Sera. And your father didn't sell you to pay a debt." His thumb traced my lower lip. "He returned what was always mine."
My knees buckled.
Viktor caught me — one arm around my waist, holding me against him. Solid. Warm. His heartbeat steady against my chest.
"I won't hurt you," he said against my hair. "But I won't let you go either."
I should have screamed. Should have clawed. But his arms felt like the first safe place I'd known, and I hated myself for it.
"You're a monster," I whispered into his chest.
His arms tightened.
"Yes," he said. "But I'm your monster."