The third night was the quietest.
No footsteps outside the door. No trays of untouched food sliding across the floor. No guards pretending not to watch. Just silence—and shadows.
That was the thing about silence. Most people thought it was empty.
They were wrong.
Silence has a texture. A weight. And in places like this, it presses against your skin like a second set of hands—ones you don't control.
I lay still on the bed I hadn't asked for, staring up at the ornate ceiling like it might answer for this cage they'd trapped me in. My cuffs were gone now. Replaced by cameras hidden in corners. Kindness, I was learning, was just another language in this place. A prettier chain. A gentler shackle.
I hadn't tried to escape yet. Not because I couldn't.
But because I wanted him to wonder when I would.
Antonov was playing a long game.
He didn't want my death. He didn't even want my obedience.
He wanted my transformation.
And that—
That made him more dangerous than anyone I'd ever known.
I got up. The floor was cold under my bare feet as I padded silently toward the wall-length mirror. It wasn't vanity. It was surveillance. A two-way mirror if I ever saw one. I stood in front of it, arms loose at my sides, and stared straight into the dark glass.
"You watching me, Antonov?"
No answer, of course.
But I could feel him.
That slow, burning presence. That cold calculation, always lurking, always two steps ahead. I imagined him in some sleek office, vodka in hand, those grey eyes pinned to the screen. Watching me pace like an animal he'd caged just to see if it would bite.
I would. And he knew it.
Still—I turned from the mirror, slipped into the adjoining bathroom, and stepped under the cold spray of the shower. I didn't flinch at the temperature. Let it shock my skin, wake every nerve. I didn't want warmth. I wanted focus. Fire had always lived beneath my skin, but here, in his house, it needed to stay buried.
At least for now.
I dried off, dressed in the simplest thing I could find—black, close-fitting, unprovocative. If he wanted softness, he wouldn't get it from me.
I moved to the small desk they'd given me—more of a vanity than anything functional. Still, I'd begun to map. A habit I couldn't kill.
I kept it mental, though. No marks, no pen. Just memory.
The route from my room to the main hall: 43 steps. One turn. Two cameras.
The guards: Six total. Four outside the wing. Two inside, rotating shifts.
Weak point: The north staircase. No direct line of sight. But only if I moved fast.
My eyes flicked to the ventilation. Tight. Narrow. Not impossible.
If I was going to kill him, I could.
But here's the thing.
I didn't want to kill Rafael Antonov. Not yet.
Because the real revenge—the kind that lasted—wasn't in blood.
It was in becoming the thing your enemies feared most.
He bought me.
But I'd make sure he paid for it.
The door opened.
I turned, calm, expression schooled, breath even.
It wasn't him.
Vanya stepped in—his enforcer. Slender, sharp-eyed, dressed in all black. She carried power like it was perfume, subtle but intoxicating. I respected her. That didn't mean I trusted her.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "He wants to see you."
"Tell him I'm busy."
She smirked. "You'll come."
I held her stare for a beat. Then another. Long enough to make her wonder if I'd force the issue.
I didn't. Not yet.
Instead, I stood slowly, walked past her with the grace they'd beat into my bones, and said over my shoulder—
"Lead the way."
We moved through the halls like ghosts. Silent. Intentional. I kept track of every turn. Every blind spot. Every door.
He was waiting in a room I hadn't seen before—low light, thick rugs, walls lined with books and crystal decanters. No guards. Just him. Sitting in a leather armchair like some pagan king carved from ice and shadow.
His eyes flicked to mine as I entered.
"Seraphina."
I didn't respond.
Didn't sit.
Just stared.
He poured a second glass of something dark. "Drink?"
"Try again."
He set the glass down and leaned back, legs spread, casual in that way men are when they think they own the room.
He didn't.
"I thought we could talk," he said.
I crossed my arms. "Then start talking."
He didn't flinch. Didn't bristle. Just studied me, like he was trying to decide if I was a puzzle or a poem. I hated how my pulse quickened.
"I don't want your obedience," he said. "I want your mind."
I barked a laugh. "You think this is seduction?"
"No." He stood. Slowly. "This is war."
He moved toward me, each step deliberate. I didn't back up.
"I want you to remember what they did to you," he said. "What they turned you into. And then I want you to become something they never saw coming."
"Why?" I asked, voice low.
"Because you deserve to burn them down. And I want to hand you the match."
He stopped in front of me.
Close.
Too close.
The space between us hummed with tension—violent, electric, intimate.
His breath touched mine.
But he didn't move closer.
Didn't touch.
Just let the silence stretch.
I leaned in, barely a whisper between us.
"You think I'm going to fall into bed with you, Antonov?"
He smiled.
"No," he said. "I think one day, you'll beg me to."
And just like that, I stepped back.
Cold again. Controlled.
But something had shifted.
And we both felt it.