Mom never got me into real piano lessons, but she made me take music theory. She dragged me every week until I could read a score whether I wanted to or not. I never thought those hours would matter.

  The notes fill the room as I look out at the snow. My fingers move slow, leaning on memory more than skill. I wonder if I'm losing my mind. A few weeks ago, I was worried about my rent and my shifts at the hospital. Now, I'm watching a man practice the art of murder, and I’m not even trying to look away. I’m tracking the ripple of muscle in his back like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

  He has been working with his dagger for hours. He rolls it from palm to blade and back again without looking at it. Every few seconds his wrist snaps and the knife hits the board on the wall in the same spot. He is practicing for a murder I know is coming.

  Thunk.

  What is my body doing to me? I can feel the heat radiating from him even across the room, a magnetic pull that makes my skin hum. It’s not just desire. It’s the terrifying realization that I’ve stopped seeing him as a patient or a captor. He’s become the gravity I’ve started to orbit, and I don’t know how to stop the fall.

  Thunk.

  We've lived like this for days. Sleeping. Waking. Eating. Fucking. Waiting.

  The knife hits the wood again. Same place. Same sound. What are we waiting for?

  “If you wanted to leave a place like this.” My eyes stay fixed on the keys. My fingers hesitate. The lie tastes like ash. I should want to leave. I should be screaming for help. But the thought of the trailer, the empty hospital halls, and the cold silence of my old life makes my chest tighten more than this golden cage ever could. I’m not just his prisoner; I’m a prisoner of the way he makes me feel seen.

  The blade stills.

  “That's a dangerous question.”

  “I didn't say I wanted to. Just… hypothetically.”

  I hear him shift. The knife rolls once in his grip.

  “Hypothetically, you don't run.” I glance back. He's watching me now, the dagger loose in his palm. “You stay. You learn the rhythms. Who moves when. Who looks away. Who hands you daggers that already belong to you.”

  “And who do you trust?”

  A faint smile touches his mouth. “You don't. Not fully.”

  “That sounds lonely.”

  “It is.”

  The knife leaves his hand again. Thunk. Same mark.

  “But if you had to choose.” My fingers rest on the keys, silent. “One person. One weakness.”

  He doesn't answer right away. He reaches into his sleeve and draws out another blade. This one is thin and narrow, more needle than knife. He balances it on his finger, steady, testing.

  I watch his face while he does it. He isn't showing off. He's checking himself. Checking what the drugs left behind. Every throw is a measurement. Every strike in the wood is proof that Sergei didn't finish the job. He treats his own body like a weapon that needs to be reset. And for some reason, he's letting me see it happen.

  His gaze sharpens. “You trust people who gain nothing from your fall. And you watch the ones who gain everything.”

  I swallow. “And if the cage is… beautiful?”

  “That's when it works best. Gold makes people forget it's still a lock.”

  I turn around to face him. “What about betrayal?”

  He doesn't hesitate. “Betrayal always comes from someone who thinks they're owed.”

  “Owed what?”

  He meets my eyes. “Power. Love. A future they weren't promised.”

  The knife stays in his hand this time. He doesn't throw it.

  “And you? If you wanted out.”

  His expression softens to something close to honesty. “I wouldn't leave. I'd dismantle it. Piece by piece.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “It is. But it lasts.”

  For a moment, the only sound is the snow brushing the window. Then he adds, quieter, “Why do you ask, krasavchik?”

  I turn back to the piano. My fingers find the keys again. I don't know. I don't know why I'm asking. “Just trying to learn the rules.”

  Behind me, the blade leaves his hand. Thunk. Same place as before.

  “That dagger means someone on the inside hasn't written you off yet. That you're not done. Not to everyone.”

  “Perhaps.” Another strike. The wood complains. “And perhaps not.”

  Viktor stretches his arm, rolling his shoulder like the motion cost him something. His injury is still there, a jagged reminder under his skin. “Weakness. We all have it, Jonah. Even me.”

  The word settles in my chest. I know what it means. I have lived it. But coming from him, it sounds like leverage. Is that what I am? Leverage? Or is it something else?

  “This whole life, it's a game played in rooms like this. You win some rounds. You lose others. You never know who's watching, who's waiting, who's already decided where you fall.”

  Another flick. Thunk.

  “The stakes are high. Sometimes losing isn't the worst outcome.”

  I swallow, fingers hovering uselessly over the keys. My throat is tight. My heart is beating too fast. I have to know.

  “Have you ever killed someone?”

  He turns then. His mouth curves into something knowing, cruel enough to make my stomach dip. “What do you think, krasavchik?”

  “I—” I hesitate. Heat crawls up my neck. “Yes?”

  He laughs, not denying it, and somehow that's the answer. I've spent my life trying to keep people away from the grave, and now I'm sitting in a bed with the man who sends them there. My skin is humming, reaching for him, and I don't even feel the shame yet. Only the heat.

  “Was life always like this for you? This lifestyle?”

  “Da.” He strikes the knife and leaves it buried. He turns to me and takes my hand, leading me back to the bed. “Always. And you? Have you always wanted to become a nurse?”

  “Mom’s illness definitely helped. I wanted to be the one thing the sickness couldn't touch.”

  Viktor sits me down and drapes the sheets around me.

  “Sergei took the power of my family when Father died. He took my rightful chair and crowned himself Pakhan. We've been at war ever since.”

  “Why not kill you?”

  “Because, like I said, he doesn't want my blood on his hands. No, he wants me weak.” He sits beside me. By the time he pulls the sheet over himself, his breathing has gone uneven.

  “I thought you didn't want to tell me anything?”

  “I didn't. But then I changed my mind.” His gaze holds mine. “I told you, this way you're more dependent on me. I like you dependent on me, krasavchik. I want to be the only hand you reach for when the world goes dark. Now you've become my accomplice.”

  He is handing me these secrets like a collar, marking me so that no one else in this house will touch me, because he isn’t trying to save me and is instead making himself my only shield because he knows I have nowhere else to go.

  The word should make me recoil, but instead, it feels like a brand. He’s taking my innocence and replacing it with something dark and heavy, and I’m letting him. I’m not just a nurse anymore. I’m his. I’ve traded my conscience for the weight of his hand on my neck, and the worst part is how much I prefer the weight.

  “Besides, we're getting out of here. And my ego wants to show you why the families fear the name Morozov when I'm not a caged animal.”

  “When you get out of here, what are you going to do?”

  For the first time since he stopped throwing his daggers, something like danger breaks across his face.

  “Kill those who put me here.”

  He pulls me in hard. One arm locks around my waist, crushing me to his chest. His hand slides to the back of my neck. His fingers dig in. Taking ground. Taking me.

  His mouth finds mine, the kiss rough and hot. His hands shake against my back as he tangles them in my hair. He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine.

  “I'm not kidding, Jonah. We'll get out of here. And I'll take down every one of them who hurt me. Or you.”

  I believe him. I believe him and it terrifies me. What does that make me?

  Viktor tightens his grip again, like if he lets go I'll disappear. “I swear it on my mother's grave.” He exhales and eases us back onto the mattress. The bed dips under his weight.

  His tongue traces the shape of my lips. I gasp into him. I'm lost in the taste of him again, lost in the weight of his body pressing me down.

  “So precious. Come on now, krasavchik. Let's sleep.”

  I wake with a start. My heart slams against my ribs. Moonlight cuts the room into strips. It silvers the floor, the edge of the bed, the dark shape of the piano by the wall. I lie still, breath shallow, trying to understand what pulled me out of sleep.

  Then I hear it again. The lock.

  “Viktor?” I sit upright, scanning the dark. The bathroom door stands open. The other side of the bed is empty. “Viktor?”

  The panic isn't the same as the night I was kidnapped. That was the fear of a stranger. This is the fear of a missing limb. My lungs burn as if the air in the room has been sucked out with him. I look at my hands—hands that have touched him, washed him, held him—and they’re shaking so hard I have to tuck them under my arms.

  I already know. The sound that woke me was the lock turning from the outside.

  My chest tightens until it burns. I should have said it. I should have told him that when he's here, the fear goes quiet. But I didn't, and now he's gone. He's gone. Why am I shaking? Why does the room feel so cold?

  I realize then that I’m not waiting for a savior. I’m waiting for the monster to come back and tell me I’m still his. I’ve crossed the line from stranger to something far more dangerous, and there’s no way to find my way back to the boy who lived in that trailer.

  They took him.

  He would never have left without telling me. Would never have gone quietly.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand there, shaking, staring at the door like it might explain itself. What am I supposed to do? Where did they take him?

  Immediately, the house feels different without him. My mind scrambles, racing through every piece of information we exchanged. Every word that could truly make me an accomplice.

  But whoever took him knew exactly what they were doing. They didn't come crashing in. They didn't leave a mess. This wasn't chaos. It was a calculation. And I'm the one left behind.

  I'm alone in the middle of it. Caught between hope and terror. Was he trying to save me? Or is Sergei finally finishing what he started?

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  VIKTOR

  “Stimulants might not be a good idea, Sokolov. He's still running hot.”

  “Just do your fucking job, Andrei.”

  “If this goes wrong,” Petrov says, his jaw tight, “that's not on me.”

  A needle pricks my bare arm. The cold bite of the metal is the first thing I truly feel. They're not trying to knock me out. They're trying to keep me conscious and controllable at the same time. I wonder if they sedated me earlier to get me out of bed and away from Jonah without a fight. If they did, it fucking worked. They drag me down the back stairs while my head is still fogged. My feet are useless weights, but my heart is already beginning to hammer against my ribs from the injection. I try to count the men, but the edges of my vision are fraying. There's too many of them.

  The world spins. My feet scrape concrete. My shoulder slams into a brick wall when someone yanks too hard. A flare of pain finally cuts through the fog. A door opens. Stagnant air pushes over my face. We're back in the fucking basement.

  “Hold him,” Sokolov growls. “He'll fight the second the kick hits.”

  Grips clamp down. They drive me into the center of the room and force me to my knees. Two men pin my shoulders. Another palm grips the back of my neck, keeping my head lowered. They don't tie me. They don't need to. Cold metal snaps tight at my back, the chain going taut as they drive me down. It's long enough to kneel, not long enough to stand straight.

  I can feel him before I see him.

  Sergei steps into the circle of light in a tailored suit. The ring with our crest flashes when he lifts his hand, gold sharp against the gloom. He looks me over like he's inspecting damaged cargo. “Welcome back, Viktor. I'm sure you remember the room.”

  “You motherfucking snake.” I bare my teeth. “Come closer, see how much I remember.”

  The guards wrench my arms higher until pain rips through my shoulders. A corner of Sergei's mouth lifts. He turns, letting the men see me. “You hear that? The rightful prince. Still barking. Though he's been busy ever since I let you wake up.”

  “You let me—” Understanding hits. My mouth clamps shut before I spit, “If you touch Jonah⁠—”

  “Then what, nephew?” He crouches in front of me. “I was content to let you live your life under the radar, Viktor. Safely tucked away while I managed the real work. But then you had to go and take the harbor.” He tilts his head, a cold smile touching his lips. “Bad decision. You made yourself a target the second you stepped onto those docks. I couldn't let you have them.”

  Everything clicks into place. It wasn't about the name. It wasn't about the throne. It was the harbor. That had been the moment everything changed.

  “If I decide I want your pretty nurse now,” Sergei continues, standing up and smoothing his sleeves, “what are you going to do? Hm?”

  I spit in his face and laugh when he shrieks, stumbling back.

  “You son of a bitch,” he snaps. “I'll make you regret that.”

  “Yeah? If you step toward Jonah, I'll take your fucking life.”

  “We'll see about that.” Sergei wipes his face clean. “It all depends on how well you do tonight.”

  A ripple moves through the men. They smell blood. Rage burns through the drug-haze. If I lose this, he takes Jonah.

  “That dose isn't enough, Andrei.” Sergei turns to Petrov.

  “It will soon kick in.”

  My uncle doesn't look reassured, but he turns to the other people present. “As you all know, Viktor has been unstable for weeks. He has become a liability. As his loving uncle, I've taken him in after he was stupid enough to get himself shot, but we all know how tough this world is. Charity is expensive. Even for family. Which is why the time has come to choose who the real Morozov king needs to be. Him? Or me?”

  Low murmurs ripple through the room. They echo in my head.

  “You locked me in that room,” I spit. “You want loyalty? Start there. You haven't even told me if Lev is alive.”

  Sergei's face doesn't move. “Lev was always soft,” he says. “We'll discuss him later. Tonight is about you.” He moves a step closer. “You remember the parking lot of Vesper?”

  The confession is a blunt instrument designed to show me how deep the rot goes. I don't look away. I memorize every pair of eyes in the circle, marking the men who watched me bleed and called it business. I'm not a victim. I'm a ledger-keeper, and every name is written in red.

  Sokolov stands in the circle with his arms folded. “He fell hard. Bled all over my shoes.”

  A few chuckles. My ribs pull tight.

  “I told him,” Sergei continues, “I just wanted some scratches on you, that's it. If you died, I'd have him buried beside you. A dead nephew is an inconvenience. A wounded one is useful.” His eyes fix on mine. “A puppet,” he adds.

  “Fuck you,” I snarl. “You're the one who should be hanging here. Traitor.”

  “You hear that? Looked after in my house, on his knees, snarling and restrained, and calls me traitor.”

  “Still thinks he's king,” someone mutters.

  “Exactly.” Sergei lifts his glass. “Andrei.”

  Petrov steps out of the shadow. His hand holds a loaded syringe. “Show the men what keeps our prince so manageable.”

  I twist against the fingers holding me. Another arm comes across my throat, cutting off air. “Get that away from me!”

  “You'll be all right,” Petrov murmurs. “It's just⁠—”

  “Don't lie to me, Andrei.”

  He flinches. The chemical sting from the syringe catches in my nose. Petrov grips my arm. I jerk, but the men pin me harder. The needle slides in. Cold slips under my skin, followed by a heavy warmth that spreads fast through my veins. My fingertips grow distant.

  Sergei watches each change. “Alive,” he tells the men, “but breakable. That's the point. Strength is only useful when it bends where you want it.” He takes a sip from his glass. “If he performs too well, we know our doctor hasn't earned his pay. Isn't that right, Andrei?”

  Petrov's throat moves. “Yes, sir.”

  The edges of the room pulse. Then a figure steps out of the circle. He's broad across the shoulders, thick-necked, with old breaks along his knuckles.

  Sergei gestures toward him. “Mikhail has trained here his whole life. He understands his place. Tonight he has a chance to show you why it should be above his prince's.”

  His eyes meet mine. I see no respect. Just something sour and satisfied. Sergei doesn't bother to hide his enjoyment. “Rules are simple. If you manage to stand when Mikhail is finished, you live another day. If you fall—” He clicks his tongue. “Your pretty nurse is mine.”

  The words hit. Mikhail rolls his shoulders. The first punch drives under my ribs. I don't have the strength to trade blows, so I hunt for his balance instead. I use the weight of the chain and the slickness of the blood on the concrete to turn his own size into a trap.

  Air rips out of my lungs. Pain tears up my spine and settles behind my eyes. The drugs make the world move in slow, agonizing waves. The second blow hits my stomach. His knee comes up into my chest. My head snaps back.

  Blood fills my mouth. I spit it at the floor near Mikhail's boot. “That all you've got?”