I refused the food. Again.
It sat untouched on the tray—some decadent dish arranged with delicate precision that reeked of control. Every detail was a message. The way the silverware gleamed, perfectly aligned. The way the wine glass shimmered under the dim overhead light. Like I was meant to believe this was some kind of twisted hospitality.
Like he was civilized.
I sat on the edge of the chaise, wrists resting in my lap, still cuffed—though loosely, more symbolic now than necessary. Not because they trusted me. But because they wanted me to feel the difference. Like this wasn't captivity, just… negotiation.
As if I didn't know the difference between a cage and a stage.
But this room was a performance space. Velvet furniture. Ornate molding. A wall of windows I couldn't open, overlooking a landscape too dark and far to matter. Everything calculated. Purposeful.
Like him.
They hadn't given me back my weapons, but they gave me a wardrobe—silk, leather, lace. No armor. Just softness. Things meant to remind me of femininity. Vulnerability. Like slipping into those clothes might make me forget who the fuck I was.
I wore the same clothes I arrived in—black pants, tank top, bloodstained from the fight they staged just to hand me over. The dried red flaked off my shoulder as I shifted. I didn't brush it away. Let him see what I came from. Let him know I remembered.
The door opened.
I didn't turn.
But I knew.
I felt him before I heard him.
There was a tension in the air when Rafael Antonov entered a room. Not like a storm—no, storms rage. He moved like cold smoke. Like something old and deep and waiting. His steps were silent, but his energy wasn't. It pressed into me, wrapping around my ribs, curling beneath my skin.
I didn't look. Not yet. I let the silence stretch, let the air get heavier.
"You're persistent," he said, voice smooth and low. "Most would've eaten by now."
"I'm not most," I answered flatly.
"Clearly." A pause. "That's why you're here."
I turned slowly, dragging my gaze over him with practiced indifference. But even my discipline had limits. He wasn't dressed like a kingpin today. No tailored suit, no silk tie. Just a simple black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, dark jeans, boots. Casual. Dangerous in its ease.
There was something brutal about how unbothered he looked.
Like he didn't need the costume.
Like violence came easy.
His jaw was sharp, shadowed in stubble. Lips full. Eyes pale grey, unreadable. His body was made of strength, not show—veins along his arms like tension lines, the way he stood like a man who never had to prove himself.
I hated how my body noticed.
"You think starving yourself gives you power?" he asked, stepping further inside.
I gave a dry laugh. "No. It gives me clarity."
He watched me—eyes dragging over my face, pausing at my mouth, then back up again.
"You want a fight?" he asked softly. "A real one?"
"I want a knife in my hand and your blood on the floor."
He smiled—slow, lethal. "Good."
That single word slid under my skin, too smooth, too intimate. As if he liked the idea. As if he wanted to see how far I'd go just to prove I hadn't broken.
He came closer. I tensed, instinct twitching like a loaded gun. But he didn't touch me. Just stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell him—clean, crisp, something like cedar and frost.
"You're not what I expected," he said, almost thoughtful.
"Disappointed?" I asked, tilting my head.
He studied me, like he was dissecting every line of my face. "No. I think they undersold you."
I laughed coldly. "I'm not for sale."
"Oh, Seraphina," he murmured. "You already were. They just didn't tell you the price."
The words struck harder than they should've. I didn't flinch—but my throat tightened. He saw it. The smallest shift in breath. And I hated him for it.
"They're dead to me," I said, voice like ice.
"Good." He crouched in front of me, elbows on his knees, eye-level now. Too close. "Then what you become next is yours to decide."
I clenched my jaw. "You think you're offering me freedom?"
"No," he said simply. "I'm offering you something better."
"Which is?"
"A chance to burn them down from the inside."
My blood went still.
He saw it land. Saw the flicker of something—interest, rage, revenge—and leaned in just a little more.
"I know what they did to you," he said softly. "I know how they trained you. How they used you. I know every kill they ordered, every body you buried for them."
"How?" I whispered, the word ripped from my throat.
His smile was slow, cruel. "Because I bought more than your body, Seraphina. I bought their secrets too."
I didn't move. I couldn't. My mind was a wildfire, everything I believed crashing and reshaping.
"You think I care what you know?" I asked, but my voice was quieter now.
"No," he said. "But I think you want revenge."
The silence between us was electric—heavy, charged, intimate in its violence. His eyes burned into mine, and for a split second, I felt the line blur between enemy and something else.
Not ally. Not lover.
Something more dangerous.
A mirror.
Then he stood.
"You'll come to me when you're ready," he said. "When hunger outweighs pride. When hate outweighs obedience."
He turned, and I finally found my voice.
"You're underestimating me."
He paused at the door. "No," he said. "I'm counting on you."
And then he left.
Leaving me in a cage made of luxury, silence, and choice.
And all I could think was—
What the hell is he trying to make me become?