The hallway was colder when I left him.
Like the heat had stayed behind in that room, clinging to the edges of his voice, his scent, the way his eyes lingered too long—memorizing, not admiring.
Predators didn't admire their prey. They studied them.
I hated how my blood still simmered. Hated how I could still feel his breath near my mouth, like a ghost trying to whisper secrets against my lips.
I hated him.
And I hated that part of me wasn't so sure anymore.
Back in my room, I moved like the assassin I was. Quiet. Unshaken. But inside, I was already rearranging the game board.
He thought I was a weapon on a shelf. A loaded gun waiting to be picked up and aimed.
But I wasn't here to be wielded.
I was here to make him bleed.
I sat at the vanity again, not to study myself—but to remember what I'd been trained to do. Dissect rooms. Dissect men. Learn them like scripture, then break them like oaths.
Antonov.
He didn't wear suits.
He dressed like he had nothing to prove—fitted black tees, low-slung jeans, combat boots. Like the weight of his empire didn't need a label.
He had a scar once, I'd read. A deep one, stretching across his collarbone from a throat wound he shouldn't have survived. I hadn't seen it yet. But it was there—beneath all that skin, that muscle. A reminder that even monsters could bleed.
I wanted to find it.
Not to heal it.
To reopen it.
The knock on the door was softer this time.
No guards. No threats.
Just a tray, sliding in across the threshold with quiet reverence. Another offer of food. Or a test.
I walked to it. Stared down.
Tonight it was something warm. Expensive. Meat braised in wine, vegetables too beautiful to be real. A glass of something dark red, rich.
I picked up the wine.
Not to drink.
But to smash.
I walked it to the wall and threw it hard. It shattered, splashing crimson across the cream-colored walls like a kill scene. A message.
Not yet.
Not until I understood what this place was.
Not until I understood what he was.
That night, I slept on top of the covers, knives tucked under the pillow they'd left me. No cameras moved. No sounds crept beneath the door.
But I dreamed of him.
Of grey eyes watching. Of lips brushing mine but never quite touching. Of calloused hands pressed to my jaw as if they belonged there.
I woke up angrier than before.
The next day, I made my move.
Not violent.
Not direct.
Something worse.
I asked for books.
The guard outside blinked. "Books?"
"Yes," I said, slowly. "You do know what those are?"
He turned without answering.
Hours passed.
Then—three hardcover volumes delivered to my desk.
First mistake.
You don't give an assassin tools to sharpen her mind.
I read all of them by morning.
By the fourth day, I started testing the walls.
Literal and metaphorical.
Vanya came again, this time with food and a faint look of curiosity. I let her speak. Let her watch me read, let her think I was softening.
I even smiled.
She wouldn't understand the difference between surrender and strategy until it was too late.
That night, I walked into the library on my own. The guards let me pass—one nod, nothing more. Like they didn't realize the leash wasn't around my throat anymore.
He was already there.
Rafael Antonov.
Sitting in that same chair. Firelight flickering across his face. Shadow in his eyes.
This time, I didn't wait for an invitation.
I walked to the nearest bookshelf, ran my fingers across the spines, and asked—
"What do you do when a weapon refuses to be wielded?"
He looked up slowly.
"You give it a choice."
I turned.
"Or you destroy it."
His eyes glittered. "I'm not interested in destroying you."
"Why not?" I stepped forward, closing the space, letting my voice drop. "Because I'm beautiful? Or because I'm useful?"
His jaw flexed.
"You're more than either."
"Is that your strategy?" I asked. "Let me feel powerful until I forget I'm caged?"
He stood. The movement was too fluid. Too controlled. No unnecessary steps. No wasted breath.
We were two predators circling each other in a room built for gods.
He came close. Not touching. Not speaking.
Then he leaned in.
Close enough to smell—cedar, blood, dark spice.
"You are not caged, Seraphina," he said softly. "You're being given time to remember what it feels like to hunt without being hunted."
My breath caught for one fraction of a second.
He saw it.
I saw him see it.
I took a step back. But not out of fear.
Just enough to reclaim the air between us.
"Then let's play, Antonov," I murmured.
And I walked out.
Leaving him alone in his kingdom.
Exactly where I wanted him.