He closes the contract, leans back, and steeples his hands. "Try me."
We stare at each other. The silence is a battleground, and neither of us wants to be the first casualty.
"Why the vault?" I ask.
He shrugs. "Every empire needs a heart. That's ours."
"Not very poetic."
"Poetry gets men killed, too."
I lean forward, elbows on knees, and fix him with the look my father called the Medusa. "If you want me to play the part, you need to trust me."
He sits very still, then reaches for the decanter on the credenza. He pours two fingers of bourbon and slides it across the desk to me. "I trust you to survive," he says. "I trust you to keep Lev alive. I trust you not to poison my drink." He lifts his own glass. "Beyond that, trust is a luxury."
I down the bourbon in one gulp, feel the burn all the way to my core. "Then why keep me here?"
He considers. "Because you are a weapon. And I need weapons pointed at my enemies, not at my head."
I stand, pacing to the window. The lights of the city glow like a distant firestorm. For a second I want to throw the glass, smash it against the wall, but I settle for tracing the condensation on the pane.
"I know you watch me," I say. "Every step. Every word."
He stands too, coming around the desk until he's a breath away.
"You're not a guest here, Zoya." His voice is low, dangerous. "You're priceless property under protection."
I spin, anger threading through my nerves. "Is that what you tell yourself? That this is protection?"
He tilts his head, studies me like a problem with only one solution. "What would you call it?"
I step into his space, close enough to smell the hint of sweat beneath the bourbon. "I'd call it a cage. Even if the bars are made of silk and gold."
He laughs, and I hate what the richness in it does to me. "You always were a poet."
I jab a finger at his chest. "Don't confuse loyalty with ownership."
He catches my wrist in his hand, holding it just tight enough to remind me who's stronger.
"If I wanted ownership," he says, "you'd be in the vault."
We lock eyes. My breath is fast, his is steady. For a moment, I think he might hit me, or kiss me, or both. I pull my hand free. "Someone needs to tell you when you're being an idiot."
He tosses back his whiskey and pours another. "You're welcome to try."
The argument detonates before either of us says another word. He accuses me of undermining his authority. I accuse him of treating people like assets. We go point for point, neither giving an inch, voices whisper-soft and full of bitterness. The tension ratchets up with every syllable. I see the vein at his temple, the tic in his jaw. He sees the set of my shoulders, the way my hands curl into fists.
It escalates with a single sentence. "If you want to feel like you belong here," he says, "then act like you belong."
I step into his space. "I don't belong to you."
He smells like wood smoke and war. "Don't you?"
He's so close I can taste the whiskey on his breath. "I hate you," I whisper.
He sets the glass down. "I know."
Then he grabs me, and the world tips sideways.