Page 46 of Crimson Sin
But nothing comes. Not a promise or a denial. Just silence that expands into a chasm I cannot cross. It burns worse than rejection. Rejection would at least be honest and clean. This silence is cruel in its ambiguity, leaving me to wonder, hope, and slowly torture myself with possibilities that may never exist.
“Fine,” I whisper, pushing past him down the hall, my shoulder brushing his arm as I move. The brief contact sends electricity through my entire body, pulling me back to how thoroughly he claimed me two nights ago, and how completely I surrendered to his touch. “Keep your ghosts.”
I flee to my room, closing the door forcefully and leaning against it as though I can physically hold back the emotionsthreatening to overwhelm me. My reflection stares back from the mirror across the room, my cheeks flushed, and eyes bright with unshed tears I refuse to let fall. I look like a woman on the edge, balanced between desire and despair, and I hate how transparent my feelings have become.
The days crawl by with the sluggish pace of honey in winter. I try to fill the hollow hours by wandering through rooms he doesn't forbid me to enter, exploring this beautiful prison with the dedication of an anthropologist studying a foreign culture. The library becomes my favorite refuge, where the shelves hold not just Russian literature but leather-bound ledgers in Daniil's handwriting.
I discover volumes of Pushkin and Tolstoy in their original Russian, their pages yellowed with age and handling. Shakespeare sits beside Dostoyevsky, and I find poetry collections by Akhmatova that leave me breathless with their beauty. These books reveal facets of Daniil I never expected, evidence of a mind that appreciates beauty and literature alongside violence and power.
The study reveals more secrets, though he never explicitly forbade me from entering. Photographs of his mother, Galina, line one wall, elegant and unsmiling, her eyes sharp as knives even in still frames. She was beautiful in the way glaciers are beautiful. Magnificent and deadly, carved from ice and starlight. In every image, her posture radiates authority, from the tilt of her chin to the placement of her hands. Even in death, her presence dominates the room.
One photograph snags my attention, smaller than the others and tucked into the corner of an ornate silver frame. It shows a much younger Daniil, perhaps eight or nine years old, standing beside his mother in what appears to be a garden. He's smilingin the photograph, a genuine expression of childhood joy that transforms his entire face. Seeing that smile and knowing what he became breaks something inside my chest.
In the drawing room, I find a drawer left slightly ajar, holding documents in Russian and English. Some of the paperwork relates to Obsidian Vault International, Daniil’s security company. I recognize letterheads from museums I've worked with and institutions I've dreamed of joining permanently. The irony isn't lost on me that my captor owns a company I once admired, that his legitimate business intersects so closely with my professional aspirations.
But I haven't let my own dreams vanish within these walls. Daniil gave me access to a secure laptop, and I've turned it into my lifeline to the outside world. I work on my exhibit remotely, emailing the museum team daily, approving layouts, and reviewing catalog notes. Sometimes I lose myself in descriptions of ancient artifacts, the subtle variations in Byzantine iconography, and the brushstrokes of forgotten masters whose names history has swallowed.
The work grounds me, reminding me that I am more than just a pawn in Daniil's world. I have knowledge, skills, and a career that exists independently of his empire. When I write about the cultural significance of a sixth-century mosaic or debate the attribution of a Renaissance sketch, I reclaim pieces of myself that this gilded cage threatens to steal.
My colleagues don't know about my current circumstances, of course. To them, I'm simply working from home due to a family emergency. The irony makes me laugh. Being held captive by a Russian crime lord definitely qualifies as a family emergency, considering I'm supposedly his wife.
Over dinner one evening, as we consume perfectly prepared filet mignon in a dining room that could seat twenty, I gather my courage. “Your mother... she seemed formidable. Did she ever let you just be her son?”
We've shared meals in relative silence for days, the only sounds the clink of silver against china. But tonight, something in his posture seems less rigid, his attention focused on me rather than the reports that usually accompany his meals.
For a moment, Daniil's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. His eyes narrow, but his voice stays even when he responds. “Galina raised me to rule. That was her love.”
The words are carefully chosen, but beneath the restraint, I hear a note of old pain that reaches for the child who never got to just be a child.
“That isn't love,” I murmur, unable to keep the sympathy from my voice.
His gaze lifts to mine, those ice-gray eyes holding depths I'm only beginning to understand. “It was the only kind she knew.”
I see the truth in his eyes, written in lines too fine for most people to read. The boy who lost his father at three, was trained like a soldier by his mother, had inherited a throne made of iron and secrets before he was old enough to understand what it would cost him. For the first time, I don't see just thepakhanwho commands through fear and violence. I see the son, still carrying the burden of her expectations on his broad shoulders, trying to live up to a standard that demanded he sacrifice his humanity for power.
“She must have been proud of what you became,” I offer quietly.
His laugh is bitter, devoid of any warmth. “Galina was never proud. Pride was weakness. She was satisfied when I proved useful, disappointed when I showed mercy. Love was an emotion she couldn't afford to feel, and she made sure I understood that from an early age.”
The revelation pierces further than I expect. I think of my own father, James, who worked two jobs to keep us afloat but never missed a school play or parent-teacher conference. He'd been proud of everything I accomplished, from finger paintings on the refrigerator to my college graduation. His love had been uncomplicated, generous, and freely given without conditions or expectations of return.
Daniil had none of that. Every affection was earned through achievement, every moment of maternal attention purchased with proof of his worthiness to inherit her empire. No wonder he struggles to trust and open himself to vulnerability when vulnerability was punished throughout his childhood.
Later, while passing through the hall on my way to the library, I hear Lex's low voice speaking with Irina in the study. They don't know I'm there, their conversation carrying through the partially open door. I stay just out of sight, my heart racing.
“He won't let her go,” Irina's voice drifts out, soft but certain. “You know that.”
“Whether he should or not is another matter,” Lex replies, his accent thicker than usual. “She's changed him. Made him...” He pauses, searching for words. “Softer. More human. That could be dangerous in our world.”
“Or it could save him,” Irina counters. “Galina's way broke something in him. Maybe Naomi can fix what his mother destroyed.”
“And if she can't? If Viktor uses that softness against him?”
The silence lingers long enough that I wonder if they've moved away from the door. Then Irina's voice returns. “Then we protect them both and hope it's enough.”
Their words sink into me like stones dropped in still water, creating ripples that disturb everything I thought I understood about my situation. I am not just a fake wife, a guest, or even a prisoner in the traditional sense. I am a catalyst, a force that's reshaping the very foundation of Daniil's empire. The realization should terrify me, but instead it fills me with a spark that feels dangerously close to hope.
Because if I'm changing him, if my presence is softening his edges, then perhaps he's changing me too. Maybe the growing ache in my chest when he looks at me, and the way my pulse quickens when he enters a room, means something more than Stockholm syndrome or misplaced gratitude.
