2. Gilded Cage

Aira woke to the scent of leather and bergamot.

Her eyelids fluttered open, the world swimming into focus—high ceilings, muted gold wallpaper, a chandelier dripping crystal like frozen tears. *Not my apartment.*

She bolted upright. Pain lanced through her skull.

“Easy.”

A voice. Low. Commanding.

She turned her head too fast, vision spotting.

*Him.*

The man from the alley sat in an armchair by the bed, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The dim light carved shadows under his cheekbones, turned his eyes to polished onyx. He hadn’t changed—still in that black suit, the top button undone, a sliver of skin peeking through.

Aira’s fingers twisted in the sheets. Silk. *His sheets?*

“Where am I?” Her voice came out cracked, like dry earth.

“Safe.” He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim. “For now.”

She swallowed. The room was massive—all dark wood and cold elegance. A fireplace crackled somewhere to her left. No windows.

*Trapped.*

Her breath hitched. “I need to go home.”

“No.”

That single word, a guillotine drop.

Aira’s nails bit into her palms. “You can’t keep me here.”

A slow smirk. “Can’t I?”

He set the glass down and stood. Every movement was controlled, predatory. She stiffened as he approached, but he merely picked up a tray from the nightstand—water, pills, a bowl of sliced fruit.

“Eat.” He held it out. “You’ve been unconscious for twelve hours.”

*Twelve—?*

Her stomach lurched. She shoved the tray away. “I don’t want anything from you.”

The bowl clattered to the floor. Grapes rolled across hardwood.

Silence.

Then—

Ruhan’s hand snapped out, gripping her chin. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough that she couldn’t look away. His thumb brushed the cut on her cheekbone, a mockery of tenderness.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” he murmured. “You’re alive because I allow it. You’ll eat because I command it. And you’ll *thank me* before this is over.”

Her pulse thundered in her throat.

He released her and straightened. “The bathroom’s through that door. There are clothes. Be ready in twenty minutes.”

“For what?”

A cold smile. “To prove you’re worth the trouble.”

The clothes were *hers*.

Aira stared at the dress laid out on the bathroom counter—soft pink cotton, the hem slightly frayed. *Her favorite.* The one she’d worn last week to the bookstore.

*How?*

Her hands shook as she peeled off the oversized shirt someone had dressed her in (*Him? No. Please, no—*), stepping under the scalding shower spray until her skin turned red.

The mirror was fogged when she got out. She wiped it clean, staring at her reflection—dark circles under her eyes, the bruise on her collarbone in the shape of fingers.

*Run.*

But where? The door was unlocked, but she’d seen the men outside—hulking figures in black, earpieces coiled like snakes.

She slipped into the dress. It still smelled like her lavender detergent.

A knock.

“Time’s up.”

She opened the door.

Ruhan leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His gaze dragged down her body, lingering on the bruise. Something flickered in his eyes—dark, unreadable.

“Better,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “Why am I here?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember you killing three men.”

A smirk. “Then you remember enough.”

He turned, expecting her to follow.

She didn’t.

Ruhan glanced over his shoulder, one brow arched. “Do you need incentive?”

Aira’s fists clenched. “You could just *tell me* what you want.”

“I want you to walk out that door,” he said softly, “before I carry you.”

He led her to a study. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a mahogany desk, a single chair placed in the center like an offering.

*Or an interrogation.*

Aira sat, back rigid.

Ruhan prowled to the desk, pulling out a file. He tossed it in front of her.

“Open it.”

She did.

And froze.

Photos. Of her. Walking to class. Working at the bookstore. Sleeping on her apartment’s fire escape, face tilted toward the sun.

The last one made her blood ice over—a man in a black hoodie, watching her from a parked car. The same man from the alley.

“They’ve been tracking you for weeks,” Ruhan said.

Her throat closed. “Who?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He braced his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. “Who would want to hurt a little sparrow like you?”

She recoiled. “I don’t know!”

“Liar.” His breath warmed her lips. “Think harder.”

Aira’s mind raced. Her father’s debts? Her stepmother’s venom? That night last year she’d rather forget—

Ruhan’s finger tapped the photo of the hooded man. “He works for Viktor Dravin.”

The name meant nothing to her.

But Ruhan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And Viktor works for *me*.”

Her heart stopped.

*Oh god.*

“You—” She shoved against his chest. “You *sent* them after me?”

He didn’t budge. “I sent them to watch you. They got… overzealous.”

She slapped him.

The crack echoed. His head barely turned, just a slow tilt, like a wolf considering its prey.

Then—

He laughed.

A dark, velvet sound that skittered down her spine.

“Good,” he purred. “I was hoping you’d fight.”

Before she could react, he hauled her up, pressing her against the bookshelf. Leather-bound volumes dug into her back.

“Here’s the truth,” he growled. “Someone paid Viktor to kidnap you. I intercepted. Now, you’re mine.”

*Mine.* The word vibrated between them.

Aira’s lips parted. “Why?”

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“*Because,” he said simply, “I don’t like losing what’s *mine**.”

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