(Flashback – Six months before the kidnapping. Darya is 16 and a half. Mikhail is 18 and a half.)
BLACKWELL MANSION – WINTER, 14 YEARS AGO (FROM THE PRESENT)
Winter in New York is cruel to anyone with hot blood. The cold seeps through the bulletproof windows, but it's not the wind that makes me tremble. It's the phone in my hand, the screen lighting up my face in the darkness of my room.
Message from Mikhail, sent 47 minutes ago:
"I'm at my girlfriend's house. Don't wait up."
I reread the sentence so many times the words lose meaning. Girlfriend. The word cuts like a rusted blade. He never used that word with me. Never said "my girl," "my girlfriend," "mine." Only "solnishko." Only "you're mine" whispered in the dark, when no one else could hear. And now he has a real girlfriend. Someone he introduces, someone he kisses in public, someone whose touch doesn't have to be hidden.
I throw the phone onto the bed like it burns. I stand. Pace the room. Stop in front of the mirror.
Sixteen and a half. Hair too long, eyes my mother says are "too dangerous for a girl my age," a body that hasn't finished forming but already knows what it wants. And he chose someone else.
I hate this. I hate the knot in my throat, the tightness in my chest, the bitter taste that rises when I imagine him touching another girl the way he touches me during training—slow, deliberate, like every movement is a promise he never keeps.
My brothers warned me from day one. Yakov: "He's trouble, Darya. Stay away." Vasily: "If he hurts you, I'll kill him slowly." Aleksei: "You're too young for this kind of game." Even Nikolai, who almost never speaks, muttered once: "He has secrets you don't want to know."
But I didn't listen. Because Mikhail isn't just any boy. He's the only one who looks at me like I'm an adult. The only one who doesn't treat me like the baby, the princess, the only girl among seven brothers. He treats me like an equal. Like a threat. Like desire.
And I like it. I like it too much.
The next morning, the training basement is freezing. The air smells of old sweat, leather, and metal. Yakov and Vasily are already there, pounding heavy bags like they want to kill someone. I walk in wearing shorts and a crop top, hair tied high, boxing gloves slung over my shoulder.
Mikhail arrives late. Black t-shirt clinging to his body, gray sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower. He smells like men's soap and something sweet—women's perfume? My stomach twists.
He sees me and smiles. That crooked smile that makes my blood boil.
— Good morning, solnishko.
I don't answer. I just pull on the gloves and head straight for the mat.
— Grappling today. You against me.
Yakov stops punching the bag.
— Again? He already got his ass kicked yesterday.
— He needs to learn not to hesitate — I reply, voice firm.
Mikhail raises an eyebrow but doesn't argue. He pulls off his shirt. His body is marked: old scars across his abdomen, a fresh bruise on his left shoulder—probably from some fight he didn't tell anyone about. He positions himself in the center of the mat, arms open.
— Come on.
I charge.
First move: I grab his waist, try to take him down. He blocks, spins, pins me against his chest. Our bodies collide. Heat against heat. Heavy breaths mingling.
— You're angry today — he murmurs in my ear, low enough for only me to hear.
— Shut up and fight.
I twist, use my hip to try to throw him to the ground. He lets me—or pretends to. We fall together. Him on top. His weight pinning me to the mat. His hands on my wrists, holding them above my head.
Our faces inches apart. Amber eyes locked on mine.
— If I were your enemy… — I start.
— You'd already be dead — he finishes, voice hoarse. But he doesn't let go. Instead, he presses harder. — But I'm not your enemy, Darya.
— No? — My voice comes out lower than I want. — Then why do you disappear for days with someone else?
His eyes darken. For a second, I see something raw there. Guilt? Anger? Desire?
— Because you're too young — he answers, and it almost hurts him to say it. — Because if I touch you the way I want, your five fathers will kill me. Your seven brothers will kill me. And I don't want to die before I have you for real.
My heart stops.
He leans closer. Nose brushing mine. Lips a whisper away.
— One day you'll be mine. For real. No hiding. No others. Just you and me.
I close my eyes. I want to believe it. I want it so much it hurts.
But then I hear Yakov cough loudly from the other side of the basement.
— Hey, lovebirds. Training or making out?
Mikhail slowly releases my wrists. Stands. Pulls me up with him.
— Tomorrow again? — he asks, voice normal once more, like nothing happened.
I adjust my stance, wipe the sweat from my forehead.
— Tomorrow.
He smiles. That smile that promises everything and delivers nothing.
And as he walks away, I stand there staring at his back, feeling my body still hot where he touched me.
I hate him. I hate that he has someone else. I hate that he makes me wait.
But above all… I hate that, even knowing all of this, I still want to be his.