Page 56 of Gilded Shackles
Without limits.
Once I decide someone's mine, I don't give them up. Not even when I should.
As I pull back onto the road, heading home, heading toward Elle, I realize it's not even a choice anymore. It's just the only path forward that doesn't end with me burning the world to ashes to keep her safe.
15
ELLE
Time flies, they say, when you're having fun. Back when I lived in that tower of mine, a month seemed like a year and a year like a lifetime.
Wish Mother could see me now. She made it her mission to destroy any bit of freedom or happiness I might have.
She failed.
It's been four weeks since I crashed into Nikolai's world, and life's looking up. We've found our rhythm. Every day, he comes home from some mysterious meeting or another, looking like he's committed treason for fun. I don't ask much, he doesn't say much. But he kisses me on the forehead, shares a cup of coffee, and tells me there's nothing I need to worry about.
Whatever that means in mafia-speak, I don't push.
Though lately, something's shifted. More guards on the perimeter. Pavel checking the gate cameras twice instead of once. I caught the name Egor Barinov in a conversation thatwent dead silent the second I walked in. The name alone made the staff go still, like animals hearing a branch snap in the dark.
Nobody tells me details. I file the unease away and focus on the good stuff.
And the best part of my day? Pasha. Hands down. That kid has me wrapped around his little finger.
We've been spending our afternoons turning the backyard into a borderline illegal STEM lab. Today we're launching the mini rocket we built. Nothing explosive. Just a soda bottle, a pump, and enough duct tape to make the cops nervous.
Pasha's practically vibrating with excitement, goggles pushed up on his forehead, yelling a countdown like we're about to breach the atmosphere.
"Three! Two! One!"
WHOOSH. The rocket shoots up, sputters, and flops sideways like it's drunk.
We both double over laughing. Sir Isaac trots off in the opposite direction like he wants no part of whatever criminal science is happening here.
"Again!" Pasha yells, already sprinting to reset.
"Give it two minutes! Let the pressure build!"
This is what normal feels like. This is what I've been missing my whole life.
I'm chasing after him, hair whipping loose from its ponytail, feeling lighter than I have in years, when I see the securitydetail coming toward us. Two of them, fast-walking, earpieces in, hands near their weapons. That particular kind of calm you learn to distrust real fast.
My stomach drops.
"What's going on?" I ask, standing straighter, stepping between them and Pasha without thinking.
"We need to get you both inside. Now."
"Is something wrong?"
"There's a situation at the gate."
"What kind of situation?"
They exchange a look. The one that says she's too delicate for the truth.
I hate that look. It reminds me of every time my mother stripped me away from information to keep me obedient.
