Chapter 2 The Price of Peace

I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth and the wrong kind of silence pressing down on me. Not the hush of luxury, not the lull of late-night wealth. This silence was carved. Cold. Measured.

The ceiling above me was arched and made of stone, old, cracked in places like time had pressed its weight into every joint. No chandelier, no soft lighting, just a slit of pale gray light slipping through a high, barred window like a reluctant ghost. The air was mountain-cold and tasted of dust and metal. I blinked, once, twice. My limbs responded slower than they should have.

The bed beneath me was firm, almost military. Starched white sheets clung to my skin. I sat up and immediately regretted it, my head throbbed like a bruise. Whatever they used to knock me out hadn't quite let go. The room was spare. Stark. No paintings. No curtains. Just a mirror above a locked armoire and a red light blinking in the corner like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.

Camera. Watching.

I dragged the sheet with me as I stood, wrapping it like armor, as if bare skin made me more vulnerable than the stone walls already had. I scanned the room, no vents, no cracks, no weakness in the seams. Just one door. Solid. Iron-ringed. And open.

The hallway beyond was colder. Oil lamps burned in brass cages, flickering light across the walls. The floors were smooth, worn. Not new construction. This place had history, and not the kind that made it into brochures.

I stepped forward, the stone biting at my feet.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

Measured. Heavy. Deliberate.

I turned my head, and the world stopped.

He came around the corner with the presence of a blade being drawn from its sheath, tall, dressed in black, all motion with no wasted movement. His eyes were silver. Not metaphorically. Not romantically. Silver, like glass that had forgotten how to reflect.

Damien Volkov.

I froze.

He didn't.

He stopped two feet from me, the air between us suddenly colder.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Moretti," he said.

His voice was winter. Not the storm, but the moment before it, when the wind drops, and you know something is coming that you can't outrun.

My instinct was to slap him. Or scream. Or run. But the look in his eyes wasn't one you met with weakness. It wasn't even one you met with rage.

So I gave him silence instead.

He watched me like I was already in pieces. Not to be broken, just studied. His stare stripped away pretense, beauty, dignity, everything. I was bones, breath, blood. And he hadn't decided what I was worth yet.

"You have questions," he said, voice flat.

"I want answers," I snapped.

He didn't blink. "Ask."

I swallowed. "Where am I?"

"My estate. Carpathians."

"Eastern Europe?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Twelve hours."

"You drugged me."

"I collected you," he corrected, with a voice that left no room for discussion. "As agreed."

My stomach dropped. "Agreed?"

He stepped closer. I didn't flinch, but the instinct pulled tight through my spine. I could smell him now, like cold leather and salt air. His heat never touched his expression.

"Your father made a deal," he said. "He broke a blood pact. Instead of war, I took payment."

"You think I'm a debt?"

He tilted his head, studying me.

"No," he said. "You're not a hostage, Valeria. You're an inheritance."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't think. My skin burned, my lungs stilled, and everything inside me went silent.

Then he smiled. It was slow. Intentional. Not seductive, dangerous.

"I suggest you start acting like one."

He turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.

And just like that, I was alone.

I stood in the corridor a moment longer, every nerve alight, every inch of me vibrating with confusion, fury, and something else I didn't want to name.

I turned back into the room, slamming the door behind me, not because I thought it would do anything, but because I needed the sound of something breaking.

The door didn't lock. Of course it didn't.

I wasn't imprisoned.

I was caged in consent.

The tray of food sat untouched on the desk. Silver cutlery. Steam long gone. Next to it, a single orchid, white and perfect, blooming in a glass vase like an insult.

I walked over and slapped the tray off the desk.

Porcelain shattered. Food splattered against the wall.

I stood in the wreckage, breathing hard.

I was an inheritance.

A token. A symbol of surrender. And the worst part was, I had no idea what I was supposed to be worth.

I paced the room, searching again. For a phone. A keypad. Anything that would connect me to the world I'd been ripped from. Nothing. Not even static.

Then I saw it.

On the pillow.

A note. Inked by hand.

"Tomorrow, you'll learn what betrayal really looks like."

I tore it in half.

It wasn't fear clawing at my throat, it was fury. The slow kind. The kind that doesn't scream but waits. Learns. Bides.

The mirror above the armoire caught my reflection.

I didn't look like a daughter or an heir or a bride. I looked like something raw. Something that hadn't found its shape yet. And in the upper corner, above my shoulder,

The camera blinked.

I turned to it.

Let him watch.

Let him see every ounce of defiance still crawling beneath my skin.

I walked to the mirror, placed my fingertips against the glass, and held them there.

"You don't know me yet," I whispered.

But as I turned, I saw it.

The red light blinked once more.

And I swear, he was watching.

And he was smiling.