Chapter 3 THE BREAKING POINT

THE BREAKING POINT

The first morning I refused breakfast, Viktor didn't even blink.

I sat rigid at the absurdly long dining table, my fingers curled into fists on my lap, staring at the plate of blini and caviar like it was laced with arsenic. The golden pancakes steamed gently, their edges crisp where they'd been fried in butter. A dollop of sour cream melted slowly beside a spoonful of glistening black caviar. The scent of lemon and dill made my empty stomach clench painfully.

Across from me, Viktor turned a page of his newspaper with deliberate precision, the crisp sound cutting through the heavy silence. He sipped his black coffee-no sugar, no cream-the steam curling around his sharp features. The morning light through the draped windows caught the silver streaks at his temples, making him look like some fallen angel holding court in hell.

"Not hungry?" he asked without looking up.

I shoved the plate away with enough force that it skidded across the polished mahogany, sending the sour cream sliding over the edge to splatter on the tablecloth. "Go to hell."

A muscle twitched along his jaw. Then he folded the newspaper with that same terrifying precision and set it aside. The sound of the linen napkin being placed next to his untouched plate was somehow more ominous than a gun cocking.

"Very well," he said, rising smoothly from his chair. He adjusted his cufflinks-platinum, engraved with what looked like Cyrillic initials-and left without another word.

I thought I'd won.

I was so fucking wrong.

---

By the second day, my hands shook too badly to hold a book steady.

I'd expected rage. Physical force. Maybe even that cold, clinical violence I'd seen flashes of when he'd dragged me from the plane. But Viktor's brand of cruelty was far more insidious.

He let me starve.

And he watched.

Every meal, he sat across from me, cutting into his steak with surgical precision, chewing slowly as I tried not to stare at the way his jaw moved. He'd make polite conversation-"The chef prepared pheasant today. A local specialty." "The library has been restocked, if you're bored."-as if we were at some twisted dinner party rather than a hostage situation.

On the third afternoon, I caught my reflection in one of the gilded hallway mirrors and barely recognized the hollow-eyed ghost staring back. My collarbones jutted sharply above the neckline of the silk blouse someone had laid out for me. The dark circles under my eyes looked like bruises.

Still, I held out.

Until the fourth morning.

---

I stood too fast when Viktor entered the dining room, the sudden movement sending black spots dancing across my vision. The room tilted violently, the crystal chandelier blurring into streaks of light. I barely registered the floor rushing up to meet me before strong arms caught me around the waist.

Viktor's scent enveloped me-leather and something darker, like gunpowder and winter air. His breath was warm against my temple as he hauled me upright, one broad hand splayed across my ribcage. I could feel each individual finger through the thin fabric of my dress.

"Enough of this," he murmured, his voice vibrating through my back where I was pressed against his chest.

I tried to shove him away, but my arms felt like wet noodles. "I'd rather die than eat your food," I slurred, the words thick in my dry mouth.

His grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the space between my ribs hard enough to make me gasp. "No, you wouldn't."

Then he was dragging me through the house, my bare feet stumbling over the plush carpets.

---

The kitchen was all stainless steel and harsh fluorescent lighting, a stark contrast to the opulent gloom of the rest of the house. A terrified-looking chef in a white coat scurried out when Viktor entered, bowing his head as he passed.

Viktor deposited me onto a marble countertop, my legs dangling over the edge like a child's. The cold stone seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, making me shiver. Before I could protest, he was rummaging through the industrial fridge, emerging with eggs, butter, a hunk of crusty bread.

I watched, dizzy with hunger, as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. The sizzle of butter in the pan. The sharp crack of eggs against ceramic. The way his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the thick veins in his forearms as he whisked. There was something disturbingly intimate about watching this violent man cook.

Ten minutes later, he shoved a plate at me. Scrambled eggs flecked with herbs. Toast golden with butter. Simple. Humane.

I turned my head away, my stomach growling traitorously.

Viktor sighed. Then he gripped my chin, forcing me to look at him. His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, rough with calluses. "You have two choices, kotik." His voice was dangerously soft. "Eat it yourself, or I'll feed you like the child you're behaving as."

I spat in his face.

The glob of saliva hit his sharp cheekbone and slid slowly toward his perfectly trimmed beard. For a heartbeat, we both froze. Then, with deliberate slowness, Viktor wiped it away with his thumb. His eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds.

"Choice two it is."

He scooped up a forkful of eggs and pressed it to my lips. When I clenched my teeth, his free hand slid to my throat, his thumb pressing against my windpipe just hard enough to make me gasp.

The eggs slid into my mouth.

I wanted to hate them. But they were perfect-fluffy, buttery, with a hint of pepper and something herbal. My traitorous stomach growled loudly.

Viktor smirked. "Again."

---

I don't know when I started crying.

Maybe when the fifth bite went down without protest. Maybe when Viktor murmured "good girl" against my hair as I finally took the fork from him. Maybe when I realized I was leaning into his touch like some starved animal desperate for affection.

By the time the plate was clean, my cheeks were wet, my body trembling with equal parts shame and relief.

Viktor studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he did something worse than hit me.

He brushed a tear away with his thumb, his touch almost gentle. "Better?"

I hated the way my traitorous body nodded.

----

After that, something shifted.

I ate-reluctantly, but without outright rebellion. Viktor stopped watching me like a hawk, though I knew the cameras still did. The chef began leaving trays outside my door when I skipped meals.

It was during one of these unsupervised moments that I found the door.

Not the main one-that was always guarded by stone-faced men with bulges under their jackets. But a small service entrance off the kitchen, partially hidden by a rolling cart of cleaning supplies.

My pulse roared in my ears as I tested the handle.

Unlocked.

I didn't stop to think. Didn't pack. Just ran.

---

The winter air hit me like a physical blow.

I'd forgotten how brutal Russian winters could be. Within minutes, my bare feet were numb against the snow, my thin sweater offering no protection against the wind that cut through the fabric like knives. The forest surrounding the estate was dense, the trees looming like silent judges as I stumbled through the underbrush.

I didn't have a plan beyond run. Get to the road. Find help.

Then I heard the dogs.

Not the frantic barking of bloodhounds, but the steady, rhythmic panting of trained predators. The kind that didn't need to chase because they knew they'd catch you.

I ran faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps that burned my lungs. The tree branches whipped at my arms, leaving thin red lines in their wake. Somewhere behind me, a twig snapped.

A root caught my foot, sending me sprawling face-first into the snow. I barely had time to roll over before the first dog was on me-a massive black beast with eyes like Viktor's. It didn't bite. Just pinned me with its weight, its hot breath fogging in the air between us.

Boots crunched in the snow.

I didn't need to look up to know who it was.

Viktor crouched beside me, his gloved hand tilting my chin up. Snowflakes clung to his dark lashes, his breath coming in even puffs despite the chase. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. "I had to try."

Something flickered in his eyes-respect? Amusement? Then he stood, brushing snow from his coat with that same infuriating calm. "Get up."

When I didn't move, he sighed and scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing.

I expected violence. Punishment.

Instead, Viktor carried me back to the house, his body warm against mine, his heartbeat steady under my ear.

And that-the unexpected gentleness-was what finally broke me.