Not like a man assessing an asset.
But like a predator who has finally closed the distance.
And the worst part?
The hunger in his eyes isn’t just strategic. It’s personal.
Something inside me snaps.
I turn and run.
I reach the door and wrench at the handle. Locked. I slam my palm against it, once, twice, again. “Open it!” I scream, pounding harder. “Let me out!”
My voice cracks, desperation clawing its way out of my chest. I beat against the door, scream until my throat burns.
Nothing.
I spin around, and he snaps his fingers.
That’s all it takes.
Hands grab me from behind. Strong. Unyielding. I thrash, kicking, swinging wildly. I land a punch against someone’s chest. A slap connects with a face. I fight like an animal cornered.
They don’t fight back.
That’s what makes it worse.
They restrain me with clinical precision, arms locking mine, bodies bracing my weight. I scream. I curse. I struggle until my muscles shake and my breath comes in jagged sobs.
Konstantin doesn’t move.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step in. Doesn’t stop them.
He just watches.
Minutes stretch into something shapeless. I don’t know how long I keep fighting. My arms burn. My legs give out. My head spins.
Eventually, my body betrays me.
My strength drains away until I’m sagging in their grip, chest heaving, tears streaking hot down my face.
Only then does he speak.
“Enough,” he says quietly.
The men release me immediately.
I drop to my knees on the cold floor, shaking, humiliated, exhausted. I hate that I’m crying. I hate that he’s seeing it.
His voice cuts through me again. “Your tears do nothing for me,” he says. “You’ll only hurt yourself. Give yourself a headache.”
Rage flares through the wreckage of fear.
“Go to hell,” I spit, literally and figuratively, the saliva landing somewhere near his shoes.
For the first time, a small smile touches his face.
It’s not amused. It’s approving.