Page 22 of Toxic Attraction
Watching.
Hunting.
Cataloging.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time stretches and compresses until I can't tell anymore.
Then his voice cuts through the silence, and it comes from directly behind me.
"You'll help with Mila's evening routine tonight."
I jump so hard I nearly drop the cloth.
When did he move? I didn't hear footsteps, didn't feel him approach, and now he's right there, close enough that I can feel his body heat against my back.
"I—yes. Of course."
"Eight o'clock. Elena will show you what needs to be done." He pauses, and I feel him lean closer. His breath ghosts across the back of my neck. "And if you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue."
Then he's gone.
Just like that. Footsteps receding down the corridor, and I'm left pressed against the bookshelf with my heart hammering so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
If you make her cry, I'll make you regret having a tongue.
The threat is clear. Explicit. And I believe every word.
Because this man doesn't make empty threats.
I slide down to the floor, legs giving out, and press my hands over my face.
Forty-eight hours to find something for Patrick.
And Lev Volkov watching my every move, threatening me if I upset his daughter.
I'm going to die here.
One way or another, I'm not surviving this.
Eight o'clock comes too fast.
I find Mila's room in the east wing—the same corridor where I almost died yesterday—and Elena is waiting outside. She's older, maybe sixties, with gray hair pulled back and eyes that have seen too much to be surprised by anything.
"Miss Novak." She looks me up and down, assessing. "Mr. Volkov says you'll be helping with evening routines starting tonight."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Mila has specific preferences. She doesn't like loud noises. She doesn't like to be touched without warning. She reads the same book every night—The Wild Swans—and she needs the nightlight on. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Elena studies me for a moment longer, and I see the warning in her eyes.Hurt this child and die.
"I'll be nearby. If you need anything, call."
She opens the door and steps aside, and I enter.
Mila's room is beautiful in a way that feels deliberate—soft colors, expensive furniture, toys arranged perfectly on shelves. But it also feels empty. Like a showcase room instead of a child's space. Like something designed to look perfect rather than be lived in.
