Page 35 of Cruel Submission

Chapter Twelve

Mirabel

The thing about being trapped is that you don’t realize you’re trapped until you try to leave.

I spend the entire afternoon scrubbing the kitchen counters—the same counters I cleaned this morning—because the alternative is sitting still with my thoughts. The guard who shadowed me to the hospital yesterday lingers near the doorway, pretending to check his phone. But I see the way his attention never fully leaves me. I see how he tracks every movement, every reach for a cabinet, every shift of my weight.

The sponge tears under my grip. I toss it into the sink and turn to the guard.

“I need to go shopping.”

He doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “No.”

The refusal is so casual that it takes me a second to process. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not leaving the property.”

My fingers curl against the counter’s edge. “I need clothes. Personal items. Things I can’t order online.”

“Make a list. We’ll have everything delivered.”

Heat floods my face. “I’m not asking for permission. I’m telling you I’m going.”

Now he looks at me. His expression is blank, professional, completely unmoved. “Mr. Laurov’s orders are clear. You stay on the grounds.”

The kitchen walls press in, the air turning thick and suffocating. I’m not a prisoner. I can’t be a prisoner. This is just a job, just temporary, just—

You’re lying to yourself, Debra’s voice whispers. You’ve been lying for months.

I shove the thought away. “Fine. I’ll talk to Arkady myself.”

The walk to his office feels longer than usual. My footsteps echo too loudly in the empty corridor, and I’m acutely aware of the guard following three paces behind. When I reach Arkady’s door, it’s closed. Voices murmur inside—his and someone else’s. Terse. Clipped. The kind of conversation that means trouble.

I knock anyway.

The voices stop, then: “Come in.”

Arkady sits behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, eyes fixed on his laptop screen. He doesn’t look up when I enter. Just lifts one finger—wait—and continues his conversation in rapid Russian. The language flows harsh and guttural, laced with words I recognize only because I’ve heard them before. Blyad. Chert. Mudak.

He’s angry. Or stressed. Or both.

I don’t give a fuck. I’m angry too. And that single lifted finger just bought him some extra rage.

I stand there, arms crossed, waiting. The office smells like coffee and leather as it always does. The gun resting on his desk catches the afternoon light—casual, like it’s as mundane as a stapler.

Finally, he ends the call. Sets the phone down. Looks at me.

“What is it, Mirabel?”

His voice is flat. Exhausted. There are shadows under his eyes I didn’t notice before, and his jaw is tight with tension. Whatever is weighing on him, it’s getting worse.

But I’m tired too. Tired of being watched. Tired of being told no. Tired of wearing jeans that won’t button and bras that cut into my skin because I can’t even buy clothes that fit.

“You can’t do this to me,” I say.

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Do what?”

“The guard yesterday wouldn’t let me stop at the shops. Not even for twenty minutes. He said you only authorized the hospital visit and nothing else.”