Resonance

Three days passed in the glass fortress.

Ava wasn't mistreated. She was fed gourmet meals. She was given the master bedroom, which had a view of the city that made her dizzy. But she was a prisoner. The elevator was coded. The doors were reinforced.

And Nikolai was always watching.

He sat in the armchair in the corner of the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching her with the intensity of a wolf watching a deer.

The silence between them was absolute, but it wasn't empty. It was charged with a strange, static electricity.

To keep herself sane, Ava played.

She sat in the center of the living room, barefoot on the hardwood. She closed her eyes and pulled the bow across the strings.

She played Bach. She played Shostakovich. She played the angry, dissonant pieces that reflected the cage she was in.

She couldn't hear the notes, but she felt them. The C-string growled in her chest. The A-string sang in her fingertips. She leaned into the instrument, her body swaying, becoming one with the wood and the wire.

She didn't know that Nikolai was mesmerized.

To Nikolai Volkov, the world was noise. Screaming enemies, sirens, the chatter of his lieutenants, the roar of the city. Ava was the first quiet thing he had ever known.

He watched the way her toes curled against the wood floor when she hit a difficult passage. He watched the sweat bead on her neck. He watched the way her face transformed from guarded stoicism to raw, unguarded emotion when she played.

He wanted to break her, and he wanted to worship her. The conflict was tearing him apart.

On the fourth day, Ava came out of her room to find a book on the coffee table.

* American Sign Language for Beginners.*

Nikolai was in the kitchen, making espresso. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms covered in tattoos—thieves' stars, Cyrillic script, a wolf biting a dagger.

He saw her looking at the book.

He turned to her. He raised his hand. His movement was stiff, unpracticed.

He signed: *H-U-N-G-R-Y?*

Ava stared at him. The feared Pakhan of Chicago, a man who murdered people in alleyways, was learning to sign for her.

She walked over to him. She raised her hands.

* Yes,* she signed. Then, slowly: *Thank you.*

Nikolai nodded. He handed her a cup of coffee. His fingers brushed hers. The contact sent a jolt through Ava that had nothing to do with vibration. It was heat. Pure, terrifying heat.

He signed one more word, clumsy but clear. *Mine.*

Ava stiffened. She stepped back. *I belong to no one,* she signed back, fierce and sharp.

Nikolai didn't get angry. He stepped closer, crowding her against the counter. He leaned down, his grey eyes searching hers. He didn't sign. He just looked at her with that terrifying, possessive hunger.

He reached out and tapped the spot over her heart.

* Yet,* his eyes seemed to say.