Chapter 12 A Son’s Confession

Chapter 12 A Son’s Confession
~Nikolai~

"Oh, and Liora?” My voice drops lower, meant to cut deep. “The cameras were never off.”

I watch her eyes widen, a tiny flicker, gone as fast as it came. But I catch it. I always do. She tries to mask it, swallowing hard as if she can bury the panic rising in her throat. 

It fascinates me, the way she reacts to me. Like a moth realizing too late that the light it’s chasing burns. There’s something painfully pure about that kind of fear. It’s honest. People lie when they speak, when they smile, when they pretend to love. But fear? Fear never lies.

I turn before she can find her voice. Before she can try to reason, or plead, or deny what I’ve just said. I don’t want her words.

The latch clicks softly behind me. A small sound. But in her head, it’ll echo like thunder. I can almost picture her now, standing still, eyes darting around the room, wondering which corners hide my eyes. She’ll question everything. She’ll think twice before breathing, before moving, before taking her clothes off. She’ll imagine me watching her, even when I’m not. Especially when I’m not.

Good. That’s exactly what I want.

I don’t need chains to keep her here. I don’t need threats or guards. Control isn’t about touch, it’s about thought. Once I’m inside her mind, there’s nowhere she can run.

She’ll sit there with that fragile composure of hers, pretending not to care, pretending she’s strong. But every second will eat at her. She’ll hesitate before undressing, thinking maybe I’m watching. She’ll whisper to herself and then stop, remembering I might hear. She’ll move through her day carrying me in her head like a ghost she can’t shake off.

Even when I’m gone, I’ll still be there. In every breath she takes. 

As I walk down the hall, I can almost hear her heart pounding through the walls. I smile faintly. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine. Not her body, that’s too easy. It’s her thoughts I want. Her quiet moments. Her fear.
Because that’s where obsession lives and that’s where I plan to keep her.

I light a cigarette as I walk down the corridor, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The first drag burns the back of my throat. I let it sit on my tongue before exhaling slowly, watching the thin haze twist through the cold morning air.

Outside, the air bites. The fountain in front of the estate is still running, water glinting under the weak dawn light. My car waits beside it. Marcus stands at the door, posture stiff, eyes forward like the loyal soldier he is.

“Where to, sir?” he asks the moment he sees me.

I flick the ash away. 
“The facility,” I say, voice flat. “I want to see it for myself.”

He nods and opens the back door. The leather seats are cool when I slide in. As soon as the door shuts, the engine hums to life. Through the tinted glass, the world starts to blur, gray skies blending together.

It’s early. The kind of early where the city still feels half-asleep, unaware that monsters like me are already wide awake.

By the time we reach the site, the sun has barely risen, just enough light to make the place look alive. The construction zone stretches out like a wounded beast, all metal and dust and motion. Workers scatter like ants when the car stops.

On paper, it’s a hospital complex.
In reality, it’s something else entirely. A front for operations that can’t afford the luxury of daylight.
A sanctuary for secrets that should never see a file, or a name, or a grave.

The foreman spots me first. His helmet is slightly crooked, his eyes darting everywhere but mine.

“Mr. Volkov,” he stammers, wiping his palms on his vest, “we... we weren’t expecting you today.”

“You never do,” I reply, stepping out. “Show me the progress.”

We move through the half-built skeleton of concrete and steel. The air smells of dust and hot metal. Hammers echo in the distance. Men pause when I pass. Some nod stiffly, others turn away altogether. 

An engineer jogs up beside me, a clipboard clutched to his chest. “Sir, we’ve managed to reduce the delay by three days. The supply trucks arrived—”

“Save the numbers,” I cut in. “Show me what matters.”

He hesitates, then gestures toward the east wing, the one with the restricted access signs. A handful of men are unloading heavy crates from a truck with no labels or paperwork. Just metal cases humming with importance.

I stop walking.
“Open one,” I say.

The engineer freezes. “Sir, those are—”

I turn my head slightly, just enough for my gaze to find him. I don’t need to raise my voice. He shuts up immediately and signals to a worker. The man scrambles for a crowbar, pries the crate open, and steps back.

Inside, rows of metallic boxes gleam under the light. Labeled with medical codes. Perfectly innocent, if you don’t know what you’re looking at.
But I do.

Not equipment.
Not medicine.
Weapons. Compact and invisible to inspection.

Beautiful.

I take another drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl from the corner of my mouth as I study the contents.
“Good,” I murmur finally. “Continue.”

The foreman nods, relief washing over his face too soon.

I tilt my head, eyes still on the crate. “And make sure your men keep their mouths shut,” I add softly. “You know what happens otherwise.”

That drains the color from his face. He swallows hard and nods. “Y–yes, sir.”

I smile faintly and drop the cigarette, crushing it under my shoe.
I’m done here.

Now, to the main agenda of the day.
The cemetery.

I slip back into the car, dismissing Marcus with a flick of my hand. I prefer solitude when it comes to places that carry weight. Death doesn’t like company, and neither do I when I’m visiting it.

The road ahead is empty, stretched under a gray sky. I drive in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely near my lips. 

I’ve barely gone a few miles when my phone rings.
A single vibration against the console.

“Sir,” the voice on the other end starts hesitant, “the signal from her wristband just went dead.”

I ease my foot off the gas. The car slows and the hum deepens. For a long moment, I don’t say a word. Just listen to the faint static on the line.

Then I smile. A slow, crooked thing that never reaches my eyes.

“Did it?” I murmur.

“Yes, sir. It went off just a minute ago. Should we—”

“Leave it,” I cut in, my tone low but sharp enough to make him swallow his words.

I end the call and rest the phone beside me. My fingers tap once on the steering wheel.

Liora Reynolds.

The name alone drips with defiance. Every time I say it, even in my head, I can taste the fight in her.

She probably thinks she’s safe now. Maybe even proud of herself. Sitting there, planning, believing she’s found a sliver of freedom.
I almost laugh at the thought.

Freedom?

That girl doesn’t know what freedom is. She wouldn’t know what to do with it even if I handed it to her. Because she’s already tangled in something she can’t escape. Me.
Every act of defiance, every sharp word, every tear, it all ties her closer. She’s fighting me, yes, but she’s also thinking of me. Always. That’s the beauty of obsession. It blurs the line between love and hate until even you can’t tell which is which.

And I’ll make sure she never can.

The drive to the cemetery is short. I walk like a man who knows where his steps will fall and is unshakable in that knowledge, a bouquet of black roses in my hand.

The air here smells of rain and soil, heavy with the kind of silence that makes even ghosts listen.

There’s a plaque beneath one of the drooping willows.

ELENA VASILIEV — beloved mother.

The engraving is clean and precise. I made sure of it myself. I don’t tolerate imperfections, even on gravestones.

I kneel, brushing aside the twigs that have gathered around the marble, my fingers tracing the etched letters. They’re cold to the touch. Lifeless.

“Long time, no see,” I murmur. My lips curve faintly. “You’d be proud, wouldn’t you? Your son, a respectable businessman.” I laugh under my breath, the sound sharp. “A man people fear before they greet.”

The wind picks up, scattering a few petals. I stare at them, watching as they’re carried away.

Then, a faint smirk touches my lips. “And yet, despite all of that… I still find myself here. Talking to you. Like a fool.”

I straighten, sliding my hands into my pockets. My gaze drifts toward the distant city skyline.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” I murmur. “I’ve found someone new to keep me entertained.”

Her name forms in my mind like a forbidden prayer.

Liora.

Sweet, stubborn, trembling little Liora.
The girl who looks at me like I’m her damnation. Maybe I am.

“I think you’d like her,” I whisper darkly. “She makes me feel... alive. And isn’t that something?”

I look back at the grave, the faintest smirk curving my lips. 

“I’m married to her,” I say, almost like it’s a confession. “That’s what I came to share. Actually, I’ve been for a while... but only recently did I decide to claim her.”

A faint wind slips through the silence, carrying the faint scent of soil and decay. I let it wrap around me.

“Someone is scored on my heart, Mother,” I murmur, my voice soft, almost fond. “And I know you must be shocked. But yes, your son finally found someone.”

I crouch again, fingertips brushing over the engraved letters of her name

I pause, tilting my head as if listening to her ghost. “You used to say no woman could ever tame me. You were right. But this one… she doesn’t need to tame me. She just has to exist. And somehow, she makes the chaos quieter.”

My thumb traces a small crack along the edge of the stone. 

“You’d hate her,” I add under my breath, eyes glinting with amusement. “She’s everything you weren’t. Warm, defiant and soft. She talks back. She fights me.” A low laugh escapes me, rich and dangerous. “And every time she does, I want her more.”

I rise to my full height, adjusting my coat, brushing stray dirt from my hands. My gaze lingers on the grave one last time.

“You rest now,” I murmur. “I’ll handle the living.”

The wind scatters more of the petals and a wry smile curls the corner of my lips.
Because only I know.
There’s no one buried here.