"You're absolutely adorable, you know that?" Ivan finally said, his laughter tapering into a sly, lingering smile.
The way he looked at her now—it wasn't fondness. It was indulgence. The way a predator might admire a struggling animal before deciding whether or not to devour it.
He reached out again, his touch unexpectedly soft as he wiped away the tears she couldn't hold back. It felt almost tender… almost. But it was the kind of tenderness that made her feel like she was being handled, not comforted. Like a doll he didn't want to break—yet.
Then his tone changed. It dropped, low and almost sweet—like poisoned honey. "Still," he whispered, brushing the last tear from her cheek with his thumb, "I don't find lying particularly funny."
His smile remained, but it had twisted. The warmth was gone, replaced by something sinister hiding just behind his charming facade.
Hannah's breath hitched. Her stomach twisted. There was something cold behind his eyes now, something ancient and cruel. The hairs on her neck stood up as he continued.
"I value honesty, my dear. Deeply. I hope… no—I expect that this little bond we're building won't be stained by deception." His voice softened, almost cooing, but beneath that softness was a sharpness that made her skin crawl.
"Can you do that for me, hmm? Can you be truthful with me from now on?" he said. Every word he uttered carried a warning, and Hannah heard it loud and clear. Lie again, and there will be consequences.
Her instincts screamed to retreat, to run, but there was nowhere to go. She had no choice but to play along.
Hands shaking, she reached for his, desperate to defuse the tension she'd ignited. She grasped his fingers gently, her own cold and damp from fear, unsure if she should continue.
"I won't lie again," she whispered urgently. "It was just a mistake. I didn't mean to—I'm not a liar. I promise," she swore, shaking her head as she spoke.
For a brief moment, the tension broke, just slightly.
Ivan tilted his head, his smirk softening into something amused, his eyes drifting to her lips as if she'd just whispered a secret meant only for him. "Aww," he said mockingly, "look at you… trying to charm your way out of trouble. How sweet."
He clicked his tongue playfully, as if the whole scene were some performance for his entertainment.
"Well," he drawled, slowly, savoring the moment, "I suppose I can forgive you—this time."
Relief surged through Hannah like a wave, lightening the unbearable weight in her chest. Her grip on his hand loosened as she prepared to thank him—maybe even try to smile.
But he wasn't done.
"Just remember," he added, the air around him shifting once again, darkening. His voice remained gentle, but it was the kind of gentleness that sent a chill down her spine. "I don't appreciate being pushed away. If it happens again…"
He paused deliberately. His smirk sharpened.
"Well, let's just say you won't like what comes next." The warning in his voice was unmistakable. Polished. Calm. Deadly.
And then, just like that, he withdrew his hand from hers, watching her for a moment longer, watching how the fear curled itself into her posture, her breathing, her trembling hands.
With that same eerie calmness, he stepped forward and gripped her arms—not harshly, but firmly enough to remind her who was in control.
He pulled her to her feet, lifting her effortlessly from where she'd been crouched on the floor.
"Now, let's get you all tidied up before I bring you home, okay?"
"Now…" Ivan said, his voice a low murmur, almost coaxing as he stepped closer, his presence once again consuming the space between them. "Let's get you cleaned up, sweetheart. We can't have you looking like a shattered porcelain doll when I take you home, can we?"
From the drawer nearby, he pulled out a worn leather. It was the kind of kit you'd expect from someone who was used to dealing with injuries… frequently.
With practiced calmness, Ivan began taking items from the kit: antiseptic, gauze, cotton pads, and medical tape. His hands, the same ones that had pinned her down during their struggle just moments before, now moved with eerie precision and care.
Hannah, on the other hand, remained frozen, blood trickling slowly from the cut on her forehead, her hands wrapped around her stomach as if to comfort herself.
The adrenaline of their fight still pulsed faintly in her limbs, but now that it was slowly disappearing, Hannah started to feel all the pain and exhaustion in her body.
"I don't think you were stupid enough to fight me, and yet… here we are," Ivan said while looking at the wound on her forehead.
"This will sting," he warned softly, not out of concern, but as a promise.
He dipped a pad into the antiseptic and reached for her face. Hannah flinched instinctively, but he caught her chin in one hand, firm and unyielding, tilting her head to expose the gash just above her brow.
"Hold still," he said quietly, the gentleness of his voice a contradiction to the iron in his grip.
"You got this when you tried to fight me, remember? You hit the edge of the table. Tsk… such a stubborn little thing. Don't do it again next time, okay?" he said, almost as if he were talking to a child.
The cotton pressed against her skin, cold and biting. The sting of the antiseptic sent a sharp jolt through her, and she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out. Though humiliated, she still has pride engraved deep in herself.
Her eyes burned—not just from the pain, but from the humiliation of needing help from the very man who had hurt her.
Ivan, of course, noticed.
"Still trying not to cry?" he murmured with a dark chuckle. "You're very prideful, but that's okay. It adds more fun to the challenge, doesn't it?" He grinned as he dabbed the wound clean, blood staining the gauze a pale crimson.
Then came the bandage. With surprising delicacy, he pressed it over the wound, smoothing the tape into place.
"There," he said after a moment, standing up and wiping his hands. He stepped back slightly to admire his work—not like a man caring for a wounded lover, but like an artist finishing a signature on a painting.
"All better. You look presentable enough now," he added, voice almost fond as he brushed Hannah's hair, her bangs hiding the bandage on her face.
"Now," Ivan murmured, his voice low and laced with finality, "it's time I take you home."
He extended his hand slowly, deliberately—palm open, fingers slightly curled—an invitation cloaked in authority. There was no urgency in his gesture, only certainty, like he already knew she would take it… as if refusing him wasn't even a real option.
His eyes didn't waver from hers—dark, unreadable, and full of something dangerous. Not warmth nor comfort for the beaten maiden.
Though every instinct in her screamed to not do it, Hannah found her hand slowly rising, trembling in reluctance, as if moved by something outside of her control.
Her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding like a war drum inside her chest. Fear wrapped itself around her spine, paralyzing and cold, yet heavier still was the knowledge that she had no choice.
So, with the weight of dread anchoring her, she placed her hand in his.
Her fingers brushed his palm—warm, firm, unyielding—and it felt less like an act of trust and more like surrender. Like the sealing of a pact she never agreed to sign.
In that moment, Hannah didn't choose him.
She chose survival.