Black Ice Academy

Chapter 3

Chapter three

The cuffs bite cold against my wrists, glowing faintly where Viktor locked them in place. I yank hard, metal rattling, but every surge I try to throw fizzles before it sparks. The runes swallow my power like it never existed.

Viktor stands just out of reach, calm as stone. It infuriates me more than if he shouted.

“Containment isn’t a threat, Nova,” he says. “It’s a safety measure. For you. For everyone else.”

I glare, lips sealed.

He exhales, almost like he’s bored. “You need to understand the rules. One: you don’t unleash your power without control. Two: if you can’t stop yourself, I will stop you. That’s the program.”

I grind my teeth, every nerve demanding I spit something back. But silence hurts him more. So silence it is.

“Say you understand.”

I say nothing.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t raise his voice. He simply twists a dial on the cuffs.

A sharp pulse slams through me, ripping through bone and muscle like fire in reverse. My knees nearly buckle.

“That’s feedback,” he says, maddeningly calm. “When you spike, the cuffs return it. Not enough to kill you. Enough to remind you that control has a price.”

Another pulse rips through me. I hiss through clenched teeth but don’t give him the sound he wants.

“Stubborn,” he mutters. Another dial twist.

The third shock sends me sprawling to my knees, breath tearing out of me. Sweat beads at my temple.

Finally, the glow fades. The cuffs click loose. My arms fall forward, skin throbbing where the restraints dug in.

“Enough for today.” His voice is quiet. Controlled.

I push myself up, shaky but refusing to collapse in front of him.

He steps forward, instinctively reaching.

“Don’t,” I snap, hand up.

“You can barely stand.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Something flickers across his storm-grey eyes. His hands still. His jaw tightens.

“Aftercare matters,” he says, almost too soft. “Not just restraint. You should be looked after when it’s done.”

A bitter laugh rasps from my throat. “This isn’t aftercare. This is containment. Don’t confuse the two.”

I shove past him, legs trembling but steady enough to storm upstairs.

In the bathroom, I change into pajamas, ignoring the sting where the cuffs left faint red bands around my wrists. My reflection in the mirror sneers back at me: pale face, damp hair sticking to my cheek, eyes too bright with anger.

Breathe. Switch off. Control.

I flip the light switch in my head, shoving the fury into a box. The box rattles. The lock barely holds.

Hunger gnaws through me next. That’s easier to answer.

I pad barefoot to the kitchen, ignoring Viktor’s heavy footsteps trailing behind. Always behind. Watching.

I rip open the fridge and start pulling things out: cheese, sauce, noodles, vegetables. If I’m stuck here, I might as well eat like a queen.

“You don’t have to cook,” Viktor says eventually, his voice quiet. “We have staff.”

I ignore him, slamming a pan onto the counter.

Layer after layer—sauce, noodles, cheese. Chop tomatoes, toss them into a bowl with oil and vinegar. The motions soothe me, mechanical and sharp. My mother drilled it into me: clean as you go, or chaos swallows the kitchen. I scrub each pan before moving on, just to prove to myself I can make order out of something.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching. Always watching.

“You cook like you’re fighting,” he observes.

I slam the knife down harder than necessary and keep chopping.

The oven timer dings an hour later. The lasagna bubbles golden. My stomach growls.

I dish two plates. My mother’s voice echoes in my head: Never withhold food from someone in your home. Even him. Especially him.

I shove a plate into his hands and stalk to the library.

He follows, naturally.

The library is cavernous, walls lined with shelves. I sink into a couch, pull Sense and Sensibility from the side table, and balance my plate on my knees.

We eat in silence. His gaze drills into me, but I pretend he’s not there.

When I finish, I march back to the kitchen, wash my plate, and wrap leftovers with sharp, efficient motions. I refuse to let him think I’m rattled.

“Nova.” His voice follows me like a shadow.

I don’t respond.

“Nova.” Sharper now.

I dry my hands, put away the cutting board, and walk to the linen closet. A blanket. A pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks as I head back downstairs.

“Finding somewhere to sleep.”

“You have a bedroom.”

“I’m sleeping in the library.”

In three strides, he’s in front of me. His hand clamps around my arm and suddenly I’m pinned against the wall. Air whooshes from my lungs. I gasp, chest heaving.

“Don’t ignore me like this,” he growls, voice rougher than before.

I wrench my head up, eyes blazing. “Then stop forcing me.”

His eyes lock on mine. For a long, taut moment, the only sound is my ragged breathing. His grip loosens. Slowly, he steps back.

“Fine,” he mutters.

I shove past him, drag my blanket into the library, and collapse onto the couch. The shelves tower around me, heavy with ink and paper. Safe. Silent.

Books don’t demand obedience. They don’t watch. They don’t hold you down.

I curl up under the blanket, every muscle aching, and let the words of other lives fill the cracks of mine until my eyes finally close.