"I can't breathe in this house!" I scream at his retreating back. The hallway echoes with my frustration, bouncing off the portraits of ancestors who probably never had a lock picked on their bedroom door.
"You have guards outside my door, inside my room, on the balcony. I can't even go to the bathroom without reporting to a radio!"
Stavros stops. He doesn't turn around immediately. The tension in his shoulders is visible through his charcoal suit jacket, a wall of muscle tensing for a fight.
"I am a person, Stavros! Not a package you just store until you're ready to open it! I need space. I need—"
He spins around. His face is a mask of thunder. The patience he’s been faking for the last hour evaporates.
"Enough," he growls.
He strides back toward me. I step back, instinctively seek
