Bond to Break (Stolen Obsessions #4)

14. Katya

CHAPTER 14

KATYA

My dreams have been the same since the accident. Screaming, crunching metal, pain, the smell of gunpowder, and Pietro’s inevitable death. Flashes of a life with him that’s forever lost to me, and then I wake crying, wishing more than anything I had died beside him, or in surgery at the hospital, or any of the times in between.

But this dream is different. Franco’s corpse joins Pietro’s for one. My dreams are a parade of death masks. I stay asleep long enough for it to end, though, and strong hands grip my chin, threatening me if I misbehave. Flashes of glimmering obsidian eyes flit between amused and annoyed with me, and I’m wet and aching for their attention.

The thin morning sun on my face wakes me, and at first, I just blink toward the light, unsure where I am. The bed is soft, and I’m so warm and comfortable, and the blinding light? Maybe I am dead. I’m missing the damp cheeks I’ve grown to associate with the dawn.

But then my memories start to creep back in, the pain in my legs, the vague sense of fever that’s been building in me for days and is now growing into something more defined. I try to sit up, but it doesn’t work for me. I do, however, realize there’s a note on the bedside table as well as a glass of juice.

Kotyonok,

I have business to attend to this morning. Rest. You need it.

-Fyodor

He writes in Russian, and the cursive letters are pretty, fluid, and easy to read. My chest warms and aches all at once. A few words scribbled on a paper shouldn’t make me feel this way, and I don’t think they would without everything I’ve been through lately. This budding obsession with him won’t help my situation, and I need to get a handle on myself.

I never thought a murder would seem like an act of care, but I can’t help seeing it that way. Franco promised to help me and betrayed me at my most vulnerable. He planned to sell me and pocket the money, all while letting my entire life pass into someone else’s hands. That may have happened anyway, but I’m so glad he’s dead that I can’t keep a level head about it.

The tears I didn’t wake to quickly come. Not because I’m sad for him or anything like that, but because it’s been so damn long since anyone really cared. Despite my own agony and the bare decorations of the room, I’m grateful I’ve finally landed somewhere soft, and it’s so damn soft.

I don’t have any experience with fancy things, but this feels like one of those blankets full of baby feathers, and the sheets are the softest I’ve ever felt. The mattress molds to my body, and I’m almost grateful to be owned if it means I get to avoid a hospital bed, cot, or a night in that fucking basement.

I don’t know what the future holds, what he’ll want from me, or if he’ll decide to sell me like he said, but I’ve never slept in a more comfortable bed. I don’t have to limp anywhere right now. Something feels off with me, but I haven’t felt right in so long I don’t dwell on it. I might be sick, but given my options, this seems a good place to be unwell.

The events of the previous night play over and over behind my lids, as I lie there and relax. I’m not sure what the view outside my window looks like, but I don’t check. I just let my mind drift, and in some sick way, I’m grateful to see something other than the accident. I’ve been through too much for it to hurt the same way, and my life now feels too absurd to be real.

The clock on the wall tells me it’s eight thirty, and crutches didn’t arrive in the room alongside that note. Leaving crawling as the only way to the bathroom. Is he really such a wonderful owner, then? I feel my first stirring of complaint and know it won’t be my last. This particular humiliation can wait a while longer, though, until I’m ready to piss myself.

There’s a calm to go along with the heartache and terror. It’s been a long time since I was left anywhere comfortable for so long uninterrupted. Another hour passes, and I relish just lying here. I haven’t had any real privacy since before the accident.

A key wiggles in the lock, interrupting the thought, reminding me I don’t have any damn privacy. Despite his note, I’m expecting to see Fyodor when the door finally pushes open, but the woman holding a covered dish comes about two and a half feet short of his massive frame. Before she’s even entered the room, she glares at me like she’s stepped in something I left on the floor.

A squeak clears my throat before I can stop it, and I curse myself for it when she gives me an even dirtier look for a greeting. Some sick part of me is already missing the soft way he carried me and wanting to see him again. So this is an extreme disappointment.

I should have expected he wouldn’t come. It’s not like someone of his stature has time for a pet. Would he have still taken me had he actually had to pay that money? He doesn’t want to fuck me, so what the hell was the point?

“It’s time to eat. Don’t do anything stupid,” she tells me, and I stare at her mutely. What exactly would I do? Was she expecting to find me in here waiting with a shiv? It’s too cold for an escape attempt.

I’m a possession, and as far as I’ve ever seen, items don’t speak, and I’ve never been commanded to be polite, so I ignore her. She doesn’t say anything else, just scours me with her judgmental robin’s egg eyes as she enters the room. Clearly she knows something about how I came to be here to be so comfortable mistreating me.

Once she’s inside, the light reveals more of her features. Tightly wound gray-blond hair pulls her skin tight at her forehead. The whole look gives her a stressed and over-serious appearance. A handful of lines groove her skin, likely in her fifties, like him , and I wonder what their relationship is.

I worried Fyodor had a wife last night, but I doubt he’d force her to wait on me if he did, but maybe they are married, given the way she hates me, and I haven’t said shit to her. That would be one hell of a kick. Hey honey, go take care of my sex slave.

Whatever strength I had is fading fast, and rather than continue this painful and uncomfortable standoff, I flop back on the bed and accept there’s nothing I can do about her presence. A second later, the dish lands on the table near my head.

I don’t react or move in any way, and she makes an irritated noise in the back of her throat.

“You’re expected to keep this room tidy.”

That will be easy, given I have no plans to stand anytime soon.

“You won’t destroy things just because you don’t get your way.”

“I’m carpet broken, thanks,” I tell her from my spot on the bed. “No need to swat my nose with paper. I won’t be pissing on the floor.”

“Doesn’t look like it to me.”

I pretend I don’t hear her as she moves around the room, doing whatever she wants. While she does, I try to slip into a very deep state of denial.

I’m just comfortable, not for any special reason. I wasn’t bought by a crime boss; I’m not locked in this room while strangers have the key. Defenseless? Not Katya, who’s been banged, bruised, and passed around like an old piece of fruit. I’m not lying in a bed, wounded and waiting for anyone who might hold that same key.

With a scrap of mercy, she finishes whatever she needed to do. Before she leaves again, she faces me.

“You smell like the whorehouse. Take a shower.”

If I was worried about the two of us having a warm relationship, I need not concern myself further.

I roll over in the bed and stare at the place she left the food. I’m hungry, and I know it. My stomach is nothing more than a bag of acid waiting to spill its contents, and this would help, but Pietro can’t eat and neither can I. I fall back asleep thinking of him.

A few hours have passed when I wake, and my hunger gets the best of me. I’m lightheaded, though my stomach feels heavy. Everything about my body feels wrong, and I’m not even sure anymore what would make it alright. I decide that as miserable as I am, food is as good a start as any.

I force myself to sit in the bed. The pain is absurd, bad enough that I nearly lie back down and forget about eating, but the acid sloshes wetly, and I think I really might vomit if I don’t get some food inside me.

I pull the lid off the dish, and the sight in front of me nearly makes me sob. The smell is exactly as I remember it, and I never would have expected that something so comforting would be delivered by such a mean bitch.

I’m not sure what I expected, but potato cutlets—very popular in my hometown—are very far from it. Flavorful little patties coated in vermicelli and fried until golden. My cousins and I used to fight for them when we were young. What is he trying to say if I’m a pet and he owns me? That he’ll spoil me if I behave?

I know people care a lot about their dogs, but this small action feels a lot like being cherished. This sensation is dangerous, just like how it felt to be in his arms. I need to remind myself that I’m hurt and alone, and it’s easy to form inappropriate feelings. Whatever is happening in my heart as a result of these cutlets is not safe.

My mouth waters, and my stomach growls fiercely while my heart aches in the strangest way. It’s been a long time since I had a family. It’s been a long time since I felt like a little girl back in Rybinsk.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare, and eventually, I’m brave enough to pick one up and take the first bite. The crispy patties taste like home, and it’s been a very long time since anything tasted like that to me. I start to associate the warmth of Fyodor’s arms with home too, and that’s so profoundly dangerous.

Did he know he was feeding me something so comforting? Is it just what his cooks prepare? My head spins, and I wish he would come back so I could ask him, but he doesn’t.

Once my stomach is full, I’m too tired to keep my eyes open, and despite having just slept for hours, I drift off into a world where I’m engaged and planning my wedding with the man who’s meant to be the father of my children, but for some reason, we’re eating potato cutlet at our wedding, and I’m dancing with Fyodor.