Dangerous Beginnings (The Beginnings Duet #1)

Command Me

Chapter 47

Command Me

Isabella

Sunlight shines in my face as I groan, rubbing my hands over my face I slowly open my eyes. I look over to the alarm clock on the nightstand: 7:30 a.m. I groan, that’s way too early. But sadly, once I’m awake in the morning, there is no sleeping pill that could put me back to sleep. When I’m up, I’m up.

Aslanov’s cologne lingers in the room, the door is left open. I throw the sheets off and put pajama socks on since the floor is always so cold here.

Getting into the bathroom I fix my hair and brush my teeth before heading out.

I make my way over to the still-dark hallway and open the curtains, letting some sunlight into this dark hole. I stop when I hear clicking sounds coming from Aslanov’s room, somewhere further down the hallway. He’s still here.

Quietly, I pad down the hallway, drawn by the subtle sounds emanating from his room. As I reach the doorframe, I pause, my curiosity piqued. With a cautious glance around, I lean in and peek through the crack, taking in the scene before me.

There he stands, bathed in the soft light of the bathroom, his silhouette outlined against the mirror. Aslanov is buttoning up his blouse, the fabric whispering as it falls into place. His wet hair glistens under the gentle illumination, evidence of a recent shower. The scent of his cologne hangs in the air, a subtle yet intoxicating aroma that fills the room.

I find myself captivated by the sight, unable to tear my gaze away. There’s something mesmerizing about him, the way he carries himself with an effortless grace. And when his eyes meet mine in the reflection, a spark of recognition ignites between us, drawing me in even closer.

His expression holds a mixture of surprise and warmth, as if he’s caught off guard by my presence yet welcomes it all the same.

But then reality comes crashing back, and I realize I’ve been caught red-handed. With a sheepish smile, I straighten up and meet his gaze, unable to suppress the blush creeping up my cheeks.

“Morning,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but the warmth in my tone speaks volumes. I’m grateful for his stay yesterday, but honestly don’t feel like talking about it.

Without a word, he finishes buttoning up his blouse and turns to face me fully, the corners of his lips quivering in a faint smile. His presence exudes a quiet strength, a reassuring presence that eases the lingering tension in the air.

“Good morning, Isabella,” he says, his voice smooth and velvety, sending a shiver down my spine. He slips a couple of rings around his tattooed fingers before looking at me again. He moves through the bathroom to grab something else. “Give me that.” He orders as he puts on his cuff links, pointing at the tie across the chair in his bedroom. My eyes move to the chair, and before my mind processes his order my body is already moving. His bed is untouched, because he was with me last night, watching me sleep. I wonder if he got any sleep at all. On the chair hangs a lone black tie, on the table next to it other items that remind me of the man he is. Not paying too much attention to them, I reach for the tie. I grab it and throw it at him, and he stares at me through the mirror as he catches it.

He leans against the wall of the bathroom as he watches me with a grin.

“What?” I ask in defense. He comes closer. My breath hitches, like every single goddamn time. His thumb reaches out to wipe toothpaste off my nose. Can’t even brush my teeth like a normal person. The intimate gesture sends a shiver down my spine, and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

“That’s embarrassing,” I mumble, my voice barely above a whisper, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

He walks behind me towards the big mirror in the bedroom, and I realize that either I’m extremely tiny or he is extremely tall. While I make eye contact with him in the mirror, the door downstairs suddenly opens with a loud bang. Footsteps come up the stairs as Dominik appears in the doorway, a sly smile on his face. A grin I would want to wipe off. He approaches me and squeezes my cheek, adornment in his face.

“Really Dominik? I’m not five,” I hiss irritated while rolling my eyes. It’s the makeup-free face and pajamas, I swear. I get a hold of a pillow resting on the chair next to me and before Dominik sees it coming, I slam it onto his face. He groans.

“That’s for leaving me alone in that stupid building!” His eyes widen and his finger points toward Aslanov. Of course. Irritation is visible on my face as Aslanov shrugs.

“Really?!” I yell at him as I toss the pillow at him, but he catches it. “Asshole!” He nods to Dominik, and he immediately leaves the room.

“Such foul language,” he states while striding over to me with the pillow still in hand. There is a hint of amusement in his voice. My attitude immediately backs down.

“You.” I grin through my teeth. He smiles so evil.

“Me?” He points at himself with an innocent facade. I stride back as he comes closer. He lets out a laugh before grabbing a bag and putting on a coat. I don’t have to ask what he’s going to do. Bad things, always bad things.

“I’ll be back at 4 p.m., I expect you home as well.”

I raise my eyebrow at his demand. He raises his eyebrow too.

“Of course Sir, whatever pleases you,” I reply sarcastically.

A chuckle escaped his lips as his finger brushed a strand of hair out of my face, “that is exactly what I like to hear.”

A text message pops up on my screen, it’s from Dominik.

Are we still friends?

I look into the hallway, and he pouts at me before turning the corner. A little smile forms on my lips before rolling my eyes yet again.

Sure, but you owe me.

With that, I exit his room and close the door. What to do today until 4 p.m.?

Aslanov

I stand at the window of my opulent office, peering out at the cityscape below. The sun shines, casting a glow over the streets of Moscow.

The building is tall, giving me a view of the entire city. The remainder of the power I hold in this unforgiving world yields at me.

But today, my mind is consumed by one thing: Mikhail Petrov. He’s been a constant thorn in my side, challenging my authority and disrupting my operations. With a clenched jaw, I turn away from the window, my thoughts racing with plans and strategies. Finding Petrov won’t be easy—he’s cunning and elusive—but I refuse to be outsmarted.

I gather my most trusted lieutenants, outlining our plan with a determination that brooks no argument. We’ll search every corner of the city, leaving no stone unturned until we find Petrov and bring him to justice. To my justice. I know the risks involved. Confronting Petrov will likely lead to bloodshed and chaos. But I can’t allow him to continue threatening my empire unchecked. He’s been hiding in the shadows, creating his own network. It’s not nearly big enough to beat mine. Just as I sip my third morning coffee, the door opens.

“Boss,” the younger man speaks with his gaze low, “we are ready for your arrival in the basement.” Setting down my cup, I focus on the gravity of the situation. Our capture of an infiltrator from Petrov’s camp could provide more crucial intel.

“Lead the way,” I command, my voice firm with authority. Following the young man through the labyrinthine corridors, my senses sharpen as we descend into the basement. The air grows cooler, anticipation building with each step. Upon entering, my gaze falls upon the man bound to the chair, his features obscured by the shadows. I approach him, his expression unreadable as I study him for a moment. The man meets my gaze with fear, his eyes burning. Sure, he’s had a rough night. He immediately panics, and I smirk. He remembered me.

“Rough night?” I light up a cigarette as I mention towards the cage in the corner. He swallows and avoids my gaze. I slam my fist on the table in front of me, and he flinches.

“N-no,” he mumbles immediately. Today I have no time for sweet talk. I haven’t slept an hour; my patience wears thin. With a nod to my men, they move forward, seizing him and dragging him to a nearby tank filled with water. His hands bound behind his back. He starts struggling, he and I both know what time it is.

“I suggest you start talking,” I warn, my tone icy. “Or things are going to get very unpleasant for you.”

“I know nothing!” He immediately screams as my men hold him down above the tank, icy water in it. With a sigh, I gesture to my men, signaling them to drown him in the water. The man struggles against his bonds, his muffled cries echoing through the room as I watch, my resolve unyielding. I know that he will not break easily. Petrov’s men are notoriously loyal, willing to endure any torture rather than betray their leader. Unfortunately for this man, I have no patience, and he will talk.

I signal my men to pull him up again, he gasps for air.

“Please, I swear—” I move my finger forward again, and they dip him back into the tank again. He thrashes around but it’s of no use. Again, he comes back up gasping for air, silence. He doesn’t utter a word of useful information. I hold my hand, telling them to stop. I mention towards the table, it’s time for more brutal action. My expression remains stoic, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside me.

With a subtle nod, I signal for them to begin, knowing that we need answers, and we need them now. The first man steps forward with the rope, binding the man’s wrists to the table. The sound of the man’s cries fills the room as the wire cuts into his flesh, each screams a stark reminder of the lengths we’re willing to go to for information. But still, he remains defiant, refusing to break under the pressure. With each passing moment, my frustration grows, my anger bubbling beneath the surface.

Finally, I step forward, locking eyes with him myself. “You have one last chance to cooperate,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper but laced with menace. He grits his teeth. I sigh before getting out a knife and with one swift motion, I cut off his left ring finger. He screams in agony; it hurts my fucking ears. I don’t even bother to ask again as my blade already finds its way to his middle finger, cutting through the flesh.

“Stop, stop!” He screams, pleads, and begs. But I’m not stopping until I hear what I want to hear. I place the blade on his thumb.

“He’s away on a business trip!” the man suddenly shouts while heavily panicking. I stop the blade right on his flesh, a little blood dripping down. I gesture for him to continue. “He’s back in a week. He stays in Sochi, the North.” He breathes in defiance. An eerie smile creeps its way up on my lips.

“Very well,” I say, removing the blade from his finger. Blood stains the floor.

It’s going to take a while for him to bleed out, so I signal to my men to put him out of his misery. Leaving the man, I turn and make my way back upstairs, and just as I want to close the door a gunshot is fired. Despite the information we’ve obtained, a sense of unease lingers within me. Something tells me this isn’t going to be an easy task. However tonight there is going to be another task at hand. Or maybe even two more. First getting rid of the source of her nightmares, and second, getting her to trust me with them.

Isabella

He’s home, I stayed home. I roam around the house and bake some cookies. The house smells like them, and just as I thought my peace couldn’t be disturbed, he’s home. With bloodstains on his suit, he doesn’t look pleased. I swallow and stop dead in my tracks as he slams the door shut. Just a little bit of light shines through the windows, it’s nearly dark already here. His eyes meet mine as he drops his coat onto the chair next to the door.

As his eyes lock onto mine, a chill runs down my spine, and I instinctively take a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. The air in the room feels heavy with tension, thick with unspoken words and hidden emotions. Without a word, he begins to remove his bloodstained coat, the fabric rustling softly as it falls to the floor. The sound echoes in the silence.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, unsure of what to do or say. His presence fills the room, commanding and imposing, casting a shadow over everything it touches.

And then, with a heavy sigh, he finally speaks, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Isabella,” he says, his tone laced with a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. “Don’t ask me where I’ve been or what I’ve done.”

I swallow, “Why?”

“Because I will tell you the truth and you don’t want to hear it, believe me.” He groans as he rolls up his sleeves, revealing his toned arms. I nod. He’s right. I don’t.

As he enters the kitchen, his gaze falls upon the freshly baked cookies, a small glimmer of surprise flickering across his features before being replaced by a more subdued expression. Without a word, he begins to move about the kitchen, the familiar rhythm of cooking a comforting distraction from the heavy tension he brings. Something is up. His demeanor has shifted. I watch him silently.

As he works, he glances over at me, his eyes softening with a hint of concern.

“Have you eaten enough today?” he asks, his voice gentle yet firm. I nod, offering him a small smile in response.

“Yeah,” I reply.

He nods, his expression hardens again as he continues to cook, the silence between us filled only by the sizzle of food in the pan and the occasional clatter of utensils against the countertop.

As we sit down to dinner, a quiet tension hangs in the air, overshadowing the warmth of the meal before us. I pick at my food, unable to shake the unease that settles in the pit of my stomach. He seems to notice.

He watches me quietly, his gaze penetrating as if searching for something beneath the surface.

“Eat your plate,” he says, his voice kind yet commanding. I nod, obediently taking a bite of my food, though my appetite has all but vanished under the weight of his words. The silence between us stretches, filled only by the clinking of utensils against plates and the distant hum of the city outside. Finally, as I push aside the remnants of my meal, he speaks, his voice solemn and measured.

“I haven’t been completely honest about something,” he says, his words hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. My heart skips a beat, and I turn to face him, a sense of dread settling over me like a suffocating blanket.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He takes a deep breath, his expression grave.

“Finish your plate and I’ll show you.” His words hang in the air, heavy with a sense of foreboding. I nod slowly, my appetite forgotten as I push aside the remnants of my meal. After finishing my plate, I put on some sneakers and a jacket, and so did Aslanov.

Aslanov leads me down into the forest next to the house. We get in deeper and deeper until we reach a shed, opening the door and it’s freezing. There is another door, leading to a staircase descending into darkness. Fear grips my throat. My instincts scream at me to turn back. I hesitate, lingering at the threshold as he gestures for me to enter first. But something inside me recoils at the idea, a voice of caution whispering in the back of my mind. I can’t shake the feeling of unease that grips me, nor the nagging sense that I’m walking into a trap.

“I... I don’t think I should go in first,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but firm in its conviction. “This doesn’t feel good.” I stare at the pitch-black staircase. His expression remains impassive, but I can see a flicker of honesty in his eyes.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he assures me, his tone stern but gentle. “I promise you, Isabella,” he says, his voice soft yet firm, “I would never harm you in any way.” His words carry a weight of sincerity that’s hard to ignore, and for a fleeting moment, I find myself wanting to believe him. But the memories of past betrayals and broken promises linger in the back of my mind, casting a shadow of doubt over his assurances. Aslanov reaches into his pocket and gives me a key, the key to the shed. He goes in first. He looks back over his shoulder, at me.

With a steadying breath, I follow him, the key clutched tightly in my hand as I step into the darkness after him. The air inside is musty and stale, the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint aroma of pine. Once we’re down, Aslanov looks at me before opening another eerie steel door. And as the door opens with a crack, my heart stops.

On a chair in the middle of the room is the man who has constantly haunted me, mentally and physically. Ever since I was a child. My stepfather. He’s tied to a chair and has dried blood on the side of his face, he looks skinny. He looks defiant. As soon as he sees me, he screams at me, in anger. But the tape over his mouth muffles the sound.

The sight of him sends a shiver down my spine, a visceral reaction to years of fear and pain inflicted upon me. Despite the tape over his mouth, his eyes burn with a fierce intensity, his defiance palpable even in his restrained state. I’m frozen in the doorway.

Aslanov’s voice cuts through the silence, his words a chilling command that sends a tremor through my already frayed nerves. “Do not speak to her,” he orders, his tone carrying a weight of authority that brooks no disobedience.

I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising tide of fear threatening to consume me. My stepfather’s presence is a reminder of the darkness that has haunted me for so long, a darkness that I thought I had escaped. But here he is, bound and helpless before me, a stark reminder of the trauma that still lingers beneath the surface. Aslanov moves behind me, his proximity sending a shiver down my spine. His body guides me inside the room. His body heat radiates against my skin, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. I steal a glance at my stepfather, his eyes boring into mine with a mixture of anger and defiance. Despite everything, a small part of me feels bad at the sight of him. Summoning all the courage I can muster, I turn to Aslanov, my voice trembling slightly as I speak.

“What is he doing here?” I ask, my words barely above a whisper but filled with a quiet intensity. Aslanov’s gaze flickers to mine, his expression unreadable. For a moment, there is silence, the weight of his gaze bearing down on me like a heavy burden. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.

“He’s here to answer for his sins,” he says, his words dripping with venom. I feel a chill run down my spine at his words. He trashes around in his chair. Aslanov his hot breath comes down next to my ear, his lips touching my lobe. “Tell me, Isabella.” I whimper. “Is he worth it to live life? It’s your choice.” My stepfather’s face now radiates panic. “I’ll do whatever you want, whatever you decide.”

Aslanov’s arms come around me, embracing me. It’s power that radiates off. He rests his chin on the top of my head. I follow the eyes of my stepfather; they are focused on Aslanov. This is what fear looks like on people’s faces as they stare at him. This is what he sees when people look at him. I find myself caught between conflicting emotions. The warmth of his embrace contrasts sharply with the cold dread coiling in the pit of my stomach. My gaze fixates on my stepfather, his eyes wide with fear, a sight I never thought I’d witness. He looks bad, beaten up and starved. Aslanov has already inflicted torment on him, and I had no idea. God may know how long he has been locked here. It somehow reminds me of who the man behind me is again. How dangerous he is. Yet his warmth keeps me sane and somehow, he scares me far less than the man in the chair.

Despite the years of torment my stepfather has inflicted upon me, a part of me hesitates at the thought of condemning him to whatever fate Aslanov has in store.

“Tell me what to do with him.” Aslanov’s voice, low and commanding, breaks through the tension-laden air, his words a stark reminder of the power he holds in this moment. When I first met him, he had told me he is the punisher himself in this world. Now I know what he meant. He’s deciding who lives and dies, yet right now he is asking me. I decide.

Caught between the weight of my past and the uncertainty of the future, I struggle to find the words to answer him. Every instinct screams for justice, for punishment to be meted out to the man who has caused me so much pain. But beneath the anger and the fear, a small voice whispers of mercy, of forgiveness. Because as much as I want to feel heartless, I don’t. That’s the difference between me and the man sitting in front of me. Yet all the pain of all those years haunts me every day. All the pain he has caused, not only to me but to my mother as well. It wasn’t all her fault. He ruined me, he ruined the child in me. And as my heart can’t rise further in my throat Aslanov presses his lips against my ear, his words drumming down to my soul. “Command me.”