6. Mila
MILA
He’s watching.
I entered the safehouse and waited inside the foyer.
The instinct to scope it all out and figure out the quickest means of escape taunted me.
Anytime I was in a new and unfamiliar setting, I had to anticipate what unknowns could help or hurt me.
Any props or loopholes and shortcuts that could aid me in getting away.
All the booby traps and obstacles that could injure me or keep me further captive.
Orienting myself wasn’t just a practice of discovering new locations.
It played a key part in how I could try to survive.
Scanning the simply furnished, one-story house, I realized that this wasn’t a dungeon.
Lev wasn’t dragging me into the bowels of a basement lair sectioned off in rugged cells for captives to be chained up and locked behind bars.
I’d been in plenty enough of those to almost expect to belong in them.
Another constant and consistent trait of being the opposite of free.
Immediately noticing the bare minimum of décor and basic furnishings, though, I also recognized that I wasn’t a guest.
Of course, I’m not a damn guest.
To be a guest would imply that I was human. And I lost that standing ten years ago when my parents sold me to the Cartel.
I lacked the time to fully understand where I was. He entered the safehouse behind me and closed the door. Tracking the sounds of his footsteps in the foyer, I stood still and waited.
I waited for my fate. The setting wasn’t cluing me in to what I’d be for him.
If I were to be another runner or grunt worker for the Bratva, he would’ve handed me off to a guard and expected me to reside in a cell or dungeon space.
If he saw me as another kind of slave, one he’d abuse and fuck to his own delight, he probably would’ve brought me to a better scene than this. A luxurious bedroom where his personal comfort would be exposed and expected.
“You will stay here,” he stated as he rounded me, eyeing me with that deliberate and intense stare. From head to toe, he considered me. I was used to this appraisal, this blunt preview and giving my masters or buyers the wide-open chance to judge me.
When he stood in front of me, calm and collected, he didn’t offer anything else.
No instructions.
No questions.
Not a single word as he continued to watch me.
Staring contests were nothing more than mental warfare. Some would argue that the silent treatment was too. But I wasn’t only mute and closed-off like this for the sake of protesting the details of my situation. I didn’t know what to say. If I should speak.
A question should be answered. Offering one of my own could be frowned upon.
This wasn’t a low-level moron in the Cartel.
Lev Volkov was a master. A powerful boss within a highly-feared and super-wealthy crime family.
Would he lash out and punish me for speaking without being directly addressed?
Would he have a bullshit expectancy of my referring to him as my boss, or sir, or with any other formal salutation?
Would he laugh in my face if I told him that I wanted to leave?
Yes. A million times over, yes.
Despite the knowledge that he owned me, I refused to give up the plan to be free one day. I had to. So long as I could breathe, that would always be my goal.
“I won’t bother asking if you have any questions.” He raised his brows, seeming curious about whether I’d reply. “I know that you do.”
You don’t know me.
You never will.
Fury simmered beneath the surface as I studied him, trying to use this one-on-one interaction with him as a way to gather clues. To see if he’d be likely to expose any weaknesses that I could exploit.
“Until you can reveal what those questions might be, I’ll play along with this silence.”
I narrowed my eyes. If he was trying to goad me into slipping up, he’d have to try a lot harder than that.
“You will stay here, though.” He lifted one arm and gestured at the room. “I’ll have clothing and food sent to you.” This time, the slow once-over he gave me seemed lazier. As if he was imagining me naked and free of the desert’s grime.
“Then tomorrow, I will endeavor to find a purpose for you.” He stepped closer, his gaze intent on me like the few feet between us were a joke.
Resisting the rise of adrenaline within me as he approached, I worried that this “break” would work against me.
Having a “night off” in as nice of a place as this wasn’t something I had experience with.
As a runner, I was used to living in a house with several others.
No luxuries of privacy. No technology or books or toys to be used as a hobby.
The only downtime I ever had were the rides between runs or the field exercises of defending the compound.
Being in this normal safehouse was like a vacation, and I wasn’t stupid enough to assume I would ever deserve one. Not without giving something up first.
“I can start working now,” I said. Hating the croak in my voice from disuse, I cleared my throat and maintained this cool composure as he walked right up to me.
With as short as I was and as big and tall and muscled as he was, I felt so small.
Dainty. Tiny. Crushable if he were to put his hands on me.
“Eager?” he asked. His voice lost a little bit of that supreme authority, softening into a sexier and lazy huskiness.
Eager to receive instructions? Yes, I was.
The quicker I could know what was coming, the quicker I could devise a way to escape.
Fighting back was useless. That lesson was drilled into me long ago.
I was too small, with less muscle mass, and sans weapons or backup, to be able to survive a physical confrontation.
I’d learned that from trial and error until the fact stuck.
Inches parted us as he watched me. Looking down his nose as he roved his gaze over my chest, up my neck, and along the features of my face, he searched me. For what, I didn’t know. His reasoning behind buying me and killing Tomas wasn’t clear.
I replied, though, nodding to his question. “Yes, I am eager to work.”
Because having something to do was the only means for me to find an escape.
“Like this?” He lifted his hand, gesturing at me.
Compared to the crisp purity of his white shirt straining over his chest and arms, I was a mess.
Dirt clung to me, weighing down my jeans.
The scents of clean soap and his spicy cologne contrasted the faint stink of sweat and exhaust from the truck Tomas had driven, the odor that stayed in my hair.
“You’re too filthy to do anything, Mila.”
Hearing my name roll off his tongue was a tease. A deliberate trick. Because the smooth glide of my name from his mouth so close to mine put too many ideas in my head.
What it’d sound like if he shouted it when I escaped.
What it’d sound like if he was moaning in pleasure as I rode him.
What?
No.
Not—
What?
The beginning wisps of panic curled within my mind again as I tried to deny that mental image that came out of nowhere.
But he wasn’t helping at all. He raised his hand and slid his finger under the strap of my tank top. My bra, too. The slow drag of his rough fingertip caressed the curve of my shoulder as he urged the fabric to fall.
“Too filthy in this,” he said.
Breathing harder and faster, I tried to stay calm.
He was so slow as he traced his finger down the hem of my shirt, stroking over the skin above my breasts.
Too slow. Unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to do as he pleased with me.
Like time obeyed him, not the other way around.
Blood raced through me, making my heart pump faster as I tried to imagine what he wanted to do with me. To me.
For me?
I closed my teeth tight together at the thought of that.
The only thing he’ll give me are instructions. And through them, a chance to devise my escape.
“Too filthy to stay in this,” he added as hooked his finger at the valley of my hem. One tug down ripped the threadbare fabric.
I held my breath at the rush of cool air on my skin.
On the top swells of my breasts that the bra couldn’t contain.
The bareness of my flat stomach where too many scars remained.
My shirt was shredded in half, hanging open like an unintended vest. It curled from pilling, and I hated that he was practically stripping me.
The beige shirt hung over the outer sides of my breasts.
He didn’t hold back from admiring what he unwrapped.
His brown gaze turned darker as he eyed me.
No other expression showed on his face as he moved his hand over me, nearly rubbing my breast, almost pushing against the hard bud of my nipple that perked under the heat of his gaze.
I sucked in another breath, sharp and sweet, as I considered I had my answer now.
He wanted me to be that kind of a slave.
One without clothes on. Taking his dick and letting him pound me raw. He saw me as a purchased toy, to fill my holes with his cum.
Ten years had slithered by in captivity, but I’d only been subjected to this brand of hell once. I’d been serving as a functional smuggler, a runner, not a whore.
As he inched his hand further, I realized that he had other things in mind.
“I bet I could think of something for you to do when you’re not so filthy.” His voice had dropped to a lower, gruffer growl. He had yet to look up at my face. Standing this close as he set his hand on the inside of my ripped shirt, placing it on my side, he dug his fingers in slightly.
Possessive.
Needy, even.
He slid his hand down my side until he gripped my waist.
Do. Not. Panic.
Don’t…
Don’t…
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t latch on to one warning. Because that panic had gotten twisted with something else as he kept his hand on my side, standing in my space and looking down at my body, his lips set together with impatience, his scents surrounding me and tempting me to want.
I did.
I could struggle to repeat a mantra not to panic, but my body was already going down another path of instinct.
An ache settled between my legs. Blood rushed there, making me throb. Wet arousal dampened my panties. And if he brought his hand back to my breasts, he would be able to feel the solid tips of my nipples peaking under my bra.
Dammit.
Damn this.
Damn him.
The urge to lean against him, to rely on him to ground me when my body responded to his touch, was almost too much of a fight.
Desire struck me with the force of a full-body charge.
It electrified me, forcing me to breathe faster and want to gravitate toward him.
It purged me, chasing away all the panic and worries and insistence to be strong and stay on guard.
And it scared me, teasing and tempting me to wonder what it would be like to experience more of him gazing at me like I was a gift to behold and taste and treasure.
Like I was a treat to torment until this raging hot lust would consume us both.
He set his other hand on me. On my left hip, opposite of his right hand clutching my right side and reminding me of his advantages.
Of how long his fingers were, of all the unspoken and inhibited strength in his grip.
Of how much taller and bigger he was to overtake me and have his way with me, however he wanted.
I swallowed hard, unable to quit staring at his hooded gaze, his face so serious with need as he familiarized himself with being this close.
What if…
I bit back a groan of need, so perplexed and peeved that in just under a minute, he could make me think like this.
That he could get under my skin and make me respond not like an owned thing but as a woman who could embrace desire.
I exhaled harshly, almost like a grunt of need.
Like this, coiled up tight and ready to explode.
He stepped back. In the turn of one second into the next, it was over. His hands left my sides. His fingers no longer dug into my flesh. Releasing me abruptly, he retreated and put another foot between us.
I ached for his touch. I caught myself from following after him and stopped short in leaning forward.
“You’ll serve me one way or another, Mila.” Now when he said my name, it was without the deeper tone. The hardness and neutrality were back in it, like when he might speak to any other person under his rule.
Disappointment filled me. I wanted to frown at this odd sense of being hurt by his… his… rejection? I wasn’t sure what to deduce from him, but I was thoroughly displeased with myself that he had tricked me into thinking he wanted to use me for my body.
I was even more dismayed that I had looked forward to that suggestion.
How could you let him get to you like that?
Scolding myself for actually wanting him, I focused on not showing an iota of a reaction to his backing out of the room and leaving me with no clear answers.
I didn’t know what he wanted me for.
All I could tell myself was that he didn’t want me.