5. Sienna
SIENNA
M y stomach curdles, my heart coming to a stop the moment Nikolai pulls the trigger. Everything shifts after that. The chill of the grim reaper enters the room, and the cool calculation of the man who was smirking at me just moments ago becomes more apparent.
Nikolai and Andrei speak in Russian, and I understand almost every word. I've been underestimated, which I'm quite used to. But knowing their native tongue does very little for me when I feel like I'm the reason why that man is now dead.
“Come, little doll. We shall get your clothes,” Nikolai says. But I just stare out the window, at the blue of the ocean where it sparkles beyond the trees. I suspect we’re somewhere in Europe, and I cling to that familiarity instead of acknowledging the truth of the dead man's body behind me .
That could be me.
I turn on my bare feet, and although I will myself not to look, my gaze can't help but drop to the man lying facedown in a pool of his own blood. My breath comes hard and fast, shocking my system, as adrenaline immediately pumps through my veins. I can't look away. I did this. I killed this man.
Nikolai steps into my field of vision, blocking the body as he elegantly directs his hand toward the door, indicating for me to walk out first.
“I killed him,” I say in a small voice.
“No, he was a dead man the moment he decided he had free will. I told you I would keep you safe while on my watch. I take that oath very seriously. Actions like these deserve punishment.”
“I don't want to get new clothes anymore,” I quietly say as I walk toward the door, but he grabs me by the elbow before I can leave. His grip is gentler than I would expect from him, but I’m still zapped by the dangerous tension between us.
Andrei has left the room, most likely making good on the command he's been given to get rid of the body.
“Think of this as an acting role. Just compartmentalize it, and pretend it's not real,” he suggests.
“I'm sick of pretending.” My voice cracks, surprising me. This goes beyond just a body.
“Then perhaps you will come out of this situation a lot more fortunate than when you came into it. Because walking around with rose-colored glasses on is one of the deadliest ways to live.”
I furrow my brow, unable to comprehend how he and I can exist in the same world, let alone stand in the same room. How someone such as him can be so cold and ruthless. Or have I always been so naive?
Have my best friends really been part of the mafia? Even Lily, the sweetest of our circle? I've been a total fool this whole time. This world exists. He exists. He just proved that.
“I won’t hurt you, mishka . Nor will I let others disrespect you or play such foolish games under my command.”
I hate it more when he calls me mishka than when he calls me little doll. It means little bear or teddy bear, which I take as an insult.
And now he’s acting as if he’s my hero?
“You're a psychopath,” I say with absolute disdain.
He releases my elbow. “A psychopath that you should be thanking for protecting you. I am your greatest enemy here, but I’m also the only one who can keep you safe.
Remember that.” His expression changes from hard to semi-friendly as he adds, “As promised, let's go shopping. I know it’s one of your favorite pastimes.”
I huff, irritated that he knows so much about me. Then a chill runs down my spine at the realization of that fact.
I walk out of the room, trying my hardest to keep my composure, not wanting to let a crack appear, too scared that Nikolai might somehow slip in. Because the moment I break down, I’ll have already lost. I won’t let this man take my power.
He walks behind me, and his hot breath flushes over my ear as he says, “Left.”
I ignore his proximity and instead turn to my right, guiding myself to my room.
He continues following me, and when I enter my room, I pointedly slam the door in his face.
I’m not letting him walk me to his fucking car, the psycho.
I brace my back against the door, trying to steady my breathing as I choke on the reality that I just witnessed a man’s murder.
Nikolai makes no attempt to enter, but I can sense him standing on the other side of the door. I don’t move until I hear Andrei’s voice, and the two converse in Russian.
“The body has been taken care of, Udav .” Udav. I’m not familiar with that word. Does that have something to do with their ranks? “I’ve ensured the others are aware of what led to his death.”
“Good. Don't leave her door, and don't let anyone else close.”
I release a shaky breath at the sound of him walking away, and I finally look up at the fresh sunflowers beside my bed.
Every day there’s a new bouquet. Beside it is a bowl with an assortment of fruits.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at it.
My stomach hurts, but I'm used to being disciplined with my food. The problem is, I truly have no appetite. It takes everything in me to muster the strength to pretend to be unfazed at the situation I’m in.
I just want to go home. I want to hear my friends’ voices. Mostly, I want to know that I’m missed.
It's never been clearer to me that besides my father and friends, there is no special person or place waiting for my return. And it hurts me to admit that though Nikolai doesn't know me, he was right about one thing. I am but just a lost little girl.
Hours later, a soft knock comes on the door. I'm quick to jump out of bed and race toward the windows to close them and shut the curtains. I finish just before the door swings open.
I expect it to be Agata, so my body tenses the moment Nikolai’s six-feet-seven frame takes up the space in the room. He carries four bags with brand names that I recognize. And his other hand holds a container of what appears to be food.
My eyebrows knit together as the smell of soy sauce permeates the air.
He silently places the food on the side table, and I step back, putting space between us as he places the bags of clothing at the end of the bed. Then he takes a seat in the green velvet chair in the corner of the room, where I found him the first time I woke .
He arches an eyebrow, as if to suggest it’s my move.
I take a seat at the edge of the bed and curiously open up the boxed meal. I'm surprised to see my favorite treat of combination noodles. I refrain as much as possible from having carbs, but this dish has always been my guilty little pleasure.
I close the lid, trying to act indifferent to it, yet again being shown how much this man knows about me. It’s unsettling.
I look back at him, and his gaze flicks expectantly to the bags of clothing.
“These clothes should do you for a few days. When you're feeling more agreeable, we can purchase you more. I'm sure you'll find my choices similar to what you might ordinarily wear.”
I quietly nod, waiting for him to leave. I don't appreciate being stuck in the same dress for three days, so I'm grateful that I'll have new clothes to wear. However, I certainly wasn’t expecting brand names.
When I realize he's not leaving, I grow more uncomfortable, and it would appear he does as well. A heavy tension hangs in the air.
He clears his throat. “I really need you to eat. What can I do that will ease you enough to eat?”
I swallow hard, unsure what to think of this man. He’s ruthless and menacing, but besides his obvious attempts at intimidation, he’s been very accommodating where I’m concerned, which only makes his motives more unnerving .
“I want to talk to my friends.” The words spill from my lips. “Or my father. I want to let them know I'm safe. People will be wondering where I've gone.” It sounds silly even to me, given that I'm demanding from my captor the one thing he's most likely unable to give me.
He considers this for a moment, and I can’t read his expression.
I expect him to say no, but instead he says, “It will take some time for them to wonder where you've gone. Unfortunately for you, your social media presence works against you.” He pulls a phone out of his pocket and walks across the room.
Tapping the screen a few times, he then turns it toward me.
“Because right now it still looks like you're having the time of your life in London.”
My eyes grow wide as he shows me my account flooded with photos from the last few days of places and activities I never attended. He then shows me my stories, ironically of things I would usually share. A photo of a half-eaten meal. Shout-outs to brands that send me samples.
He lets me take the phone, and I furiously scroll through them, shocked.
Is it truly that easy to pretend to be me?
To fake that I’m perfectly fine, and not being held by crazy Russians?
Or is it a slap in the face to realize I've become so predictable, and that my life only amounts to this, shown through a filter.
It’s as if everything has come crashing down around me. Then my gaze narrows on the screen before I shoot him an incredulous look.
“Do you seriously follow me on social media?”
He shrugs as he takes the phone from my hands, almost prying it from my tightened grip. “I’m just one amongst millions. Unfortunately for you, that makes stalking a lot easier these days. I followed you, studied you, online and in person, for three months.”
Three months? Goose bumps rise on my skin, but I try my hardest to nonchalantly shrug it off. I hate how he says it as if he’s scolding me.
“You're nothing special. You're not the first stalker I’ve had,” I bite out. However, he’s by far been the worst.
“I'm aware. James Lukar. Michael Smith. Drake Meer.” He lists three names, and my stomach stinks.
“How do you know those names?” Those are all former stalkers who I took out restraining orders on.