Chapter 8 – Isabella #2
“Trouble in paradise?” I asked while wiping my feet clean. The alcohol stung, but I couldn’t help the smirk that formed on my lips. “Your masters yanking your chain?”
His eyes narrowed. “Careful, Shorty.”
Careful? Really? This man was holding me against my will after he’d caught me when I could almost taste freedom.
We were way beyond being careful. And what was it with the nickname?
Well, anyway. The real question was what would happen if I pushed him to the edge, or at least annoyed him enough to lose his cool?
“What’s wrong, Zotov? Don’t like being reminded you’re just a dog on a tight leash following orders?” I tilted my head, ignoring the twinge of dizziness. “Good boy. Sit. Stay. Fetch the Salvini girl.”
He narrowed his eyes for a millisecond before he relaxed again.
“Takes one to know one.” He scoffed, grabbed the first aid kit, took the dirty wipes from my hands, and moved toward the kitchen.
“A Mafia princess locked in her tower, her whole life being controlled by her family? At least my leash is of my choosing.”
That stung more than it should have. “Nobody controls me. And I don’t just sit around and wait, you know.”
“No? Then what exactly are you doing in your ivory tower, reframing online shopping as assisting the world economy?” He pulled out a can from the cupboard and a pot from beneath the counter, movements sharp with irritation. “At least your sister has some secrets, however ill-directed.”
My blood ran cold. My sister had secrets? What the hell was he talking about? Wait, he thought I was Mira, so then he was talking about me having secrets. Fuck. I kept my face carefully neutral. Did he know? Did they somehow find out about Iset? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, you don’t.” His tone was dismissive as he opened the can—soup, apparently—and emptied it into the pot.
I watched him stir the soup with unnecessary force, his shoulders tense. Despite everything, I felt a strange urge to ease that tension. Which was ridiculous. This man had kidnapped me. Was using me against my family and potentially knew my biggest secret. I should want him to be miserable.
Yet something in his rigid posture, in the controlled way he handled his frustration, reminded me of Vince when he was carrying burdens he wouldn’t share.
“So what did the text say?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended. “Bad news?”
Zotov glanced over his shoulder, surprise briefly replacing the irritation in his eyes. He studied me for a moment as if trying to figure out if my question was another attack. “Just news that we’ll stay holed up here for a couple of hours longer before we can leave.”
So the real reason he seemed so bummed out was because he was stuck with me for a couple of hours? I shouldn’t care, but somehow the way he hated my existence and our current situation as much as I did was rubbing me the wrong way.
He poured the soup into two bowls and carried them over, then, without so much as a blink, lifted me off the table and into one of the chairs, and pressed a spoon into my hand. “Eat—you’ll need the fuel.”
I cocked my head, which caused another wave of dizziness. Maybe eating something wasn’t the smartest thing to do. I didn’t need nausea added to my dizziness. I put the spoon down.
He sat down opposite me, watched me put down the spoon, and narrowed his brows. His gaze met mine, and he took what felt like an eternity to study me. “What’s wrong? Are you nauseous, or did you expect champagne and caviar?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Then eat, or I’ll feed you.”
I glared at him. “Maybe the company is so repulsive, I can’t possibly force anything down.”
“The company is definitely losing his nerve. I think there’s some of that tranquilizer around, so either you behave, or else…”
I scoffed. “Is this what you usually do with your women? Threaten them?”
His eyes darkened. “You now one of my women?” he asked, and I immediately recognized my error.
“You wanna know what I’m usually doing with my women?”
The way he put the emphasis on “my women” was dangerous and possessive at the same time.
He got up, rounded the table, lifted me up, sat down, and put me on his lap in one fluid motion, which showed it wasn’t the first time he’d used this move.
He leaned in, until his lips touched my ear, and I shivered. Strangely, not at all out of fear. “If you were my woman, I would’ve run a hot bath for you and me.”
His arm tightened around my waist, keeping me firmly in place on his lap while his other hand reached for my spoon.
“If you were my woman, I would have you hold onto that beam while I fucked you from behind until you saw stars,” he whispered.
I tried to squirm away, but his grip was unyielding. “And afterward you would be bundled on my lap, wearing my shirt, smelling like me.”
“Get your hands off me,” I hissed, my face burning with humiliation and something else I refused to acknowledge.
“Since neither of those things happened, it’s safe to assume I don’t consider you mine. And I warned you,” he said, his voice a low rumble against my back. “Now open up.”
He dipped the spoon into my soup and brought it to my lips. I clamped my mouth shut, turning my head away.
“Shorty,” he said, the nickname sounding dangerous. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I spat, struggling harder against his hold.
His chest vibrated with what might have been a chuckle. “Such language from a Mafia princess.”
Before I could retort, he pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing my face toward him. His eyes held mine, icy blue and unrelenting.
“You have two choices. Eat willingly, or I’ll make you. Either way, you’re getting food in your system. It will help with the dizziness.”
I glared at him. How did he know? I weighed my options. My head was still spinning with every little movement, and fighting him would only drain what little energy I had left. With a defeated sigh, I parted my lips.
A flash of triumph crossed his face as he slipped the spoon into my mouth. The soup was surprisingly good—rich tomato with herbs—and my empty stomach clenched in appreciation.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and I wanted to stab him with the spoon for how those words sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
He continued feeding me in silence, his movements methodical but gentle. Each time I accepted a spoonful, his grip on my waist relaxed slightly, his thumb absently stroking my side through my shirt.
I told myself I was only complying to regain my strength. That I was biding my time until I could escape. That the warmth spreading through me was just from the hot soup and had nothing to do with his caring enough to feed me, or his hard body pressed against mine.
But when Zotov reached the bottom of the bowl and his lips brushed against my ear to whisper, “See? That wasn’t so difficult,” I couldn’t stop the goose bumps that raced across my skin.
“More?” he asked, and I shook my head, but instead of letting me go, he pulled his bowl toward us and started eating while keeping me on his lap.
Somehow, with his attention off me, I could finally relax. His clean scent surrounded me and calmed me down, and his body heat seeped through my clothes and made me sleepy.
I must’ve dozed off because when I came to, I was in his arms while he carried me across the room. With my eyes half-mast, I stared at the lone queen-sized bed that dominated the small room. “Seriously? I can walk. Also, do you really think I’ll sleep in this situation?”
Zotov’s soft chuckle rumbled in his chest, and the vibrations reached my skin. “You need to pee first?”
I shook my head.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Well, apart from the obvious”—I gestured at the bed and then at him—“where are you sleeping? The floor? The bathtub? Antarctica?”
His lips twitched. “I’m sleeping right here. With you.”
“Like hell you are.”
“Trust me. It’s you and me in this bed. Nothing you can do about it, so stop fighting.”
“You think I’d just lie down next to you without a fight? Dream on.”
He put me down on the bed, then pulled something from his pocket that glinted in the dim light—handcuffs. “Whether you dream about me or not is your decision. But you will lie right next to me. And to ensure you don’t try anything stupid while we’re sleeping, we’re going to stay real close.”
My mouth fell open, and my heart jumped, then started to race before I got a grip on myself. “If you think kinky stuff impresses me, you’re completely mistaken. I like vanilla, plain, old vanilla.”
He grinned down at me. “Shut up, Shorty.” He clicked one cuff around my wrist and the other around his before I could even process what was happening. “This isn’t about impressing you, dreaming about you, or sleeping with you. It’s about keeping you from burning down another building.”
So he’d lulled me into safety only to pull this stunt? I yanked at the cuff, but it was solid. “You’re insane.”
“Get in bed.”
“I can always strangle you in your sleep.”
He chuckled. “I thought you weren’t into kinky stuff.”
I sighed. This was getting us nowhere. With as much dignity as I could muster, I climbed under the covers and moved as close to the edge as possible. Zotov turned down the only gas lamp that was still on and slid in beside me, his weight making the mattress dip.
I stayed silent and motionless while fighting the fatigue I was feeling for what felt like an eternity.
The cabin grew cold as the fire he’d lit earlier died down.
Even under the blanket, I could feel the chill seeping into my bones, and my hand that stuck out felt numb and frozen.
I shivered, trying to stay still, but gradually found myself inching toward the center of the bed, toward the heat I knew from earlier would be radiating from Zotov’s body.
He didn’t even use a blanket, the asshole.
“Stop fucking wiggling like an earthworm and go to sleep,” he growled, his voice hoarse after my third subtle shift closer.
“I can do whatever I want,” I snapped back. “And I would stop wiggling if I wasn’t so fucking cold.”
He growled—actually growled—but then his arm snaked around my waist, and he pulled me against his body. He was like a human furnace, warmth instantly enveloping me.
“I don’t—” I started to protest.
“Shut up. And stop moving. And I promise, there’s no funny business happening.”
I stiffened against him. “And if I don’t shut up, or I move?”
His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper near my ear. “Try me and find out.”
Something in his tone made me swallow whatever retort I was about to make.
I stopped talking, stopped moving, and to my surprise, found myself feeling unexpectedly safe and comfortable in his arms. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair was oddly soothing, and despite everything—the handcuffs, the kidnapping, the dangerous man holding me—I felt my eyelids grow heavy.
The last thing I remembered before drifting off was the gentle pressure of his arm around my waist and the unsettling realization that I’d never fallen asleep this easily next to a man before.