Chapter 10 – Isabella
ISABELLA
The plane steadied again, but Zotov didn’t move away.
He was basically curved around me. His hand curved protectively around the back of my head, his breath warm against my hair.
Every single point where his body touched mine sizzled with awareness—his chest was pressed to mine, and his hips pinned me to the counter while he steadied us against the counter.
I should have pushed him away. Should have made some cutting remark about personal space. Instead, I found myself frozen, unable to breathe, caught in the vortex of his overwhelming presence.
And the strangest thing was, I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t have an ounce of the familiar panic that usually came up when someone came too close or stayed too close for too long.
The scent of him filled my lungs—masculine and something distinctly him that made my heart race traitorously.
His face was so close, I could feel the slight stubble on his jaw brush my cheek. “Wha—” I whispered, not knowing what I even wanted to say. I hated how breathless I sounded. Hated even more how my body responded to his proximity and the slow heat building low in my stomach.
What the actual fuck?
This was Ivan Zotov—the man who’d kidnapped me, who was trying to use me against my family. The fact that my pulse quickened when his pinkie brushed—probably accidentally—against my neck was unforgivable. The way I wanted to lean into his touch was beyond dangerous.
I forced myself to remain perfectly still, even as every nerve ending screamed for movement—either to push him away or pull him closer—I wasn’t sure which urge would win, and that terrified me more than the current situation.
His breath hitched slightly when I shifted, and I felt his fingers flex against my scalp.
The small movement sent shivers down my spine, and I bit my lip to keep from making a sound that would betray how affected I was by his touch.
This was beyond crazy and totally unacceptable.
I forced myself to pull my thoughts out of the gutter, steeled my spine, and prepared to give him some serious sass.
The same way I’d dealt with plenty of men before.
Because let’s be honest. Zotov was just another man trying to intimidate me with his body, his size, and his strength.
But there was one error in his calculation.
Because both his size and his strength weren’t much help in the small confines of this parody of a bathroom.
“You can let go now,” I said, proud that my voice came out downright regal despite the chaos inside me.
His lips curved into that infuriating smirk. “Can I? What guarantees me you won’t punch me if I do?”
“Keep touching my sister, and I’ll do worse.” The threat came naturally, and the anger at just thinking about him helped push aside the unwanted attraction. Nobody messed with Mira—not on my watch.
His eyes narrowed, studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm. “Why so protective? I barely touched her hand. And why can’t I talk to her? Is there something you’re hiding, Shorty?”
Everything.
Thinking about it, the list was quite long: the fact that he had no business talking to Mira when I was who he was interested in; the truth about who I really was, my digital alter ego, and my childhood traumas; but most of all, this unwanted attraction that made me want to lean into his touch even as I plotted his demise.
Instead, I met his gaze with practiced defiance, letting him see only what I wanted him to see—the fierce sister protecting her twin. It was a role I’d played my whole life. The fact that my heart raced for entirely different reasons now was irrelevant.
His body remained a solid wall of heat, trapping me against the counter.
The small bathroom suddenly felt even tinier, every breath bringing his scent deeper into my lungs.
But I refused to show how his proximity affected me.
I’d learned since childhood to hide my feelings, to maintain composure—just another form of combat.
I shifted slightly, testing his reaction. His pupils dilated—dark rings expanding to swallow the pale blue of his irises. Interesting. I filed that information away, adding it to my mental dossier on Ivan Zotov. Every weakness was a potential advantage.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said, voice rougher than before. “What are you hiding?”
I let my shoulders drop slightly, allowing vulnerability to seep into my posture—a calculated risk—showing weakness could backfire, but it could also lower his guard. “I just want to protect her,” I whispered, letting my voice tremble just enough. “You don’t know what it’s like…”
His expression softened fractionally. I felt his thumb brush against my neck again, this time deliberately. “What what’s like?”
“Having a twin.” I glanced up through my lashes, noting how he looked at me, how his posture softened slightly. “Caring for someone more than you care for yourself.”
The words were true, which made them more effective. The best lies were wrapped in truth—another lesson learned early. I let my body relax further as if his presence was making me feel safe enough to open up.
His other hand moved to my waist, steadying me when I swayed slightly closer. “God, you’re good,” he murmured.
His fingers flexed against my waist. “Tell me about your sister. You two seem…unusually close.”
I forced a laugh though my heart hammered against my ribs. What was it he wanted to know? Was he fishing for something specific? “What’s unusual about being close to your twin?” Keep it light, deflect with sass or humor. Do not answer questions. I’d perfected this dance long ago.
“Most twins I know don’t track others’ movements like prey animals watching for predators.” His eyes narrowed, cataloging my reaction. “They don’t throw themselves between their sister and every perceived threat, either.”
“Clearly, you know some shitty twins, then.” I shrugged, careful to keep my expression neutral despite the warning bells ringing in my head.
He was observant and thoughtful; I’d give him that.
“And clearly, you know some oblivious people, as well. Besides, how many twins have you met in your line of work? Professional kidnapper doesn’t seem like a job with great networking opportunities.
Or is kidnapping twins your special expertise? ”
He traced small circles on my hip with his thumb, probably meant to be soothing. It wasn’t. “You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re prying.” I matched his steady gaze.
“What do you want to know? That we’re perfect mirrors?
That we finish each other’s sentences? Share clothes?
Have twin telepathy?” I infused my voice with sarcasm, hopefully making it clear I wasn’t interested in telling him shit.
Not about me or Mira. But he wasn’t dumb. So which lies would he believe?
The corner of his mouth twitched—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it and as close to him as I currently was.
“You’re not as alike as you pretend to be,” he murmured, more to himself than targeted at me.
Ice slid down my spine. Did he suspect something already? Did he know I was the one his boss was really after? Maybe I should come clean. At least it would be safer for Mira.
Fuck.
I never intended my little stunt of pretending to be her to put her in danger. But coming clean now would take away the one advantage I had, and I couldn’t give that up just yet. I forced myself to roll my eyes. “Wow, twins can be different people? Revolutionary insight there, Sherlock.”
“See? That sass—your sister doesn’t have it.” His eyes locked onto mine, searching, thinking, hopefully not remembering that situation in the garden of La Dimora.
“She’s quieter, more reserved. You’re…”
“A pain in your ass?” I offered sweetly while my mind raced. He was right about Mira being the quieter one but wrong about which twin he was talking to. The irony would have been funny if it wasn’t so dangerous.
“It was you I met in the garden, not your sister, right?”
Shit. What should I do now?
His question about the garden hung between us, but Zotov didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, his expression shifted, becoming more calculating.
“Why is my boss so interested in your sister?” His thumb traced another circle on my hip, the gesture at odds with his probing question.
I forced a casual shrug though my pulse quickened. Maybe now was the time to ask him some questions or at least get some reactions out of him. “Maybe your boss, Mr. Grey, has terrible taste in women.”
Zotov’s head snapped slightly back, and he zeroed in on me even more…if that was even possible with just inches between us, and the muscle in his jaw ticked.
I caught him off guard by mentioning his boss’s name. Did he really think I wouldn’t remember? Or was it because he hadn’t mentioned Mr. Grey’s name except when he took the call in the car, thinking I was still unconscious?
But he regained his composure almost as fast as he showed his unwanted surprise. “Or maybe,” he narrowed his eyes, “there’s more to Isabella than meets the eye.”
The way he said my name—my real name—while staring right at me, sent a shiver down my spine. Did he suspect? Was he testing me? I kept my expression neutral, channeling years of practice at hiding my true reactions.
“There’s more to both of us than meets the eye, Zotov.” I met his gaze steadily, letting a hint of challenge creep into my voice. Two could play at this game of half-truths and implications.
His fingers flexed against my waist, the pressure just shy of uncomfortable. The tiny bathroom suddenly felt even smaller, his body heat seeping into my skin wherever we touched. The intensity in his eyes had shifted from calculation to something darker, more dangerous.
I fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. One wrong move, one slip in my carefully maintained facade, and everything could unravel. But showing nervousness now would only confirm his suspicions.