CHAPTER NINE
Alina
THE WATER SCALDS my skin, washing away the remnants of sex from between my legs. My legs are weak, my body still thrumming with the aftershocks of what Lev did to me. What I practically begged him to do.
I grip the shower tile with my fingertips, dragging in a breath, but the heat does nothing to erase the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way he commanded my body like he owned it. Like I belonged to him.
Maybe I do.
The thought sends another flush through me, shame curling tight in my stomach. I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. There’s no time for this. I have to move. I have to see Marina.
I turn off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a towel. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, skin still flushed, lips still swollen. I press my fingers to my mouth, tracing where his had been.
Enough.
I push away from the sink and walk into the bedroom, my eyes catching on the closet. Everything in there is designer, expensive—luxuries I never imagined wearing in my lifetime. I reach for a pair of jeans, impossibly soft, paired with a sweater that’s warm and perfect, yet unfamiliar.
The only shoes in my closet are still just the heels from yesterday—dangerous, elegant, completely inappropriate for a casual day out. The same ones I wore to the charity event. I hesitate, then slide them on, my legs still shaky.
I huff out a breath, fingers shaking as I fasten the straps around my ankles. My body won’t stop humming with the memory of how I got this sore in the first place, and that’s fucking aggravating.
It was wild, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
I exhale, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks. I don’t take initiative like that—not ever. It was terrifying, standing before him, loosening the belt of my robe, letting it fall. Exposing myself to him, knowing exactly how he’d look at me, how he’d take me apart.
The lingerie was already in my closet, silky piles of lace and temptation in one of the drawers. It had to be him. He chose all of those pretties for me. At some point, he was going to want me dressed for him, ready for him.
I gave him exactly what he wanted; I just gave it to him on my timetable. My terms.
It didn’t feel like my terms in that kitchen, though. It may have felt for a moment like I was the one giving myself to him, but in the space of a heartbeat, he turned that table, laid me out on it, and took exactly everything he wanted.
He was the master; I was the chattel, and the sooner I understood that, the better off I’d be.
Heat curls between my thighs, unbidden, unwanted. I shake it off and grab my bag. There’s no time to sit with these thoughts, to let them twist through me and settle somewhere dangerous. Marina is all that matters.
I make my way downstairs, my heels clicking against the marble. Dima stands near the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she glances up. Her gaze sweeps over me, unreadable.
“I need a taxi,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Her brow lifts ever so slightly. “A taxi?”
“Yes.”
She folds the towel with quiet precision, then sets it aside. “I will call a car for you instead.”
I tighten my grip on my bag. “A taxi is fine.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but something in the air shifts. The weight of unspoken authority settles between us.
Hers. She is the queen in this household.
“A car will be safer,” she says simply, as if that ends the discussion.
I clench my jaw. A quiet battle of wills stretches between us, a war fought in silence. My pulse kicks up, but I force my posture to remain steady.
“Fine.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue, but I know when I’m outmatched.
Dima nods once, then turns away, already reaching for the phone.
Minutes later, as I wait by the kitchen door, the low purr of an approaching vehicle signals my surrender.
I don’t look at her again as I step outside and slide into the backseat. But I can feel it.
She won.
The car ride into the city is tense. As I sit in the back of the sleek, black vehicle, my heart won’t stop hammering. Lev never told me I couldn’t leave. He didn’t lock the doors or chain me to the bed.
But he didn’t leave me shoes either, except these silly stilettos.
As the car winds through the streets, I keep glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see one of his men tailing me. Or worse—Lev himself.
I don’t know how long I’ll be with him. I don’t know what he wants from me. Just sex? Something more?
And if I can’t find a way to come up with another fifty thousand dollars, I don’t know how long I’ll last.
I need to work up the courage to ask him, and make him answer me. Or maybe I just need to pray for another one of those godforsaken Bratva events. Something about Lev terrifies me.
If I find Sergei first, maybe I can offer myself to him. This time, I know I need to make my bargain very clear. I need to have something in writing. Fifty thousand dollars for…say… I shake my head. The idea makes my skin crawl. What is fair for fifty thousand? A week? A month?
A moment?
The thought makes my stomach churn, cold sweat slicking my palms. I want to go home. I want to go back to my paints and my sketches and my tea and my mother and forget any of this ever happened. Moisture tracks my cheek, and I brush it away with the back of my hand.
Marina’s safety comes first.
When the car pulls up outside my family’s building, my chest tightens. It’s always the same—worn brick, sagging steps, despair hanging thick in the air like a storm that never clears.
I slip inside quietly, my steps light. Mama is slumped in her chair, her frame swallowed by the cushions. At her feet, Marina kneels, carefully tugging off her shoes.
I freeze in the doorway.
It never gets easier, seeing her like this. Each year, Mama seems smaller, more fragile, like a gust of wind could carry her away.
Marina glances up and spots me. Her brows knit together in confusion, and her lips part, but I press a finger to my lips. She nods, finishes helping Mama, then murmurs something about bringing her tea before slipping into the kitchen.
I follow.
The second the door swings shut, Marina turns on me. “Where the hell have you been?”
I exhale slowly. “Working. I got a new job.”
Her arms are crossed tight over her chest. “Since when does housekeeping mean disappearing for days?”
I brush past her accusation. “It’s good money. That’s all that matters.”
Her eyes narrow, but I don’t let her question me further. “Have you heard from those men?”
Her face falls. The tough facade cracks. “No. Not yet.” Shame flickers in her expression, in the way she avoids my gaze. “I’m so sorry, Alina. I shouldn’t have—”
I grab her hands, squeezing tight. “Stop. We’ll figure it out. The new job is helping, and I’ll get a loan from the bank if I have to.”
She hesitates for a moment before wrapping her arms around me, clinging tighter than usual. I close my eyes and press my lips together, willing the sting behind them to fade. My fingers grip the fabric of her shirt, holding on as if it will somehow anchor me.
The scent of home clings to her—cheap detergent, something warm and familiar. For a second, I let myself sink into it, let myself believe I can fix this. That I can fix everything.
But the lie is too big. The fear, too real.
Marina pulls back first, her gaze searching mine. If she sees the fracture in my composure, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she forces a small smile and rubs at her eyes like she’s the one trying to hold it together.
“We’ll figure it out,” she agrees.
I nod because she needs me to.
After a little more small talk, I make up an excuse and leave, my thoughts tangled, my chest heavy.
The car is waiting for me when I step outside. I slide into the backseat and pull out my phone. My fingers hesitate over the screen, then I search for Sergei’s name.
The third article I find makes my stomach drop.
Another charity gala. Tonight. Downtown.
I suck in a breath, my pulse kicking into overdrive. It’s close. So close. This might be my only chance.
I lean forward. “Change of plans. Take me to this address.”
The driver nods, pulling away from the curb.
I stare out the window, my reflection a ghost against the glass. I’m not dressed for this. I look like an ordinary girl, not someone who belongs at an elite bratva event.
But after seeing Marina—after remembering what’s at stake—I don’t care.
I fish a lipstick from my bag, swipe it across my lips, then unfasten two buttons of my shirt. I pull the elastic from my hair and fluff it out, letting it fall around my shoulders.
It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
But I don’t have a choice.
I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my sister safe.
Even if it means selling the last piece of myself I’ve been trying so hard to keep.