Chapter 8
PENELOPE
My fist clenched, nails biting into my palm, as I exhaled a shaky breath, a strange relief washing over me.
Dmitri’s promise—not to force himself on me—shouldn’t have felt like a lifeline, but it did.
The bastard’s obsession was a chain, his hatred a blade, yet knowing he wouldn’t cross that line gave me a sliver of hope.
I wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but I had room to fight, to plan.
I wouldn’t die here as his wife, caged in this gilded prison surrounded by Lake Como’s waters. I’d escape, lakes be damned, and I’d find my way back to my family.
My mind spun to them—my mother, my father, Nonna, her laughter always a beacon; my uncles.
By now, they must be tearing the world apart, demanding answers. Unless Dmitri had already poisoned the truth, telling them I’d chosen him. Or maybe the crowd at the wedding, their pitying whispers, had already carried the story back.
The thought twisted my gut.
I still couldn’t believe it—married against my will on the very day I should have been blowing out twenty-five candles?”
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the morning. That cake—my last taste of freedom—felt like a dream.
Gosh, I was starving.
The memory of the kitchen I’d stumbled through earlier flashed in my mind. Surely Dmitri wouldn’t care if I cooked something, right? A prisoner had to eat.
I dragged my tired legs through the cavernous living room, until I reached the kitchen.
And God—it was a chef’s paradise. Stainless steel appliances. The counters were spotless, lined with baskets of ripe tomatoes, golden loaves of bread, and jars of truffles I’d only ever seen in magazines.
The fridge hummed with fresh produce, cheeses, meats, sparkling water chilled in glass bottles.
My mouth watered. I gathered pasta, garlic, a block of parmesan, my hands trembling as I set them on the counter. For a brief moment, I almost forgot I was trapped—the scent of fresh herbs, citrus, olive oil wrapping around me like comfort.
But the illusion shattered with the sound of footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs, and turned.
It wasn’t Dmitri.
It was him.
The man who’d dragged me to Dmitri’s dockside tent, his crooked nose and scarred face burned into my memory.
Now he stood in the doorway, black suit crisp, eyes as cold as the gun likely holstered under his jacket.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped, my hands gripping the counter until my knuckles whitened.
He smirked, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Where else would I be? This is my boss’s house.” His boots clicked against the marble as he closed the space between us. “Better get used to seeing me, princess. I’m your shadow now.”
My blood boiled. “I don’t need a shadow. Or a babysitter.”
“Too bad.” He brushed past me to the fridge.
He pulled out a chilled bottle of sparkling water, cracked the seal, and slid it across the counter toward me. “Drink. You look like you’ll faint before you finish chopping that garlic.”
“I can cook for myself,” I hissed, my knife hitting the board harder than necessary.
His chuckle was low, knowing, as he leaned against the counter. “You can, sure. But why bother when standing right here is a chef who’s fed dons and presidents?” He gestured at himself with a lazy sweep. “Paris, Milan, Bocuse d’Or—ring any bells? I cook. You eat. That’s the arrangement.”
I glared, hating the smug tilt of his mouth.
Hating him. Hating Dmitri. Hating this whole nightmare. Fine. If he wanted to act like a master chef, I’d make him regret it.
“Alright then,” I said coldly, arms crossing. “Fusilli arrabbiata. Lobster risotto with saffron. Grilled octopus with lemon herb. And tiramisu from scratch. Don’t you dare cut corners.”
His brow arched, his smirk widening into something sharper. “That’s not dinner, sweetheart—that’s punishment.”
“If you can’t handle it, just admit it,” I shot back, my voice laced with challenge.
His laugh rumbled in his chest, dangerous. “You really don’t know who you’re playing with.” He rolled up his sleeves with theatrical precision, pulling pans from the rack. “Get out of my kitchen before I make you eat your words with your pasta.”
Good. Let him sweat.
I walked out, spine stiff, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a backward glance.
The warmth of the kitchen vanished behind me, replaced by the vast cold of the living room. My next problem loomed: where would I sleep? Definitely not in Dmitri’s room.
The upstairs corridor stretched ahead like a gauntlet.
I tried one door—locked. Another—sealed tight. Panic scraped at my chest with every click of the deadbolts. Hours ago, these rooms had been open. Now it was as if the house itself conspired to trap me with him.
The last door creaked open.
The bedroom swallowed me whole. And there he was.
Dmitri Volkov.
A towel slung dangerously low on his hips, his body still damp from the shower, droplets trailing down the ridges of his chest.
My breath caught.
My eyes betrayed me, tracing the expanse of muscle and—God—scars. Pale ridges, jagged lines, old and new, mapping his torso like battlefields carved into flesh.
Proof of a life steeped in violence. Proof he’d survived it all. Proof he was built to endure.
He was brutal and beautiful all at once.
His gaze caught mine, sharp as a blade.
“Like what you see, milaya?” Dmitri’s voice was a low rasp, carrying a dark amusement that rooted me to the spot. “Careful. Stare too long, and I’ll start to think you’re falling for your monster.”
My throat tightened, but I forced a scoff, folding my arms across my chest. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was staring at the scars, not the man. They tell me exactly what you’be become.”
“Go wash the travel off,” he drawled, not even granting me a glance as he pulled a razor from the dresser.
My cheeks burned.
“I’m not staying in this room with you,” I snapped, sharpening my tone to hide my shame.
His eyes caught mine in the mirror, glacial. “You don’t get a vote.”
He shaved with slow, deliberate strokes, the blade sliding over his jaw as though he had all the time in the world.
“You locked every other door so I’d end up here, didn’t you?” I accused, my hands curling into fists.
“Milaya,” he said with a dark chuckle, wiping his face with a towel, “stop whining and go take a bath. It’s our wedding night. There are... better ways to spend it.” His smile was a blade, casual and cruel.
Rage surged. “I will never lie with you,” I said, my voice steady. “Try as you might... you’ll get nothing from me.”
He dropped onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows, gaze fixed on me like a hunter watching prey.
“You’ll never lie with me?” he murmured, smirk deepening. “Perhaps not today... but one day, you’ll ache for many nights with me.”
A laugh tore from me, incredulous. “Ache for many nights with you? Keep dreaming, Dmitri.”
He didn’t answer, just watched me, his body deceptively relaxed.
I stormed to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it with trembling fingers.
The space was palatial—a clawfoot tub gleaming gold, lavender soap perfuming the air.
Too pristine, like a set prepared for me.
My heart hammered, fury and humiliation tangling in my chest. “You don’t get to check on me while I’m bathing!” I shouted through the door.
His voice came back, smug. “I don’t need to. Tonight, you’ll sleep beside me... naked.”
I snorted, glaring at my reflection. “Not a chance. Over my dead body.”
My clothes, worn all day, felt suddenly useless against his audacity.
As if he’d read my thoughts, his voice slid through the wood, amused. “Everything you need is in the wardrobe. Waiting for you.”
I swallowed, but didn’t bother replying.
I let the shower’s hot water cascade over me. Steam clouded the glass as my thoughts spiraled.
What was my life here? A prisoner in Dmitri’s estate, surrounded by lakes, guards, and his obsession?
Would he keep me locked forever, a trophy to his twisted desires?
I lingered under the water, letting it run longer than necessary, washing away the day’s terror, the metallic taste of blood from his kiss.
Finally, I stepped out, dried off, and wrapped a plush towel around me, long enough to cover my breasts and thighs.
My eyes immediately drew to the wardrobe. Its sleek design gleamed under soft LED lights.
Dmitri couldn’t see me from the bed—a small mercy.
I opened it, jaw dropping.
Rows of brand-new clothes, all my size, lined the shelves: silk blouses, tailored trousers, designer labels like Gucci and Prada glinting in the light.
A drawer revealed underwear—lace bras, matching panties, all perfectly fitted. Even my bra size. My cheeks burned, a mix of awe and unease.
Each piece seemed cut for me, hugging curves I hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
How did he know? Had he been planning this for years, stalking me, memorizing every detail in his twisted mind? The thought made my skin crawl.
I had no choice. I pulled on a black bra, matching panties, a black t-shirt, and trousers—nothing revealing, nothing meant to tempt him. No way was I wearing the silky nightgowns that screamed seduction.
I approached the bed, heart hammering at the thought of lying beside him.
His scent clung to the sheets. It repelled me, yet my body betrayed me with a flicker of heat.
His eyes were closed, breathing steady, though I knew he wasn’t asleep.
I turned toward the door, determined to sleep in the living room, my footsteps light but deliberate.
To my surprise, Dmitri didn’t stop me.
He heard my retreat, felt my defiance... yet let me go. Did he think I had no choice? That locked doors and lakes could break me? I’d rather sleep on the couch than share his bed.
I was almost at the stairs leading downstairs when a voice rang out.
“Ma’am!” it called from below, familiar. “The food is ready.”
I froze, disbelief washing over me.
No way.
Legs trembling from exhaustion, I descended the stairs and reached the dining hall.
The table was a vision: fusilli bathed in vibrant arrabbiata sauce, lobster risotto glistening with saffron, grilled octopus drizzled with lemon-herb dressing, and tiramisu dusted with cocoa, its layers perfect.
Aromas of garlic, seafood, and espresso hit me like a wave, my stomach growling despite my fury.
This would have taken me five hours—and yet this butler had done it in under one.
His smug efficiency infuriated me, but the food looked divine.
Hunger clawed at me, sharper than my hatred, and I sat, staring at the spread, wondering if every bite would taste like captivity.