Chapter 9
Zoya
“Iunderstand that you are delusional,” I reply, gripping the knife until my knuckles turn white. “I will never ask for your touch.”
He doesn’t flinch. He just stares at me with that terrifying intensity, as if he can read every secret I’ve buried. “We have time, Zoya. Lots of it.”
My gaze drops to his hand. The blood is seeping further into the linen, a dark, spreading blossom of violence. It’s distracting. It turns my stomach, warring with the rich scent of the truffle mash.
“Your hand needs patching up,” I state, changing the subject. “You’re bleeding all over the table.”
He glances at the injury as if remembering it exists. “Does the sight of blood bother you, moya printsessa? You’d better get used to it.”
“It doesn’t bother me. I’d prefer to watch you bleed out so I can escape.” I counter, taking a sip of the wine to wash away the dryness in my throat. It tastes expensive, complex, and wasted on a prisoner.
“If I’m dead, you will be left with Andrei. He isn’t known for his control with pretty women.” A cold dread coils in my stomach, killing the momentary satisfaction of my retort.
“Is that supposed to make me grateful?” I ask, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound bored. “That you’re the lesser of two evils?”
“I’m the only evil that matters right now.” He lifts his glass with his good hand, unbothered by the carnage dripping from the other. “If Andrei even looks at you, I will gouge his eyes out. If you look at him, Zoya…” he leans forward, “… I will kill him first and then you.”
The scoff dies in my throat as Roman stands, looming over me. “Finish your dinner, Zoya and then get some sleep. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”
“My father wouldn’t want you treating me this way,” I say to his retreating back.
“Your father isn’t here. What I do with you is up to me. Goodnight, moya printsessa.”
The heavy click of the deadbolt sliding home reverberates through the room, sealing me in with the scent of cooling truffle mash and the metallic tang of Roman’s blood.
I stare at the crimson droplets on the polished wood table.
A violent Rorschach test I don’t want to interpret. My appetite vanishes completely.
I push the plate away and stand. Whatever my father had in mind, I’m sure it wasn’t this.
But Roman is right. He isn’t here now to save me.
He left me with this monster. I stare at my phone on the bed.
It’s completely useless. There is no signal in this room.
I have no charger anyway, so it will die shortly, and that will be that.
I move into the en suite and stare at the black marble, then move to the enormous rainfall shower.
I flick it on and shove the bathroom door closed, grateful to have a lock on it.
Not that it will keep Roman out if he wants to get in, but his words echo in my head. I won’t touch you unless you ask.
The steam rises, fogging the mirror and obliterating my reflection. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the black tiles. Stepping under the spray, I let the scalding water beat against my spine, the noise a temporary shield against the terrifying silence of the estate.
The arrogance is suffocating. But his promise—however twisted—gives me a sliver of breathing room. He plays the long game. I just need to play a smarter one.
I wash quickly and turn off the shower. Grabbing a fluffy black towel from the heated rail, I step out and dry myself off before wrapping it around me. Unlocking the bathroom door, I peer out into the bedroom and see that I am still alone. I drop the towel and slip under the grey silk sheets.
This day has been too long, too emotional, and I’ve buried all but the most basic emotions.
It crashes down on me as I close my eyes, leaving the bedside lamp on to keep the worst of the ghosts away.
This morning, my father was alive, and I was living my life.
Now, he is dead, and I’m a prisoner of some monster who made a vow to protect me.
My body shakes as I let it all out, sobbing loudly until exhaustion finally drags me under.
I wake to the rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane. I crack a puffy eye and groan. My head is aching as I roll over and see the early morning light filtering in. The crash of reality is worse than the headache pulsing behind my eyes. Dad is gone. And I am here.
I sit up, clutching the grey silk sheet to my chest. The room is cold, or maybe the chill is coming from inside me. I slide out of bed, and my bare feet hit the plush carpet. It’s expensive, sinking under my weight, but it feels like quicksand.
The bathroom calls first.
After flushing, I wash my hands and spot a brand new toothbrush and toothpaste.
I snatch it up and get to work, staring at my awful reflection.
I rinse the minty foam from my mouth and splash cold water on my face, gasping as the chill hits my skin.
It does little to reduce the puffiness around my eyes.
I look like a spectre, a hollowed-out version of the woman who woke up yesterday with a father and a future.
I toss the brush onto the black marble. It clatters loudly.
I glare at it and then at the medicine cabinet.
I yank it open and scowl. Everything has been provided.
Every toiletry from deodorant to tampons.
A variety of different kinds, which makes me even angrier.
How dare he? It’s a taunt. I knew you were coming.
I prepared for you. It makes my skin crawl, even as I reach for the roll-on and apply it with my dignity in tatters.
I throw it back in the cabinet, slam the door shut, and storm back into the bedroom.
I glare at the wardrobe. The clothes I had on yesterday are a crumpled, damp heap on the bathroom floor.
I should put them back on. I should dress myself in crumpled, probably still rain-damp attire, but the millionaire lifestyle woman in me refuses to put them back on, which leaves me with Roman’s twisted boutique.
It’s like he knew I’d fold like a cheap suit with the array of gorgeous silks and cashmeres.
Maybe I can use this as an opportunity to be compliant.
To look like I’m agreeing to all of this.
Maybe he will lengthen the leash, and I can escape.
I yank the doors open. The sight of the neatly hung garments makes my stomach turn.
He didn’t just guess my size; he knew my preferences.
Cashmere, silk, specific cuts and colours that I favour.
It feels like he’s been inside my head long before he forced me into his house.
I grab a pair of black jeans and an oversized grey knitted jumper from the rail.
I dress quickly, treating the fabric like a defence mechanism rather than a gift. It fits perfectly, deepening my scowl.
I’ll play his game, and then I’ll run.
The silence of the room amplifies my anxiety, broken by the heavy mechanical clunk of the deadbolt retracting echoes through the suite.
I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs.
The door swings open. Roman fills the frame, immaculate in a fresh charcoal suit; his injured hand has been steri-stripped. I want to claw them off, but refrain, thinking of my plan.
“Good morning, Zoya,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering on the jumper. “Sleep well?”
“Fuck. You.”
“Feisty. I’ll take that as a no.”
“Let me leave. I have funeral preparations to make.”
“Nik is dealing with that.”
I grimace. “Are you at least going to let me attend?”
“Maybe, if you behave yourself.” He closes the door behind him and leans against it.
It’s only then that I notice the bag in his hand.
“More items to bribe me with?” I ask, archly.
“I sent a man to your former residence. He collected some of your things.”
“What?” I spit out and lurch towards him. “You broke in? Take me back!”
He doesn’t flinch. He stands there, solid and infuriatingly calm, holding the bag out like a peace offering I never asked for.
“Open it,” he says simply.
I snatch it from him, careful not to brush his skin. I retreat to the bed, putting the vast mattress between us as a barrier. My hands tremble as I undo the drawstring.
Inside, wrapped in tissue, are the crystal ducks.
Beneath them, the silver frame holding the picture of Mum and me.
The glass is cool against my fingertips.
The broken photo of Dad and me. My book, a packet of tissues that were in the bedside cabinet drawer, lip balm, a few other bits and pieces, along with…
my cheeks heat up painfully as I stare at the vibrator box that was stashed alongside the tissues and lip balm.
“Petr was careful,” Roman murmurs.
“You went through my things,” I whisper, looking up at him. The violation sits heavily in my gut, warring with the relief of having these small pieces of my life back. “You had your men touch my things.”
“Would you prefer Nik throw them in a skip?”
The question lands like a slap. He knows exactly how to dismantle my arguments. He presents himself as the lesser of two evils, but a cage is still a cage, no matter how many trinkets he fills it with. I clutch the photo frame to my chest, the metal digging into my skin.
“I hate you.”
“I know.” He checks his watch, dismissive of my venom.
“You have no right. These are mine. My memories. You don’t get to curate them.”
“I already have,” he replies, his voice low and devoid of remorse.
He steps into my personal space, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
He smells of cedar and expensive sandalwood, a scent that is quickly becoming the smell of my captivity.
“I told you, Zoya. I know what is precious. I am not a complete monster.”
A shiver races down my spine. He’s right, and I hate him for it. I hate that his invasion feels so absolute.
“If you think a few souvenirs will make me docile,” I say, forgetting my plan to be exactly that for a moment, “you are mistaken.”
“I don’t want docile,” he murmurs, his blue eyes darkening as they trace the line of my throat. “I want you to be comfortable. Because you aren’t leaving this room until I say so.”