Chapter 11 Zoya
Zoya
My palms are sweating. I’m laden down with a pouch full of diamonds in my hoodie pocket, and the ledger shoved down the back of my yoga pants.
I knew I couldn’t leave them in there. The cash and passports are shoved into the casing of one of the pillows that I ripped open and moved to the side, hoping that whoever Roman sends in there to search my bag won’t check.
But if they do, they are things I can live without, even if it will hurt me.
I walk stiffly behind Andrei, hoping he keeps his hands to himself today.
I figure if I keep moving in the direction he wants me to go, he won’t have a reason to grab me.
Somehow, I have to make sure I can move the ledger to a safe spot with him watching me.
I can’t exactly work out with it where it is currently hiding.
I have no idea what this thing is, but I know my dad wouldn’t have hidden it for no reason.
It’s valuable, but I just don’t know why. Yet.
The basement gym is exactly what I expected: a shrine to testosterone and vanity.
Walls of mirrors reflect my pale, anxious face, and the air smells faintly of rubber and ozone.
Rows of Technogym equipment gleam under the harsh strip lighting, looking more like torture devices than fitness machines.
To my relief, Andrei looks bored as he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.
I’m guessing there are no other exits except the one he is standing in front of.
But this is good. He is distracted, and I can make my move.
I pull off the hoodie, feeling the weight of the pouch, swinging in the pocket.
Trying not to look directly at Andrei, but needing to keep him in my periphery, I sit on the rubber mats and pretend to stretch, sneaking the ledger out and shoving it under the hoodie.
It’s not the best hiding place in the world; in fact, it’s terrible, but it’s not in my bag, and that is everything.
Standing up, I move to the treadmill and turn it on.
I pound the rubber belt, upping the speed until my lungs burn.
The physical exertion acts as a release, a way to channel the scream lodged in my throat into something productive.
Sweat slicks my skin, cooling the heat of my rage.
Every step feels like I am stomping on Nik’s face, or perhaps Roman’s arrogance.
My gaze flicks to the pile of grey fabric on the mat. The hoodie looks innocuous, just a discarded layer, but it houses the only leverage I have left. If Andrei decides to move it, or if he gets curious, I’m finished. Or worse, I’m destitute and at Roman’s mercy forever.
Andrei doesn’t look up from his phone. He types rapidly, a bored smirk playing on his lips. His lack of attention is insulting but useful.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I manage before the stress, and the lack of real food makes my head spin.
I hit the stop button, panting heavily. I grab a nearby towel and wipe my face, keeping my movements casual as I walk over to the mat.
I scoop up the hoodie, clutching it to my chest like a shield.
The hard edge of the ledger presses against my ribs, a secret weight I must guard with my life.
“I’m done,” I say to Andrei.
He looks up, surprised and jerks his head to the door. “Move.”
I walk, knowing I should’ve done some stretches to cool down, but I will do them back in my room. The stress of this situation is too much. I’d rather be in my room defending something I know will give me a one-upmanship just as soon as I figure out what the hell it is.
The walk back to my prison feels longer than before.
Every step up the stairs makes the ledger shift against my ribs, and I have to resist the urge to clutch the hoodie tighter.
Andrei trails behind me, his footsteps heavy on the marble.
When we reach my door, he unlocks it without ceremony and gestures for me to go inside.
The door clicks shut, and the bolt slides into place, and I’m alone again.
I move to the bathroom and close the door quietly.
I turn on the shower and step back, dropping to my knees.
I yank open the under-sink cupboard and stare into the dim depths.
There is some cleaner, a few brushes and sponges, nothing remarkable.
Sticking my head in, I look up and see a place I can stuff the ledger.
I cram it into the tight spot between where the cupboard meets the surrounding framework, wedging it in with the heel of my hand until it’s secure.
The shower continues to run, masking any noise I might make.
I add the pouch, back out of the cupboard and dust off my knees, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The ledger and diamonds are hidden, but not well. If Roman decides to have this room torn apart, he’ll find them. But it’s better than having them discovered in my bag, which I’m certain he had searched the moment I was out of sight.
I strip off my workout clothes and step under the scalding spray, letting the water wash away the sweat and fear clinging to my skin. I wash quickly, efficiently, my mind racing through possibilities.
The ledger has to be important. Dad wouldn’t have hidden it otherwise. But what could be so valuable that he’d risk keeping it in the house? Names? Bank accounts? Blackmail material? That damn code needs deciphering, but I have no idea where to even start.
I turn off the water and wrap myself in a towel, walking back into the bedroom. I dress in clean underwear and a simple black dress from the wardrobe, hating how perfectly it fits.
I look up and see that the pillow that was hiding my bag has been moved slightly to the left. My heart pounds. I shift my gaze to the pillow at the side, but it appears to be unmoved. My skin prickles at the back of my neck, and I step back, closing the wardrobe doors.
The bedroom door opens, and Roman steps inside. “Don’t you knock?” I snap, my nerves getting the better of me.
“You’re finished already,” he says, ignoring my outburst.
His gaze skims my curves in this dress, heating up. But he makes no move to take what he thinks is his. He remains where he is by the door, his face a mask of brutal calm.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
I resist the urge to preen or to give him any reaction. “What do you want?”
He blinks and then narrows his eyes. “You weren’t in the gym for long.”
“Needed longer to search my belongings?” I fire out, and then regret it.
He chuckles. “You have no belongings. Or at least none that I haven’t bought myself or already been through. Tell me, Zoya, does that vibrator satisfy you?”
Heat floods my face, molten and humiliating. I refuse to look away, refuse to let him see how his invasive question lands. He stands there, smelling of sandalwood and violence, stripping me bare with words because he promised not to use his hands.
“It does the job without threatening to kidnap me,” I retort, my voice steady despite the rapid thud of my heart against my ribs. “And it doesn’t stare at me while I eat.”
A dark amusement glitters in his eyes. He steps further into the room, shrinking the world until it is just him and the air stealing my oxygen. “It offers no warmth. It offers no friction. It is a poor substitute for the real thing.”
“I’m perfectly happy with substitutes.”
“For now. Do you like the size? Do you need one bigger?” His gaze is taunting, and it does stupid things to me that I wish would fuck off so I could hate him in peace.
“Bigger?” I scoff. “Size isn’t everything.”
His eyes darken. “Is that so?” The words slide over my skin like a caress I didn’t ask for.
He moves closer but respects my personal space.
He doesn’t touch me, yet I feel surrounded, consumed by him.
The air in the room thickens, charged with a current that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up.
I hate that my body reacts. So I reach for sarcasm—something sharp I can still control.
“I prefer reliability,” I manage, tilting my chin up to hold his stare. “And batteries don’t have egos the size of Russia.”
A corner of his mouth quirks up. It isn’t a smile; it’s a warning. “Batteries run out, Zoya. I don’t.”
My breath hitches, betraying me. He hears it. His gaze drops to my chest, tracking the rapid rise and fall, before returning to my eyes with a triumphant glint. He knows he’s winning this physical war, even if I’m still fighting the mental one.
“Even a man such as yourself needs time to recharge.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“It’s a reality check, krasavchik.”
He smirks at my sarcastic endearment. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re a boy,” I retort.
His eyebrows go up, even as his breathing grows heavier. The struggle is evident on his face to keep his distance. He wants to break his promise, and I’m going to push him until he does, so that I can throw it back in his face.
The air in the room shifts instantly, the temperature dropping as his amusement evaporates.
It is replaced by a cold, predatory focus that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I barely have time to register the change before he closes the remaining distance, invading my personal space until he can’t get any closer without touching me.
Damn him.
He plants a hand on the wardrobe door beside my head, caging me in without actually laying a finger on my skin. The scent of sandalwood and danger floods my senses, overwhelming and intoxicating.
“A boy plays games,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating through my chest. “A man finishes them.”
My breath hitches, trapped in my throat. I want to push him away, to scream, but my body betrays me, freezing under the intensity of his blue gaze. He lowers his head until his lips are inches from my ear, his hot breath ghosting over my sensitive skin.
“Do not mistake my restraint for weakness, moya printsessa,” he whispers, the Russian endearment sounding like a threat.
“I could take you right now. I could rip this dress from your body and make you scream my name until your voice gives out. And you wouldn’t be able to stop me.
” He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, searching for the fear he knows he put there.
“But I won’t. Because when you finally scream for me, Zoya, it will be because you begged for it. ”
He pushes off the wardrobe and straightens his jacket, the mask of indifference sliding back into place. “Andrei will bring lunch at one.”
With that, he turns and strides out, leaving me trembling against the wood, my hands trembling with fear but also something much darker. Desire.