Chapter 15 Zoya
Zoya
My voice trails off, swallowed by the oppressive grey walls.
I trace the curve of my mother’s smile one last time before setting the silver frame on the nightstand.
It’s a poor substitute for the warmth of her hand, but it’s all I have.
I glance at the clock and see it is hours before dinner time.
Will Roman come back after I threw water in his face, or will he send his guard?
Or worse, Katya? Actually, I find Katya terrifying and impressive with battle-axe, Bratva auntie energy.
She is fiercely loyal to Roman and knows who I am and that I won’t be leaving under my own steam.
Unless I manage to find a way to escape.
So worse, is objective. She is terrifying, but I feel she has a good heart buried under that iron exterior.
That doesn’t mean she is on my side, though.
I climb off the bed and move back to the window.
Seeing Roman out there before, running in casual clothes, was an interesting insight into the Bratva heir.
He likes discipline, yes, but he isn’t rigid.
He has clothes that aren’t sharp suits, and he runs outside even when it muddies his trainers.
The pristine, in-control hard man has layers.
I want to peel them back to find his weaknesses. He has to have some. Everyone does.
With a sigh, I turn around and wonder what will happen for my father’s funeral. Will Roman let me go? He has to. He can’t keep me locked up while my father is buried. It’s cruel. But then, he is a cruel man.
I move into the living area of this suite, trailing my hands over the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books.
I frown as I see they are all the types of books I like to read.
Thrillers. Dark psychological ones. How did Roman know this?
How did he know my clothes size, and which designers I prefer?
An inky black feeling of anxiety descends as I come to the conclusion that he must’ve been in my house.
Probably more than once. My underwear drawer misalignment was probably him.
I gulp and wrap my arms around myself. He was in my sanctuary.
He touched my things. He moved them purposefully so that I would notice but wonder if it was me.
I slide my back down the bookcase until my arse hits the floor and I pull my knees up to my chest. This has reached an even more insidious level. Talking to the woman in the boutique where I buy my clothes is one level of stalking, but this is something much, much darker.
The knowledge sits heavy in my stomach, worse than the hunger or the fear.
He didn’t just buy me a wardrobe; he studied me.
He dissected my life while I slept, walked through my rooms while I was out, breathed my air.
The thought makes my skin crawl, but underneath the revulsion, a strange heat flickers.
He is obsessed. And obsession is a weakness I can exploit.
The heavy clunk of the deadlock makes me jump. I whip around at the sound, pulse thundering in my throat like a trapped bird. I expect Roman. I expect that smug, possessive heat that suffocates me, ready to inspect me like a prize he’s just won.
Instead, the door swings open to reveal Andrei.
He holds a tray, his expression a fierce scowl. He steps inside, kicking the door shut with his heel.
“Dinner,” he grunts, setting the tray on the table with a rattle of china.
“Where is he?” The words slip out before I can stop them. I hate that I asked. I hate that my voice sounds breathless.
“Busy.”
“So he sent you? Are you planning to stand there while I eat?”
“Yes.”
This time, he doesn’t pull out his phone as I’d hoped, so I could at least not have his stare on me. Instead, he glares at me to move.
I rise from the floor, my muscles protesting the tension more than the movement. Unlike Roman, whose gaze feels like a physical caress—unwanted, invasive, but undeniably attentive—Andrei looks at me like I’m a stain on the carpet he’d very much like to scrub out with bleach.
“You’re enjoying this,” I mutter, pulling out the chair. It scrapes against the wood, the sound harsh in the silent room.
“I enjoy order,” he replies flatly. “You are disorder.”
“I’m a prisoner,” I correct him, sitting down and staring at the plate. Roast chicken and vegetables. Perfectly balanced. Perfectly boring without the man who makes the air catch fire. I’ve apparently grown accustomed to him in less than twenty-four hours. God, that’s pathetic.
I pick up the plastic fork. It bends under my thumb. “Does he think I’m going to try to stab you, too?”
Andrei snorts. “He thinks you’ll try. I think you’d break a nail.”
“Careful,” I warn, stabbing a carrot with more force than necessary. “My nails are sharp. Probably sharper than this fork.”
He doesn’t flinch. He just looms over me, radiating a clinical menace that makes the food taste like cardboard.
With Roman, the air crackles with a dangerous electricity.
With Andrei, it just stagnates. I force myself to swallow a mouthful of chicken, hating that I’m checking the door, waiting for Roman to appear. He doesn’t.
“Tell him the service is terrible,” I say, meeting Andrei’s dead eyes. “I prefer the other waiter.”
“Eat,” is his only response.
I chew slowly, dragging out the process just to annoy him.
If Roman wants to play games by withdrawing his presence, fine.
I’ll make sure his lackey is as miserable as I am.
But beneath the pettiness, a cold knot tightens in my stomach.
Roman is planning something, and silence from a predator is never a good sign.
“Finished,” I announce, dropping the plastic fork. It bounces pitifully on the china, a pathetic punctuation to a pathetic meal.
Andrei snatches the tray before I can even push my chair back.
He doesn’t offer a polite nod or a napkin. He just turns on his heel, eager to be rid of guard duty.
“Tell your boss I hope he chokes on his own ego,” I call out to his retreating back.
Andrei pauses at the door, glancing back with a look of pure amusement. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
The heavy door slams shut. The bolt slides across. That thunk is becoming the soundtrack of my life, a constant reminder of my helplessness.
I’m alone again. The silence rushes in to fill the space Andrei left, but it feels heavier now.
Thicker. It’s charged with the knowledge that Roman is somewhere in this house, ignoring me on purpose.
It’s a power play, and I know it’s working.
I’m wondering what he’s doing, or if he’s thinking about me.
I strip off the black dress and toss it onto the chair.
Dressed only in my underwear, I march to the bathroom.
I brush my teeth aggressively, spitting into the sink as I stare at my tired reflection.
I have to find a way to crack that code.
Or find a way to break Roman Voronov. Whichever comes first.
I hope it’s breaking Roman. I keep swinging back to my idea of seducing him into a false sense of security.
But rationally, I know he won’t buy it. He is sharper than most men.
Even at the thought of getting his dick wet, he will know I’m up to something.
It has to be subtle. It will undoubtedly take a few days to grow warmer to him before I make a move.
In the meantime, I’ll start with the run and see if he capitulates.
It’s always better to have contingencies than to bank on one plan alone.
I can work him from multiple angles, a third even if I find an opening.
One thing is very clear, I am not getting out of this room unless I can manipulate him into setting me free.
I need options. The more, the better. I flick off the bathroom light, plunging the suite into semi-darkness.
The daylight is ending, and I am bored out of my mind.
I might as well sleep to pass the time. Maybe tomorrow I will try one of the books.
I unclasp the bra and peel it off, before slipping out of the lace knickers. There is no laundry basket in this place. Did Roman think I would use it to smuggle myself out when Katya came to collect the laundry? So I pick them up and throw them into the bathroom before sliding into bed.
The grey silk is cool against my skin, slippery and expensive.
It feels like lying on a sheet of ice. Roman selected this.
He pictured my bare skin against this specific fabric, calculated the friction, and imagined the visual contrast. The realisation sends a prickle of heat racing through my veins that I immediately try to squash.
It feels intrusive, like his phantom fingers grazing my hip.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling.
The silence is deafening. Usually, London hums with life.
The sirens, traffic, the distant buzz of the city.
Here, behind iron gates and high walls, there is only the wind and the terrifying quiet of isolation.
My mind drifts to the ledger wedged behind the bathroom cupboard.
76-T-MK. The sequence loops in my brain, a riddle without a key.
Sleep remains elusive. Every creak of the old house sounds like footsteps approaching the corridor.
I turn onto my side, pulling the sheet up to my chin.
I hate that I’m listening for the bolt to slide back.
I hate that part of me wanted him to bring dinner.
Indifference is a weapon I didn’t think he possessed, and it cuts deeper than his threats. He wants me to crave his presence.
The question is, though, can he stay away from me?
As my eyes finally grow heavy, a slight shiver goes over my skin. He is everywhere in this room. He is the walls, the air, the silence. And I am just the ghost haunting his machine.