Chapter 19
Zoya
The bolt scrapes. I spin, pulse spiking.
Roman’s presence fills the doorway, storm-tight and unreadable. He has changed into a navy-blue Ralph Lauren suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. Platinum cufflinks, Tom Ford loafers, Patek Philippe watch. The Bratva heir is back.
“Are you okay?” he asks. It isn’t gentle. It lands like an assessment.
“I’ve been better,” I say, folding my arms over the throb in my wrist. “Your friend redecorated a wall with his blood.”
“My man forgot his place,” he replies, unblinking. “He remembers now.”
“Message received,” I say coolly, though my stomach flips at the memory. “You could’ve just told him off like a normal employer.”
“I am not a normal employer.” His gaze drops to my wrist. “Katya treated it?”
“Yes.” I tilt my chin. “Is this the part where you apologise on behalf of your staff?”
“No. This is the part where I tell you it won’t happen again.”
“Comforting.”
He steps further in, closing the door with a soft click that feels like a closing argument. The suit, the polish, the expensive smell of his cologne, fill the space between us until breath feels like acquiescence.
“Three days,” he says. “Your father’s funeral.”
Ice sluices through my veins. “So soon?”
“Nik paid to expedite. Service at St. Nicholas.” His tone is clipped, efficient. “You will attend on my arm.”
“You think I need your permission to bury my father?”
“I think you need my protection to survive it.”
“Wonderful. I’ll make sure to curtsey.”
His mouth tips, almost amused. “We leaked that you flew to L.A. yesterday. That is an advantage we use.”
“You used me as bait without asking.” I fold my arms tighter. “Why am I not surprised? Did he buy it?”
He shrugs. “What matters is the impact you make when you walk in with me.”
“Why? Why does that matter?” I ask, grief welling up. He is using my father’s funeral as a tool.
“Because power isn’t taken in back rooms,” he says. “It’s taken in plain sight. You on my arm tells every vulture in that church that you are under Voronov protection. It tells Nik he doesn’t get to fire shots without me firing back.”
“So, I’m a prop.”
“You’re the point,” he answers without blinking. “Predators sniff for gaps. I close them.”
My throat tightens. I picture incense curling through St. Nicholas, black cloth, the old women crossing themselves, and me paraded like a banner. “I want to say goodbye to my father without being used.”
“You can do both.” His tone softens a fraction. “You will stand, you will grieve, and no one will lay a finger on you.”
“Whatever you are using me for, I accept my fate,” I say, catching the fleeting surprise on his face, but it’s what I was after. The manipulation class has started. “But I have a set of conditions.”
One brow lifts. “Go on.”
“I choose what I wear, when I wear it and how I wear it. If I want to parade around these grounds in my underwear, you won’t stop me.”
His gaze darkens. “I won’t be able to stop my actions when my men look at you.”
“Not my problem.”
His gaze simmers. He wants to argue, but he won’t. Not yet, anyway.
“I also want real cutlery. I won’t stab you at breakfast. Promise.”
“That remains to be seen,” he says wryly. “Fine.”
“And I want you to take the leash off. Completely. I won’t run. I like my head where it is. I accept your protection.”
The air turns cold.
I hold his gaze, refusing to blink first.
“No,” he says at last, voice flat as steel.
My mouth tightens. “Then we don’t have a deal.”
“You don’t have a position to bargain from.”
“I have the one you gave me,” I counter, stepping closer. “A vow. Optics. The point. If you want me sharp, not catatonic, you stop locking me in like a prisoner.”
He goes still, the sort of still that means the room shrinks around him. “You get more leash,” he allows, “but not none.”
“How much?”
“You move through the house. Main floor, library, pool, gym, terrace. Garden with me with a barrier of fifty feet from any wall or gate. No basements. No offices. No kitchen.” His eyes flick to my wrist and back.
“Guards will be stationed at every exit. Every exit. The bolt stays open unless I say otherwise.”
It’s not everything, but it’s damn near as close as I’ll get. “Real cutlery?”
“You try anything with it, and you eat with your hands.”
“I’ll behave,” I say, sweet as cyanide.
He doesn’t smile. “You get one more condition. Choose carefully.”
The answer is clear. “Access to pen and paper.”
He frowns but nods slowly. “I’ll have some stationery brought up.”
Perfect. Now I can really start to work on cracking this code. I can’t do it in my head. I need visuals. I need to scrawl my thoughts, doodle my ponderings, write shit down so I can see it and refer back. This was the biggest coup of all, and he doesn’t even know it.
“Katya will bring it,” he says.
I nod, not giving him the thanks he probably thinks he deserves.
Not yet, anyway. One thing has become apparent.
I am not getting off these grounds without him, even more so now that all the guards will know Roman shot one of his own men because he thinks he hurt me.
I won’t get within fifty yards of any gate, and I can’t scale the walls.
That means any chance of escape has to be through the front gates with Roman by my side.
But as I stare at him, and he stares at me, I wonder if that’s really what I want anymore.
Out there, I am alone. Nik will find me and kill me or sell me.
Isn’t being caged better than being dead or married to a man who doesn’t have Roman’s code?
The idea of being pawed at and fucked to within an inch of my life by some old man on Viagra makes me feel sick.
I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place, but at least the rock appears to care.
“Anything else?” he practically whispers, his tone is so low.
I shake my head. I got what I wanted, and now I have to crack that code because even if I’m not doing it to hurt Roman Voronov, it will hurt Nik, and it appears we now have a common enemy. Does that make us friends, though?