Chapter 18
Varvara
He buttons his shirt without looking at me, but I know he’s aware of every breath I take. That’s the terrifying part about Lev Voronov. He tracks everything. Notes it and then uses it.
“I have work to do,” he says, finally turning. His eyes find mine. There’s possession in them that makes my stomach flip. “Stay in bed. Rest.”
“You’re not my keeper.”
His lips curve into that arrogant smile I’m starting to recognise. “Actually, I am.”
Before I can throw something at him, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock engages.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I sit up slowly, the duvet dropping around my waist. Everything aches. I can still feel him; the weight of him, how he looked at me near the end like he hadn’t expected to want me this much.
“You’re an idiot, Varvara.”
The room offers nothing back. Just dark wood and expensive silence.
I push the duvet off and head to the shower. I need the heat and the water to wash away what just happened.
The water scalds my skin, but I don’t adjust the temperature. I deserve it. I stand under the spray and try to make sense of the last hour.
I fucked him.
I fucked the man who cut my throat, abducted me and told me I belong to him on a whim. And worse, I wanted it. Every second of it.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say.
I scrub at my skin with soap that smells like him. Everything in this bathroom smells like him. Everything in this entire house probably does. He’s marked his territory so thoroughly that I can’t escape it even when he’s not in the room.
My hand moves between my legs, and I tremble. I’m still sensitive, and God help me, I want more.
I don’t know if that says more about him or me.
Either way, I’m fucked and not just in the physical sense.
Rationally, I know he won’t hurt me. Not now, not physically.
Emotionally is a whole other bag I refuse to open.
And the reason why that needs to remain packed up tight is because I’m starting to feel emotions towards him that I shouldn’t.
I press my forehead against the cold tile and let the water pound down on my back.
Gratitude. That’s what I felt when he brought me the pillow and blanket, when he went to my flat to get my things, when he stabbed that man in the hallway instead of killing him because it would’ve complicated my life.
Desire. That’s what I felt when he got close to me earlier and told me I could say no and he’d back off. He kissed me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Safety. That’s the most fucked up one. I feel safe with him. With a man who kills people and shoves them into barrels. With a man who admitted he’s been stalking me. With a man who locked me in his bedroom and told me I belong to him now.
I turn off the water before I can spiral further, grab a towel, wrap it around myself, and step back into the bedroom.
My clothes are still scattered on the floor where we left them.
I pick them up and dress slowly, my body protesting every movement.
The jeans feel rough against my sensitive skin.
My bra is uncomfortable. Everything reminds me of what just happened.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the locked door. Because that’s still my reality, even if I just had mind-blowing sex with my captor.
It’s dark and twisted.
Rising, I move to the window. The gardens look peaceful in the afternoon light. Normal. Like the world outside hasn’t gone completely insane while I’m trapped in here, losing my mind.
A knock sounds at the door.
I spin around, heart pounding. “What?”
“It’s Pyotr, Miss Krestova. I have tea for you.”
Miss Krestova.
I move to the door and call through it. “Come in.”
It’s ridiculous. I’m the one locked in here, and yet he still asks.
That means something. I’m not quite sure what, but something.
The lock clicks, and the door opens. Pyotr enters with a tray, his expression carefully neutral. He’s older than Lev, maybe mid-fifties, with grey at his temples and the kind of face that’s seen too much to be surprised by anything.
“Thank you,” I say, because my mother raised me with manners, even if my current situation makes using them feel absurd.
He sets the tray on the side table. Tea in a proper china cup, with biscuits arranged on a small plate. Everything perfect and civilised, as if I’m a guest and not a prisoner.
“Is there anything else you require?” he asks.
I want to say yes. I want to demand my freedom, my phone, my life back. But I look at Pyotr’s face and know he can’t give me any of those things.
“No. Thank you.”
Pyotr’s expression doesn’t change. “He also asked me to inform you that dinner will be at seven. He’ll be joining you.”
I nod, at a loss for words.
He leaves, locking the door behind him again.
I pour the tea with shaking hands. It’s perfectly brewed, of course. Everything in this house is perfect. Expensive. Controlled.
Like me now, apparently.
Taking a sip of tea, I groan as my dry mouth appreciates the wetness. My head is a dull ache from the wine, and I’m hungry again. I grab one of the biscuits and bite into it. It’s buttery and sweet, and reality catches up with me.
Two days. That’s all it’s been. Two days since my life imploded.
And yet, I’m not exactly desperately clawing at the door and windows to get away.
Maybe I’ve finally accepted that without Lev I’m a dead woman. Wrong woman, wrong place.
What are the odds?
I’m definitely broken. That’s the only explanation.
I return to the bed and lie down, staring at the ceiling. The house is quiet around me. Too quiet. I can’t hear Lev moving around, can’t hear Pyotr doing whatever it is house managers do. Just silence and my own thoughts, which are rapidly becoming my worst enemy.
I’m exhausted, but my mind won’t shut off. It keeps replaying everything, and to be quite honest, it’s pissing me off. I need to get out of this room.
Swiftly getting up and moving towards the door, I rap on it sharply. “Lev? Pyotr?”
Nothing.
I bang harder.
Silence stretches for another moment before I hear footsteps approaching. The lock clicks, and Lev appears, his expression mildly irritated. “What is it?”
“I want to leave this room. I’m restless, and my thoughts are spiralling…”
His blue gaze immediately goes from annoyed to concerned. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he says, “Can I trust you?”
“To do what?” I croak.
“Not to run.”
I search his eyes for the earnestness in his face. He’s asking me. Not demanding. Not ordering. Asking.
“Where would I even go?” I say finally. “You’ve made it clear what happens if I step outside.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “I won’t run.”
He studies me for a beat, and I can see him weighing my words, looking for the lie. Whatever he finds must satisfy him because he steps back and gestures for me to come out.
I move barefoot past him into the hallway, and the sudden freedom makes my head spin. It’s just a hallway. Just space. But after being locked in that room, it feels enormous.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, falling into step beside me.
“Outside, to sit by the fountain.”
“You will be guarded by men with guns, know that.”
“Noted,” I murmur and move beside him as we head downstairs. The house sprawls out around me. High ceilings. Art on the walls whose price tags I don’t want to think about. Everything is pristine and cold despite the obvious wealth. There are no personal touches. It’s like a museum.
We reach the ground floor, and he leads me through a sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens. The fountain I spotted from the bedroom window sits in the centre of a circular courtyard, water cascading down three tiers of carved stone.
“Through there,” Lev says, nodding towards the French doors.
I step outside, and the fresh air hits my lungs like a benediction. I didn’t realise how stifling that bedroom had become until now. The afternoon sun heats my skin, and I move towards one of the wrought-iron benches positioned near the fountain.
I sit, and Lev settles beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I’m aware of his presence in every nerve ending.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes.”
I scan the perimeter of the garden and spot the guards immediately. Two men in dark suits are positioned at different points along the high wall that surrounds the property. “Only two?” I joke weakly.
He snorts. “No, so don’t get any ideas.”
I watch the water splash into the basin. It’s loud enough to drown out the sounds of the city beyond these walls. I feel like I’m in a bubble, some weird pocket dimension where the only things that exist are the man who currently owns my life and me.
“Who is she?” I ask, not looking at him. “Do you have a name?”
“Not yet. I will.”
I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Does it happen often? People getting killed because they look like someone else?”
“More than you’d think. It’s why details matter.”
I finally turn my head to look at him. He’s staring at the fountain, his profile sharp against the sunlight. He looks relaxed, but I can see his eyes scan the perimeter. He’s never off.
“You’re going to kill her, aren’t you? If you find her.”
“She tried to put a bullet in your head, Varvara. What do you think?”
I don’t have an answer for that. My moral compass is spinning so fast I’m surprised I don’t have vertigo. But all I feel is a cold, hard knot of self-preservation.
“She’s a professional,” I say. “I’m just a hostess.”
“You’re mine. That makes you more important than any professional.”
I look back at the fountain before he can see what his words do to my face.
“What happens after this is done? Am I still yours then?”
He shifts and cups my face, turning me towards him. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a man who doesn’t know how to let go once he’s decided something belongs to him.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, the skin calloused and warm. “I’m a man who keeps what’s his. Forever.”
The finality in his voice does the opposite of what my rational brain screams at me, and I lean into his palm. I’m tired of fighting a war I’ve already lost. The sun is warm, the water is rhythmic, and the man beside me is a monster who looks at me like I’m the only light in his dark world.
“You’re going to be a very difficult habit to break, Lev.”
“Then don’t break it.” He drops his hand, but the intensity remains.
“I need to get back inside.”
“I want to stay out here.”
“Then stay,” he says, rising. “But you will be physically restrained if you try to leave.”
I stay on the bench, watching him walk toward the house. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. He knows exactly where the power lies in this relationship, and it isn’t with the woman sitting by the fountain, caged by him.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the sun soak into my skin. The guards are shadows, unmoving and silent. They are a physical reminder that the walls of this garden are just as much an enclosure as the bedroom upstairs.
My fingers trace the edge of the wrought iron. I keep thinking about how he looked at me when he said ‘forever.’ It wasn’t a romantic promise. It was a sentence. A claim staked on my future by a man who doesn’t understand the concept of ‘no.’
The water continues its steady splash, rhythmic and hypnotic. I find myself wondering what he’s doing in his office and if he’s thinking about his cock inside me.
I am lost. I know it with a sinking certainty that the wine couldn’t drown.
The air cools as a cloud passes over the sun. I shiver and stand up. The peace of the garden suddenly feels like a lie. I don’t wait for a guard to tell me what to do. I walk back toward the house, heading toward the only person who makes me feel alive and terrified in the same breath.