10. Sierra
SIERRA
Lilia is more fun than I expected from the sister of my stoic husband.
I keep tripping over the word. The eagle emblem ring still sits strangely on the fourth finger of my left hand.
I touch it frequently. Turning it in circles.
Tracing the engraving just to feel the sharp edges of the eagle’s wings and talons.
Food is the first order of business, seeing as I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday at lunch and a few bagged snacks in the car on the way to Las Vegas. Lilia chooses a restaurant leagues beyond my usual drive-through choices. Who casually drops sixty bucks for brunch—before tax and tip?
Orlovs, apparently, without batting an eyelash.
The portions are tiny little gourmet dishes, but it’s still thirty-six dollars for two poached eggs, which is highway robbery even if they are dusted with caviar.
When I pull out the credit card Nik gave me, Lilia tries to wave it away, then leans forward to squint at the name.
“Well, if it’s my brother paying, then I don’t mind you picking up the tab.
The first rule of Orlov etiquette is that the man always pays. ”
“Nik said to spend whatever I wanted. I plan to test his generosity.” I wink.
“Good. You should. Can I be nosy?” She leans forward, her delicate chin resting on her closed fist. “Did he give you a good marriage settlement?”
“Uh…” At first I’m stymied, but pride flashes through me. “Ten million dollars?”
Lilia barks a laugh. “Nikolai is such a cheapskate. I’d have held out for ten times that.
” Seeing my crestfallen reaction, she recalibrates.
“Don’t worry. You did alright. The money is just…
insurance, you know? Earnest money, like when you’re buying a house.
If the deal falls through and it’s his fault, you get to keep that money.
If you walk away, you give it back. If he dies, or…
” She trails off. “If anything bad happens to him, that way, you’re taken care of. ”
Anything bad…like…jail? I can’t ask her that question. I suspect I won’t like the answer.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. The idea of buying a house is beyond the realm of possibility.” I chuckle uneasily. This all feels unreal. Yesterday, I was cleaning houses and imagining a life out of reach. Today, I’m living it.
“It’s a weird thing in our world, very old-fashioned. You didn’t have anyone to negotiate for you,” Lilia says sympathetically.
“It all happened so fast,” I say, unsure how much I should reveal about my kidnapping.
“Love at first sight?” Lilia says innocently. She’s about my age, early twenties, yet she seems so much more sophisticated than I am.
“Something like that.” I scribble an illegible signature on the credit card receipt and jerk my head at the exit. “Lilia, can I ask you something?” I glance at the tattooed, stone-faced guards watching over our table. “What kind of business are the Orlovs in, anyway?”
“How much did Nik tell you?” Lilia’s warmth fades abruptly.
“He said you’re in the casino business.”
“That’s true enough. It’s lucrative but cutthroat.” She indicates the guards and says brightly, “Shall we go shopping?”
Conversation over, clearly.
“Let’s,” I smile, smoothing over the awkward moment.
Over the next few hours, we visit store after store, with Lilia guiding me toward the kinds of clothes she thinks I need most. Dresses.
So many skirts. Long, short, slit to the thigh, tight or flowing—anything but pants.
When I insist I need at least a couple of pairs of jeans, she relents and takes me to a store that sells nothing but the most expensive denim I’ve ever seen, in sizes made for human Barbie dolls.
The shopkeeper eyes my hips and says, “I’ll have to check the back for extended petite sizes. ”
Humiliated, I study my shoes—Lilia’s shoes, yet another item I need to buy—I blankly survey the racks.
“We don’t have to stay here,” Lilia whispers, tucking her hand into my elbow. “Let’s find another shop.” We exit, giggling, trailed by our guards. “I can’t believe she said that to you.”
We try another store, where I purchase two pairs of the most expensive jeans I’ve ever seen in my life.
In the early afternoon, brunch has worn off, and my arms are getting tired from hauling so many bags—some of which we offload onto the guards—we stop in the food court.
Over ice cream, I gather the courage to ask Lilia again, “What kind of business is the Orlov family really in?”
There’s a long pause. She avoids my eyes.
“That’s a question for my brother to answer. I’m not really involved.”
“Illegal?” I feel my eyes widen. I’m not really surprised, per se. But Lilia shrugs.
“The casino business has a long history of being mixed up with organized crime. The State of Nevada has cracked down, though. It’s not like that anymore.”
I’m mostly reassured by what she says. Maybe it’s still a rough business, but at least I’m not out here spending blood money, unwittingly married to a gangster or whatever.
Russians aren’t exactly top-of-mind when I hear the words “organized crime.” When I can’t put it off any longer, I ask my companion where the best place to buy underwear is.
She points me to a lingerie store. Face flaming, I ask for something a little less sexy.
“Oh no, Sierra. You want sexy. Trust me. Now go talk to the nice sales lady who can help you find the right sizes while I go bleach my brain to erase the image of my brother having sex.”
Left to my own devices, I pick out things I think Nik would like.
When the sales lady suggests a red silk and lace playsuit that reveals more than it covers, I feel like I might burst into flames from sheer embarrassment.
I know he would love it, though, so I take it to the dressing room and try it on.
I have to peek through my fingers to look at myself in the mirror, but wow.
Yes. This is absolutely perfect. He’ll adore this.
I’m so excited to show it to him that I rip the tags off and hand them to the sales clerk along with the pile of other items I’ve selected.
But before I can put my clothes back on, there’s a scuffle and shouting from outside the dressing room.
“Sir! You can’t go back there!” the store clerk shouts, followed by a muffled shriek.
I stand there with my heart hammering, wondering what’s going on.
Footfalls on the thick carpeting indicate a man’s approach.
I back away, hoping the flimsy lock will hold.
Knowing it won’t. My back hits the cold mirror.
Nik kicks the door open; his face contorted into a menacing scowl. A startled yelp escapes me.
“Tell me the truth, Sierra.” He stalks forward and grabs me by the throat.
“What…truth?” I struggle to speak past the pressure on my larynx.
“Are you a spy?” His vicious grip tightens. Despite the violence—or in reaction to it—my body responds to his touch.
“A what?”
“A spy,” he repeats. “Why were you in Alisa Morozov’s house? What master do you serve?”
“You,” I wheeze. “Only you, Nik.”
His eyes shutter. Then they fly open with a hardened glare. “Prove it. If you can.”
How? Clearly, nothing I can say will change his mind that I’m not some kind of corporate spy. Perhaps I can…show him. I dart a glance at the broken door behind him. No one seems to be looking for us. His body shields me from view, mostly.
I gesture to my body in the red playsuit. “I chose this for you, Nik,” I say softly. “As a wedding gift. I don’t have anything to give you but myself. You have all of me.”
For the first time since barging in, he looks at me.
His heated gaze skims downward, taking in my breasts framed by red satin, the ribbon around my hips framing my naked pussy.
I hear his sharp inhalation. His hand at my throat loosens.
He slides his palm down the slope of my chest to squeeze my breast.
He smacks it. I gasp. The pain of being spanked on the tit spreads warmly across my chest. My nipple tightens. He pinches that, too. I lift my chin defiantly.
“You can’t scare me, Nikolai,” I tell him with more bravery than I actually feel. He shifts his grip to the back of my head, dragging me in for a hard kiss. His tongue pushes into my mouth. I swallow his low moan.
“I’ll prove to you that I can, little spy,” he snarls.
He pushes me to my knees. I drop readily.
His cock already strains the fly of his pants.
I unfasten them and extract the hard shaft.
Wrap my lips around the tip. He fists my hair and fucks my mouth mercilessly.
I moan, softening for him while he takes his pleasure.
Tears roll down my cheeks. I choke on him.
The taste and feel of him, the salty musk of his skin.
I’ve never been so turned on in my life.
It’s still not enough for my husband.
“Stand up,” he says, withdrawing suddenly enough to make me gag.
I stagger to my feet. He whirls me around and slams into my wet pussy, fucking me against the mirror.
Watching my tits press against the glass, our image doubled.
His balls slap against my ass with every violent thrust. I press my palms against the cold surface, panting, already coming.
“I’ll fuck the truth out of you, Sierra,” he growls.
“I…don’t…know…Alisa Morozov,” I pant, trying to hold myself upright while he takes me mercilessly from behind. It’s perverse—maybe I’m perverse for liking the way he dominates me. “I’m not a spy.”
He slaps my ass. I buck against his cock, moaning. He hits deep inside me and comes, pressing me up against the glass. My breath clouds the shining surface. Nik nips the juncture of my neck with his teeth.
“If I find out you’re lying—today, tomorrow, ten years from now—I will kill you.”
The bubble that I’ve been floating in ever since he dragged me out of that mansion wearing a red dress and high heels that weren’t mine, an impostor and a case of mistaken identity, pops instantly.
What in the hell am I doing?
I’ve had Stockholm syndrome all this time. Don’t try to tell me it isn’t real—I’m living proof that you can fall head over heels for your captor in a shockingly short amount of time.
His mistrust hurts. More than any physical pain he could possibly deliver, the fact that my own husband is threatening to kill me over an untruth that’s all in his head kills any romantic feelings I might have recklessly developed overnight.
I shove him away. His cum leaks down the insides of my thighs. I pull on the dress he had delivered this morning anyway. I stick my feet into Lilia’s canvas sneakers without bothering to lace them up in my haste to get away.
“Where are you going?” Nik demands. He’s got his hands on his pants, tucking himself away. I slap the credit card against his chest and let it slide into his breast pocket.
“Away from you,” I say. “It’s one thing for you to push me around in bed.
I like that. But I will not be called a liar and threatened with death by the father of my potential child.
That is not a man I can live with, Nikolai Orlov.
Threatening my life is beyond the pale. I am taking my ten million dollars and going back to Los Angeles, where I will raise our baby—if we have one—alone. ”
The look on his face is priceless as I storm out. Seeing the astonished clerk, I poke a thumb at the ruined dressing room and say, “Charge everything to my husband.”
I sling my purse over one arm, collect my shopping bags, and stride out. Without the guards.