Chapter 3 – Eleanor #2
“Of course I’m scared, you fucking psychopath. You drugged me and dragged me to some underground bunker to use as bait in your revenge fantasy. Scared seems like the appropriate response.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, I was scared. Terrified, actually. But there was something else mixed in with the fear, something hot and unwelcome that I refused to examine too closely.
“Good,” he said simply. “Fear will keep you alive.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact. The world I live in doesn’t have room for the innocent or the naive. You’re in that world now, whether you want to be or not.”
The casual way he said it, like he was discussing the weather, made my blood run cold. This man wasn’t unhinged or emotional. He wasn’t driven by passion or rage. He was something much worse; he was calm, rational, and completely committed to whatever course of action he’d decided on.
That made him a monster. A beautiful, magnetic monster who could probably kill me without losing a moment’s sleep.
“My father won’t come,” I said again, trying one last time to make him understand. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever you think this will accomplish, you’re wasting your time. William Beaumont doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I’m not a terrorist,” Maxim corrected, his voice still maddeningly calm. “I’m a businessman collecting on a debt.”
“Same difference.”
He moved closer still, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. My body was betraying me, responding to his proximity with a heat that I absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
Get it together, Eleanor. This man is dangerous. He’s holding you prisoner. Stop thinking about how good he smells or how his voice makes something deep in your stomach clench with unwanted desire.
“Your father will come,” he said with absolute certainty. “And when he does, he’ll face the consequences of his actions.”
“And what happens to me when you realize I was right? When he doesn’t show up because he genuinely doesn’t care enough to risk himself for my sake?”
For the first time since entering the room, Maxim’s expression shifted. Not doubt, exactly, but something like consideration. He was weighing possibilities, calculating odds, deciding what my value was in his grand scheme of revenge.
“Please,” I said, and I hated how desperate the word sounded. “I had nothing to do with whatever happened in Prague. I was fifteen years old six years ago. I didn’t even know my father was involved in anything illegal.”
“Illegal is a matter of perspective,” Maxim said. “Your father made a business arrangement and then betrayed his partners. Men died because of his choices.”
“And that sucks, really, but it has nothing to do with me.” I could hear my voice getting higher, more desperate, but I couldn’t seem to stop it. “I design clothes, for fuck’s sake. I make pretty dresses for rich women. I’m not part of whatever world you and my father operate in.”
“You are now.”
The finality in those three words hit me like a physical blow. He wasn’t going to let me go. Didn’t matter if my father cared or not, didn’t matter if his plan was flawed, didn’t matter that I was an innocent bystander in whatever war he was fighting.
I was trapped, at the mercy of a man who looked at me like I was a useful object rather than a human being.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed without hesitation. “I am.”
He turned toward the door, apparently finished with our conversation. Panic flared in my chest, the desperate need to make him understand, to find some argument that would penetrate that cold, calculated exterior.
“He won’t come!” I called after him. “You’re wasting your time! My father doesn’t love anyone enough to risk himself, not even his own daughter!”
Maxim paused at the door, his hand on the handle. When he turned back to look at me, there was something in his gray eyes that might have been pity.
“Then he’ll lose you,” he said simply.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I heard the sound of the lock engaging. I was alone again, trapped in an elegant prison with nothing but my own fear and the unwelcome memory of how my body had responded to my captor’s presence.
I sank down onto the expensive bed and buried my face in my hands. This was really happening. I was really here, caught in the middle of a war I didn’t understand, held prisoner by a man who saw me as nothing more than a tool for revenge.
And the worst part, the part that made me want to scream or cry or punch something, was that some sick, twisted part of me was attracted to him. To his control, his danger, his absolute certainty in his own power.
I was losing my fucking mind.
The room felt smaller now, the elegant furnishings more like props in a stage production than actual comfort. I was an actress in someone else’s revenge fantasy, and I didn’t even know my lines.
All I could do was wait and hope that I was wrong about my father. Hope that somewhere beneath all that cold ambition, William Beaumont actually gave a damn about his daughter.
But I’d been disappointed by him before. And something told me this time wouldn’t be any different.
I was on my own, trapped with a beautiful monster who could destroy me without a second thought.
But would I let him?