Chapter 9 Mila
Mila
The countryside estate looks more like a fortress than a home.
Iron gates close behind us as trees swallow the long driveway, cutting off any view of the main road.
Perfect.
Alexei parks in front of a massive stone structure that probably started life as an aristocrat’s hunting lodge before the Kozlov family turned it into a secure location for hiding inconvenient people.
The architecture is beautiful in a cold, imposing way.
Grey stone and tall windows reflect the overcast sky.
“Home sweet prison,” I grumble as I climb out of the car.
“You’re being dramatic.” Alexei grabs my bags from the trunk like they weigh nothing. “This place has everything you need.”
“Except freedom.”
“Freedom to do what? Get yourself killed?”
I don’t bother responding. We’ve had this fight three times already on the drive, and neither of us is budging. He thinks I’m reckless. I think he’s suffocating. Round and round we go.
Inside, the place is surprisingly warm for a fortress, with hardwood floors, leather furniture, and a fireplace big enough to stand in. Someone clearly uses it from time to time, though I doubt Alexei spends many weekends here when Moscow keeps him busy.
“Your room is upstairs.” He leads me up a wide staircase to the second floor. “First door on the right. Private bathroom. If you need anything, I’m across the hall.”
Of course, he is.
He sets my bags inside a massive bedroom. The bed is enormous. Windows overlook the forest behind the estate. Everything is tasteful and expensive and absolutely suffocating.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he tells me before disappearing.
I wait until his footsteps fade before I start exploring. The bedroom reveals nothing interesting, just furniture, an empty closet, and a bathroom stocked with generic toiletries. But the hallway outside holds more promise.
I count six bedrooms on this floor, though most of them look unused. But one door at the end of the hall is cracked, and I see bookshelves through the gap.
I shouldn’t snoop. I should go back to my designated prison cell and accept my fate like a good little captive.
Instead, I ease the door open and slip inside.
A massive desk anchors the room. Bookshelves climb every wall. But it’s the books themselves that make me stop and stare.
I was expecting business texts, or maybe some Russian classics for show. What I find instead is an eclectic collection that reveals more about Alexei Kozlov than any conversation we’ve had.
Philosophy. Art history. Poetry. Modern literature mixed with antique texts. Books in Russian, English, French, and what looks like German. Some are pristine. Others have cracked spines and dog-eared pages.
I pull out a volume of Dostoevsky and flip through pages covered in margin notes. Alexei’s handwriting is neat and precise. Not what you expect from a man who breaks bones. His annotations show engagement with the text rather than just academic exercise.
“Find anything you like?”
I turn. He’s in the doorway, blocking the exit like it’s nothing. Those blue-gray eyes watch my every move, but he doesn’t look angry about me invading his space. Just curious.
“You read Dostoevsky.” I skip the apology.
“Guilty.”
“And you understood him, apparently.”
“Is that shocking?”
“A little.” I shelve it and pull out another. “Most criminals aren’t literary scholars.”
“Most grad students don’t dismantle criminal enterprises.” He walks closer. “Seems we both have hidden depths, Zaika.”
I turn to face him with a collection of French poetry in my hands. “Where did you learn this?”
“Private tutors. My father believed in education, even for future criminals.”
“That’s… progressive.”
“He was complicated.” Alexei brushes my fingers as he takes the book, opening to a ribboned page. “This one’s my favorite. Baudelaire. ‘The Albatross.’”
“About the poet being like a giant bird that’s graceful in flight but clumsy on land,” I recall. “French lit. Sophomore year.”
“What'd you think?”
“I think Baudelaire was self-indulgent. Artists aren’t birds; they’re just people who want an excuse for being bad at normal life.”
He laughs, low and real. It strips the danger off him for a second, and I hate that I like it.
“What else do you read?”
“Whatever hooks me. Art history, mostly. Philosophy when I’m feeling pretentious.”
“And the poetry?”
“Helps me sleep.”
“You read French poetry to fall asleep?”
“You say that like it’s weird.”
“It is weird. Normal people count sheep or take melatonin.”
“I’m not normal people, Zaika.”
The word Zaika slides warm through my stomach. I hate how my body answers.
“No. You’re definitely not.” I back toward the door. “Thanks for the tour.”
“Anytime.”
I head back to my room and start unpacking. It’s something to keep me from thinking about Alexei’s notes in Dostoevsky and the fact that he reads poetry to fall asleep.
Every time I try to fit him into the box I made for him—cold, arrogant, and dangerous—he proves me wrong.
By evening, the quiet feels like it’s closing in.
I change into yoga pants and a sports bra and head in search of the kitchen.
Alexei’s at the stove. The smell hits first—garlic, onions, and something creamy. He’s moving around the pan like he’s done it a hundred times. His back is to me, broad and steady. He isn’t surprised when I walk in.
“Smells amazing,” I comment.
He looks back, gaze dragging over my chest before he forces it up. “Eat with me, Zaika.”
“How generous.”
I lean against the counter next to him. My bare shoulder brushes his arm when I reach for a glass from the cabinet. The contact is brief but electric.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Beef stroganoff. My babushka’s.”
“You cook?”
“Well, I eat. Cooking keeps me alive.”
I watch him work. Pan. Knife. Wrist. He moves like he’s still armed. Domestic Alexei is somehow more dangerous than armed Alexei.
“Need any help?” I offer.
“You can set the table if you want.”
I set the table while he finishes cooking.
I make sure to brush against him every time I walk past. My hip against his thigh. My breast against his arm. Small touches that I can pretend are accidental, even though we both know better.
For some screwed-up reason, I need to know he still wants me just as much as I want him, even if he’s too noble to do anything about it.
He gives me nothing. Not a word. Not a look. Just tension wired tightly along his jaw.
We eat in the dining room at a table that seats twelve. The food is excellent, and I tell him so between bites.
He chuckles. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. I figured you had a private chef.”
“I’m full of surprises, apparently.”
“Apparently.”
We fall into silence as we eat. Not uncomfortable, but saturated with all the things we’re not saying. All the wants we’re pretending don’t exist.
I offer to clean up after dinner, and he accepts without argument. I wash dishes while he dries and puts them away. The routine is almost normal, like we’re a couple instead of captor and captive.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announce when the last dish is dry.
“Enjoy.”
I take my time under the hot water, letting it rain on muscles that are sore from the two-hour car ride. When I finally emerge, I wrap myself in a towel and pad back to my room.
Except Alexei’s there, standing in the hallway outside his door.
He’s shirtless and covered in sweat. Water droplets slide down his abdomen, disappearing into that patch of hair that makes my mouth water. His eyes find me. The temperature jumps ten degrees.
“Oops,” I lie. “Didn’t realize you were out here.”
I walk past him toward my door. My towel slips just enough to expose the curve of my breast. I catch it before it falls all the way off, but not before he sees. Not before his pupils dilate and his hands form fists at his sides.
Finally, some sort of reaction.
I shut my door and lean against it with a smile. Two can play this game. If he’s going to keep me prisoner, I will make every second of his restraint miserable.
The next morning, I wake to find boxes outside my door. I drag them inside and start unpacking. Clothes in my size. Toiletries. Books. Everything I might need for an extended stay.
Alexei planned this. Bought all of this before we even left the safe house. He knew I’d end up here for weeks, maybe months, and he prepared accordingly.
The realization should make me angry and prove my point about him controlling every aspect of my life.
Instead, I’m touched by the thoughtfulness. By the fact that he remembered I read historical fiction, and included three new releases. That he bought the specific brand of shampoo I’d brought with me.
I’m sorting through toiletries when I find it. A pregnancy test, just one, tucked in among the tampons and pain relievers, like it’s a normal item to include in a care package for your unwilling houseguest.
My hand freezes on the box. Does he suspect that our one encounter might have unintentional consequences?
It’s still too early for my period to be late—we only slept together three weeks ago—and I seriously doubt I got pregnant my first time having sex.
Although we didn’t use protection.
No. Nope. Not going there.
I shove the test to the bottom of the drawer and try not to imagine what Alexei would do if I were pregnant. If our one night of reckless passion resulted in something neither of us wanted.
I slam the drawer shut so hard that the vanity rattles.
One life-altering crisis at a time.