CHAPTER 5
SCARLETT
I woke up to red.
Not the soft, hazy pink of a sunrise or the deep, romantic crimson of a rose.
This was aggressive, industrial red. It bled from the recessed lighting in the ceiling, staining the walls, the carpet, the silk sheets tangled around my legs.
It was oppressive. Heavy. It felt like waking up inside a pulsing artery.
My head pounded in rhythm with my heart, a dull, thudding ache behind my eyes.
I sat up, the silk sliding off my skin like water.
I was naked. The memory of why hit me like a physical slap—Nikolai Smirnov’s clinical, humiliating inspection of my body last night.
Checking the merchandise. Making sure the collateral hadn’t been damaged in transit.
I rubbed a hand over my face, my skin feeling too tight, too dry. My mouth tasted like cotton and old pennies. I needed water.
"Hello?" I croaked out. My voice was a wreck, scratching against my raw throat.
Silence. Absolute, heavy silence. The kind of silence that feels expensive, engineered by thick walls and soundproofing designed to keep screams in.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
The carpet was plush, sinking under my toes, mocking me with comfort I didn't want. I stood up, unsteady, the room spinning slightly. There were no windows. Just heavy velvet curtains that covered… nothing. I’d checked before I passed out. Wall. Solid, reinforced wall.
"What time is it?" I whispered to the empty room.
No clock. No phone. No sunlight. Just the red glow. It could be morning. It could be three days from now. I was suspended in a void, disconnected from the world, existing only in this high-end hellhole.
I paced the room, my frustration mounting with every step. I checked the door again. Locked. obviously. I checked the minibar. Locked. I could see the little bottles of Evian through the glass front, condensation clinging to them, taunting me.
"Assholes," I muttered, giving the handle a violent rattle. It didn't budge. "Sadistic, controlling assholes."
My stomach growled, a loud, guttural sound that seemed to echo in the dead quiet. The hunger was a sharp cramp, twisting my insides, but the thirst was worse. My tongue felt like sandpaper. My lips were cracking.
I went to the bathroom again. The tap didn't work. Of course it didn't. They’d cut the water. They were drying me out.
I leaned against the cool tile of the bathroom wall, sliding down until I hit the floor. This was it. This was the game. Aris Vance—my coward of a father—had sold me to cover his fifty-million-dollar screw-up, and now I was being treated like a neglected houseplant.
I closed my eyes, trying to summon some of that Vance arrogance my father wore like a cheap suit, but all I felt was fear. Cold, slimy fear coiling in my gut.
Ding.
My eyes snapped open.
The sound was sharp, melodic, and completely artificial. A digital chime. A bell. It rang through the suite, cutting the silence in half.
I scrambled to my feet, heart hammering against my ribs. I knocked a glass off the vanity—empty from last night—and it hit the carpet with a dull thud. I didn’t care. I spun around, scanning the red gloom.
"What the hell was that?"
Another chime. Ding.
And then the lock on the main door clicked.
The handle turned. The door swung inward.
Nikolai Smirnov filled the doorway.
He looked impeccable. It was infuriating.
Crisp black suit, tailored to within an inch of its life, fitting his broad shoulders like armor.
His buzz cut was severe, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and that jagged scar across his throat was a stark white line against his tan skin.
He looked like violence wrapped in silk.
And he was holding a tray.
The smell hit me instantly—roasted coffee, buttered toast, the sweet, sharp scent of sliced fruit. My mouth flooded with saliva so fast it actually hurt.
I backed up until my shoulder blades hit the wall, clutching the sheet I’d dragged with me to my chest. "You."
He didn't speak. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with a heavy thud. He moved with a predator’s grace, silent and sure.
His eyes, cold and dark like a shark’s, swept over me.
He took in my disheveled hair, the sheet clutched in my white-knuckled fist, the fear I knew was written all over my face.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just looked at me like I was a column of numbers that needed to be balanced.
He walked toward the small, ornate table in the center of the room. The smell of the food was overwhelming now. My stomach roared, a traitorous sound that made heat rush to my cheeks.
I took a step forward, involuntary, purely biological. "Is that for me?"
Nikolai set the tray down. The china clinked softly against the silver. He picked up the carafe of coffee and poured a cup, the dark liquid steaming.
I moved. I couldn't help it. The thirst was a physical weight, pushing me toward that table. I lunged, reaching for the glass of water sitting next to the coffee.
Nikolai moved faster.
He didn't even look up. He just shifted his weight, his arm shooting out to block my path, hard as an iron bar. He picked up the tray again, lifting it high, effortlessly keeping it out of my reach.
I skidded to a halt, panting, my eyes locked on the toast. "Give it to me."
He looked down at me then. He was tall, looming over me, making me feel small and fragile. "Manners, Scarlett."
His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through the floorboards. It sounded like gravel crunching under tires.
"I'm starving," I snapped, the anger flaring up through the desperation. "And I'm thirsty. Give me the damn water."
He slowly lowered the tray back to the table. He adjusted his cuffs, shooting pure silver links catching the red light. "In this house," he said, his tone conversational, bored even, "nothing is free."
I glared at him. "My father paid you fifty million dollars. I think that covers a slice of toast."
"Your father paid his debt," Nikolai corrected. "He didn't pay for your upkeep. You are collateral. You are an asset. And assets do not make demands."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek black remote. He held it up, his thumb hovering over a button.
Ding.
The chime rang out again, coming from speakers hidden in the ceiling.
My skin crawled. It was the same sound as before.
"Pavlov," Nikolai said, watching my reaction. "Are you familiar with the concept?"
"I'm not a dog," I spat.
"We'll see." He pressed the button again. Ding. "When you hear the bell, you come to me. You wait for instructions. If you obey, you eat. If you obey, you drink. If you don't..." He let the sentence hang in the air, heavier than the silence.
"You're insane," I whispered. "You're actually psychotic."
"Sit," he commanded, pointing to the chair opposite him.
I didn't move. I crossed my arms over my chest, digging my nails into my biceps. "Go to hell."
He didn't get angry. He didn't yell. He just sat down in the chair himself, crossing one leg over the other. He picked up a slice of apple—crisp, green, wet with juice.
He brought it to his lips and took a bite. The crunch was loud in the quiet room. He chewed slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving mine. He swallowed.
"Delicious," he murmured. "Crisp. Sweet."
My stomach cramped violently. I felt like a child watching someone eat candy through a shop window. It was humiliating. It was degrading.
He picked up the water glass next. The ice clinked against the sides. Condensation ran down the glass in a slow, winding tear. He took a sip.
"God, I’m so thirsty," I blurted out, my resolve cracking. "Just... give me the water. Please."
He set the glass down. "Aris always lacked discipline," he said, as if we were discussing the weather. "A thief. A coward. He couldn't control his impulses. That's why he's safe in his mansion, and you're here, naked and begging for water."
"He's a bastard," I said, my voice shaking. "I know what he is."
"And yet, you carry his blood. His weakness." Nikolai picked up the remote again. Ding.
"Kneel," he said.
The word hung there. Simple. Brutal.
"What?"
"Kneel," he repeated. "On the floor. By my feet. Do that, and you can drink."
My face burned. The shame was a hot, prickly heat spreading across my chest. "I will not kneel for you."
"Then you will thirst." He picked up the apple again.
I looked at the silver fork on the tray. It was heavy, sharp. If I was fast... if I just lunged... I could jam it into his neck. I could puncture that thick artery pulsing beneath the scar. It would be messy. It would be over.
My hands clenched at my sides. Could I? Could I actually do it?
Nikolai smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a baring of teeth. "I can hear you thinking, Scarlett. Don't. You're not fast enough. And I'm not in the mood to bleed today."
He knew. The bastard knew.
"Give me the water, you bastard!" I screamed, my voice cracking into a desperate rasp.
He just looked at me. Waiting.
I stared at the water. It looked like life. It looked like everything. My pride felt like a heavy coat I was wearing in a desert—useless, suffocating.
I took a step toward him. Then another. My bare feet dragged on the carpet. I hated him. I hated him with a violence that frightened me. But my body was screaming.
I reached the table. I was standing right next to him now. I could smell him—expensive cologne, something woodsy and sharp, mixed with the faint, metallic scent of gun oil.
I didn't kneel.
Instead, I made a grab for the glass.
My hand darted out, fingers brushing the cool condensation.
Nikolai moved like a striking viper.
His hand clamped around my wrist, stopping me dead. His grip was crushing, bone-grinding. I gasped, the sound torn from my throat.
"Ah!"
He yanked me forward. I stumbled, my knees hitting the edge of the chair, my upper body forced down over the table. The silverware rattled. The water sloshed dangerously.