Chapter 8 Hailey
HAILEY
Iawaken disoriented and alone.
The room is not mine. No sunlight streams past the cheap curtain.
Blackout shades keep out every scrap of daylight.
It could be midnight or midday, and I wouldn’t be able to tell.
My stomach’s growl indicates it has to be near noon.
Not an unusually late hour for me to sleep until after a long shift at the bar.
I sit up in the unfamiliar bed with my borrowed black T-shirt twisted around my waist. I can’t believe I slept like this. I can’t believe I slept so well.
The bedroom door is cracked slightly. Radio sounds drift through the gap.
I swing my legs over the bed and peek through, only to find three men gathered in the kitchen, speaking in low tones.
The radio program seems to be in Russian, playing from one of the men’s phones.
Two are dressed in full suits as if they’re headed to office jobs on Wall Street.
The third is Rafail. He alone wears black jeans and no shirt.
I inhale sharply at the sight of the tattoos covering his back and shoulders. He’s…cooking?
Preparing to, anyway.
There’s no way I’m stepping foot outside this room in a T-shirt and no panties. I’m embarrassed that I slept like this. Alone at home, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I slept in what is apparently my kidnapper’s only shirt. How…gentlemanly, in a weird way, of him to give it to me.
I’m pretty sure he’s trying to win me over, despite the whole abduction thing.
He can’t force me to say yes at the altar.
That will be my escape route, then. All I have to do is ride this out until we get to wherever it is we’re supposed to get married, and turn him down. Then he’ll have to let me go.
Or kill me.
That’s a risk I’m willing to take. What kind of life would it be, married to a mafia boss? Not one I ever wanted, that’s for sure.
In the bathroom, I find a bag of brand-new personal toiletries.
A white box with my name on it contains fancy makeup.
Really nice stuff. The kind I’d never waste money on buying for myself.
There are even two hairbrushes, one that would turn my curls into staticky frizz, and one that will do a decent job of untangling them without turning my hair into a fuzzy halo.
Thoughtful.
I avail myself of the basics and go searching through the drawers again in hopes of finding clothes.
Jackpot. Someone, presumably Rafail, washed my bar uniform from last night and put it back for me to wear.
Not entirely sure how I feel about him doing my laundry, but what else am I supposed to wear?
I omit the tank top and stick with wearing his T-shirt, which provides more coverage. Besides, I prefer the view of him without clothes on from the waist up.
Not that I plan to tell him that. The man has more than enough ego already. He doesn’t need me stroking it. Unsure what else to do, I edge out of the bedroom and into the main living area of this apparently rented apartment. The place is too barren and devoid of personal touches to be a home.
The instant I step out into the open, it’s as if a record scratched. The men’s conversation stops abruptly. Only the radio continues playing in the strained and awkward silence.
“Leave,” Rafail says to the men. They scrape their chairs away from the table and depart without hesitation. I’m not sure whether it’s better or worse to have them gone. I kind of miss the Russian radio, honestly, even though I didn’t understand a word. This place is too quiet.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks mildly once the men are gone.
“Fine. You?” For once, I can’t think of a smart comeback.
Instead, I fill the silence with mindless babble.
“You know, I had the weirdest dream that I was kidnapped by the bratva, and told I had to marry the mafia boss, or else. I was seriously hoping that I would wake up in my own bed at home.” Feigning confidence despite keeping my distance from him, I mosey into the kitchen to inspect what he’s doing. “You cook?”
“You sound surprised.” A metal whisk scrapes against the sides of a mixing bowl, oddly soothing. I pluck a sliced strawberry from a bowl and pop it into my mouth.
“A guy who looks like you, doing that, is definitely a conundrum.”
His mouth quirks up at the corner. “Using your college vocabulary, I see.”
“You’re the one who talks like he was educated at some fancy private school. I only had one year at West Cali High.” After that, it was back to public schools for me, including my one semester at college.
He huffs quietly and sets the bowl aside, placing a clean towel over the top.
“What are you doing?” Curiosity gets the better of me.
“Making you breakfast. Blini. Pancakes.”
“I mean, why did you set it aside?”
“The batter needs to rest, printsesa.” Lest I forget what he is, Rafail abandons the spread of sliced fruit, soft cheese, and ground meat. He turns to the table and begins inspecting the six— six!—handguns placed in a neat row. They all look menacing and powerful.
“You’re not going to shoot me?” My voice pitches embarrassingly upward to end on a squeak.
“Only if you refuse me at the altar tomorrow morning.”
There goes that plan.
He turns to me with a slight smile, which immediately crumbles. “I was joking, Hailey.”
“You don’t make jokes, Rafe.” I stare at the guns, then at him.
“You do not know me well enough to understand my sense of humor.”
“Last I checked, you didn’t have one.” I’m still talking and breathing too fast. I feel light-headed.
He moves between me and the table, blocking my view. “Those are just in case my enemies find out where we are hiding. To keep you safe.”
I suck in a harsh breath.
“Hailey. Breathe,” he orders.
I shake my head. I can’t. This isn’t reality.
I’m caught in a nightmare and I can’t wake up.
There’s a knot of tension crushing the air out of my lungs.
He takes my shoulders and gives me a little shake.
I stare blankly at the hollow of his throat.
I used to think that part of him was so sexy, when I was young and foolish.
Used to dream about running my fingertips along that curve, dipping my tongue into the center.
That was before I saw the rest of him. Now, there’s too much of him.
He was overwhelming when I was sixteen. He is even more so now.
“I am not going to hurt you, printsesa.” Rafail’s arms slip around me. I find my face pressed into his shoulder, with far too much skin contact. My cheek against his bare chest, inches from that enticing, sharp dip I’ve thought about so often. I relax against him with a sigh.
“Quit calling me that,” I complain petulantly.
“I’m not your princess. I’m not your anything.
You walked out on us after your father was arrested, and left us to deal with the lawyers.
With the Feds. We lost everything. You don’t get to pretend you’re some kind of knight in shining armor who protected me. ”
He stills, except for his thumb tracing circles between my shoulder blades, right above my bra.
“I had to leave and take over as pakhan. Boss,” he explains. “I had to clean up my father’s mess. I left to protect you.”
“Some protection, slipping me a passkey without telling me.” Despite my grousing, I tip my head up, almost as if I’m nuzzling him, which I’m not. I’m glaring at the man despite clinging to him like a baby monkey.
“I knew I could trust you to keep it safe.” He strokes my hair down my back, and I have to fight the strangest urge to purr. “Now, sit while I make you breakfast.”
Rafail busses a kiss to the top of my head like I’m a child who needed soothing after a nightmare. I straighten my spine. That is not remotely the impression I wanted to convey, even if it did feel nice to be held by him.
Now the shape of his body is imprinted on mine.
When he turns to clear away the handguns, I subtly pull the collar of my shirt up and breathe him in.
Conflicted. I definitely want to sleep with him.
I’m afraid that if I do, I won’t be able to give him up.
If the sex is good enough, I might inadvertently lock myself into this life that I don’t want.
Rafail doesn’t bother with an apron. Shirtless, he drips batter into a pan and fills small, thin pancakes with fruit, cheese, or meat, until there is such a pile of each kind that the two of us couldn’t possibly eat them all.
The whole experience feels strangely domestic.
“You were never like this back when I knew you before.” He sets a plate of blini before me, along with a fork and knife.
“Like what?”
“Domesticated.”
He scoffs. “You hardly knew me.”
True enough. I take a bite. A moan escapes me. “Holy fuck, these are delicious, Rafe. Where did you learn to make them?”
“My mother. Rest her soul.” He makes the sign of a cross. Never figured him a religious sort. “When you have finished, printsesa—”
“Enough with the princess shit.” I hold my plate out. “Feed me.”
He chuckles and feeds me. Actually, I could get used to this princess thing, now that I think about it. As long as he keeps the guns out of sight.
Rafail takes the seat across from me. Mid-blini, he slides a small velvet box across the marble top and says, “A ring. To make things official.”
I stare at it like I’m Cleopatra and he’s presented me with an asp.