Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
CAMILLA
“Camilla, get up.” I feel heavy hands gently shaking my shoulder. “Camilla!”
Opening my eyes to the faint, gray light of dawn, the first thing I see is Maksim looming over me.
"Get up," he says, his voice a low, authoritative rasp. "We have to leave. Immediately."
I blink up at him, my mind entirely shrouded in a half-asleep fog, though a deep irritation sparks instantly. "What?" I mumble, wincing slightly as I shift and remind my bruised ribs of their existence. "And where are we going in the middle of the night?"
"It is five in the morning. Move."
He doesn't offer an explanation. Instead, he drops a neatly folded bundle of fabric onto the edge of the mattress, along with a pair of shoes.
I shake my head, trying to clear the sleep from my brain, and sit up. That is when I realize a rather crucial detail. I look down at the plush mattress beneath me, then glance over at the completely vacant sofa across the room.
"Wait a moment," I say, crossing my arms and glaring up at him with sleepy suspicion. "I remember falling asleep on the couch. How did I end up in your bed?"
Maksim doesn't even blink. "You were snoring. It was annoying me."
"I do not snore," I fire back, my voice dripping with offense. "And even if I did, that hardly gives you the right to transport me while I am unconscious."
"Consider it a courtesy upgrade," he replies smoothly, leaning down slightly to get directly into my line of sight. "Now get dressed. We leave for the tarmac in ten minutes. If you’re not ready by then, I will take you out of this room naked.”
He turns and strides toward the door, leaving me alone to process his words.
Bastard.
He wouldn’t do that. Or would he?
Realizing I don’t know this man, I decide it’s best to do as I’m told. Grumbling under my breath about his complete lack of boundaries, I reach over and unfurl the bundle of clothing he left behind.
I pause, my annoyance momentarily giving way to sheer bewilderment.
It is a beautiful, understated day dress—and when I check the tag, it is precisely my size.
Right beside it is a pair of elegant, low-heeled leather sandals that look like they were plucked directly from my own closet.
I stare at the ensemble, a million questions running through my head.
How on earth did a Russian boss acquire high-end women's apparel in my exact measurements in the dead of night while we were supposedly hiding out?
I decide I don't even want to know the answer. There are far more pressing matters at hand—like figuring out which country I am about to be flown to.
By the time Maksim returns to the bedroom, I am fully dressed. The dress fits beautifully, skimming over my bandaged ribs without pulling at the stitches, and the sandals are surprisingly comfortable.
He gives me a brief, approving nod, his eyes lingering on how the fabric sits on my frame for a fraction of a second before his stoic mask returns. He ushers me out of the room and down the stairs.
Within minutes, we are locked inside the back of a heavily armored SUV. The sky outside is a bruised, pre-dawn purple as the vehicle speeds away from the house.
I turn to him, crossing my legs. "Where are you taking me to?"
"The airport," he says flatly, eyes fixed on the dark road ahead.
"Where exactly are we flying to, Maksim?"
"The United States. New York.”
I let out a slow, quiet breath, a massive wave of relief washing over me. I am going home. New York, the familiar streets, the comfort of my own world. More importantly, I will be closer to my sisters. If I can just get word to them, they can help me figure out a way out of this madness.
The SUV navigates through a private, highly secure entrance at the edge of the tarmac, bypassing the main terminals entirely. We pull up directly alongside a massive, sleek private jet. The perimeter is crawling with armed guards, all moving with military precision.
Maksim guides me up the steps and into the luxurious cabin. Dmitri is already inside, deeply engrossed in a tablet, alongside a handful of large, silent men whose holstered weapons are impossible to miss.
As the jet begins to taxi down the runway, a familiar, icy dread settles into my stomach. I absolutely despise flying.
I do everything in my power to hide it. I sit back in the plush leather seat, locking my jaw, but my fingers betray me—they grip the armrests so tightly my knuckles turn stark white. I close my eyes, forcing my breathing into a slow, rigid pattern to combat the sudden spike of nausea.
"You're going to break the leather, printsessa."
I open my eyes to find Maksim sitting directly across from me. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gray-blue eyes locked onto my face. He noticed.
“Stop looking at me,” I manage to say, trying to keep my voice light, though it trembles slightly as the engines roar to a deafening pitch.
"You're terrified," he states, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"I am a Caruso. We are not terrified of anything. Especially not an oversized metal tube."
"Is that why you've stopped breathing?" He leans in closer, his heavy masculine scent suddenly filling my space, overriding the sterile smell of the cabin. "Look at me, Camilla."
"I would rather look at literally anything else," I snap, but my eyes automatically lock onto his. The plane hitches as it gains speed, and I let out a sharp gasp, my fingers digging deeper into the armrest.
"Focus on me," he commands, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic growl that makes my core hum. "Tell me about the dress. Do you like it?"
His question is a bit surprising, but it works.
"It's... it's fine," I stammer, my heart hammering against my ribs, though I am no longer sure if it is from the takeoff or his proximity. "Though your methods of acquisition are highly questionable."
"I have people for that," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. The plane tilts upward, lifting off the ground, but Maksim doesn't move an inch. He stays anchored right in front of me, his intense, unwavering stare holding me captive.
“Tell me what else you want. When we land in New York, I'll have it waiting."
"My freedom would be a stellar start," I breathe out.
The terrifying sensation of leaving the ground fades as the aircraft levels out into a smooth ascent, but the panic in my chest doesn't subside.
Instead, it morphs into something entirely different.
The fear drains away, replaced by a thick, suffocating wave of heat.
Our breaths are practically mingling in the small space between the seats, and the sheer defiance in my eyes suddenly feels a lot like invitation.
“Freedom from what?" Maksim asks, his tone entirely level. "I’m not aware you’re a captive.”
I let out a sharp, incredulous breath. “What do you call this then?”
“What?” he asks, his icy gray-blue eyes boring straight into mine. “Have I hurt you?”
“Well, no. I’m—”
He raises a single hand, the quiet gesture instantly shutting me up. “Have I taken advantage of you?”
“No. I—”
His hand remains raised, halting my protest before it can even leave my lips. “Have I forced myself on you?”
“No," I say, lifting my chin to glare at him, refusing to let him dictate the entire narrative. "But don't think I don't know that doesn't make you any different from the rest of them. You’re just like the next man. You want to have sex with me.”
“Have sex with you? No.” He frowns, the line of his jaw hardening. He leans even closer, his presence utterly overwhelming. “I want to fuck you. I also want to make love to you. I want to work your body and make you scream my name like I’m your god.”
The sheer, unadulterated raw honesty of his words goes straight to my core, and a white-hot wave of heat blooms deep in my stomach. My breath catches in my throat. I cannot seriously like this. Why would he speak to me this way? What on earth is happening to me?
“You jerk," I whisper, my voice trembling with a potent mix of anger and sudden, terrifying desire. "Why would you—”
“You know why I won’t?” he asks, cutting me off softly. “Because I’m not going to force you. You’re mine already. You belong to me now, and I can be a very patient man, Camilla. When I do touch you, it will be because you begged me for it. Because you cried for release.”
“Beg you? Cry for release? In your dreams,” I spit at him. “And how dare you speak to me like that?”
A slow, devastating smile touches his lips, and his gaze deliberately falls to my chest, where the thin fabric of the dress fails to hide how my nipples are already poking out from the intense friction of his words.
My face heats, a furious blush rushing to my cheeks. Needing to escape the suffocating pull of his gravity, I rise to my feet and storm over to the empty chair directly across the aisle. I drop into the leather seat, turning away to present my back to him.
I stare blindly out the window at the passing clouds, struggling to steady my ragged breath, my mind entirely spinning. I am a lady, raised in high society to see right through men like him—so why am I utterly confused by my own reaction?
For the remaining hours of the flight, I ensure he receives nothing but the frozen expanse of my shoulder. I ignore him completely, staring at the cabin walls or pretending to sleep, refusing to grant him another single word or glance.
Eventually, the private jet touches down on American soil, and we are swept away in another convoy of tinted, heavily armored vehicles. We drive out of the city and into a secluded, high-end estate.
The vehicle slows as it approaches a set of towering, wrought-iron security gates flanked by high stone walls and armed guards. Once cleared, we glide down an impossibly long, winding driveway lined with ancient, overarching trees that filter the afternoon sun.