22. Sienna #2
I don’t even know what to say. Yes, it’s hard work. And, yes, I enjoy it. But it doesn’t satisfy me the way it used to. “I’m a Falcone. It’s expected of me. Besides, this is a strange compliment from a killer. Should I start complimenting your killing methods?”
His face softens a fraction, and a magnetizing tension pulls us toward one another. I’m hyperaware of how his knee brushes against mine, as if it’s the most natural placement so we’re always touching. I want to crawl into his lap and curl up in his strong arms.
I look away, realizing how stupid that kind of thinking is. He’s my kidnapper, for fuck’s sake. I shift my knee away, but he leans in more, ensuring our shoulders remain touching. I try to ignore it as I open a random envelope. Several photos fall out, and my heart stops.
They’re pictures of me and Michael.
“What is it?” Nikolai asks. The mood shifts to ice-cold between us when he glimpses the photos.
I look happy in them. They’re ones that can easily be found on the internet.
Some are from Michael’s press tour, and others are from public outings.
I unfold the letter, reading it quickly, and realizing it’s from a fan who was devastated to hear about our breakup, and who thinks Michael and I are destined for one another.
My heart clings to the sentiment, knowing that this was probably sent right after the cheating scandal, and certainly before his recent announcement that he’s going to be a father.
I look back to the pile, my heart sinking, as I realize there might be more reminders of that life inside these packages and envelopes.
The world didn’t stop when I did. All of these gifts still hang with the expectation to review them and rave about them on my social media. Not because I’m anything special, but because of the influence I’ve gained over the years.
I used to love this part of my job. Now it feels like pressure. And that’s a truth I’m not yet ready to confront .
“I think I might take a nap. I’m rather tired,” I say, placing the letter down with the photos.
I still haven’t seen the articles and announcements about the pregnancy. I didn’t have access to news or gossip while at the manor since I only had the TV for a short time—and I was only permitted to watch certain things—and they’d taken my phone.
Strangely enough, the impulse to use my phone hasn’t been very strong since returning, until now. I feel like the world I was addicted to, and filtered through, suddenly isn’t as compelling. Even if it was taken away from me, the forced disconnection has made me look at the world anew.
When I stand, Nikolai stands with me. I say to him, “Alone, Nikolai. Please. ”
He doesn’t seem too happy, but says, “If you need anything, call for me. And don’t climb out of this building. I feel like the other nails might not hold up from somewhere as high as this.”
A bubble of warmth expands in my stomach as I offer him a small smile, despite hating him. And I cling to the reminder that I have to hate this man.
I head to the spiral staircase, nodding at Andrei as we pass one another.
I’m sure they’ll find their own rooms when they’re ready.
My bedroom is at the end of the hallway to the left of the stairs, and as I walk toward it, glancing out the large windows over the city I love so much, I find my heart silently wishing I were sitting out on a balcony, watching the swallows swoop and dive in harmony, the scent of the ocean nearby.
And I find irony in the fact that the place I’m wishing for is the last place on earth I should ever want to return to.
“Sienna?” I hear Nikolai call out. And it sounds strange since he never uses my name.
I lean over the glass balcony and look down into the open living space. He’s gazing up at me, his green eyes striking in the sunlight. He’s holding something as he takes the stairs two at a time before coming to a stop in front of me. “This package might be more to your liking.”
He holds out an unopened box.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A present from me.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
He pushes it into my hands and then walks away without another word.
But I suppose that’s Nikolai’s style. I see that it’s delivery date is the same day he kidnapped me.
It’s most likely Nikolai’s methodical foresight, which is part of what makes him so dangerous.
It feels as if he’s planned every step. Even now, I still don’t understand his motives, aside from what his boss wants, but it seems like he’s risking a lot.
I walk into my bedroom, the beautiful pinks and paneled design of the painting grabbing my attention first. Romi painted it for me, and it now hangs proudly above my bed.
But it’s not the luxurious familiarity of my room that entices me.
Instead, I go into my walk-in closet, sighing in delight, completely at ease with the luxuriously designed room.
It’s a two-story space filled with my favorite designers.
I run my hand along the clothes hanging on the left, feeling the fabrics of dresses, some of which I haven’t yet worn. To my right, in the center of the room, is my favorite jewelry. The back wall is entirely covered with shelves full of heels.
I take a seat on the soft pink couch, and stare down at the box Nikolai gave me. After a few moments, I tear into it and then immediately suck in a sharp breath.
It’s basic in design, brown in color, yet instantly makes me feel like a little girl again.
It’s a teddy bear, similar to the one I used to carry as a child. The original had been a gift from my mother one Christmas. I curl my hands around it, hating how much I love it and how uncomfortably it shifts my heart.
This bear has a collar with a bright-yellow sunflower embroidered on it. And that collar has me thinking back to the fresh sunflowers that always appeared in my room at the manor, realizing that Nikolai was probably behind those as well. They are, after all, my favorite.
When I turn the collar, my heart sinks. Mishka is sewn into the back. And it’s not lost on me that its name is also a Russian term of endearment meaning little bear or teddy bear .
An endearment that Nikolai has used to patronize me with.
But as I stare down at it, I can’t help but think about how calculated all of this is.
Only few know of that teddy bear my mother gifted me, which I lost years ago.
I hate that the man to replace such a thing is the one man I should despise the most. That even when we haven’t spoken about it, he’s able to reopen, and at the same time comfort, the part of me that has never truly healed.
“Why do you want to become a mother so badly?”
“That question’s off-limits.”
Suddenly, it feels like he’s closer to my heart than I ever intended to let him get.