Chapter 2
KATYA
My eyes flutter open to the smell of something cooking, and my stomach rumbles in instant response.
I must have fallen asleep after venting my frustration on the bed.
I guess the combination of adrenaline, hunger, and whatever drug Andriani fed me to knock me out proved too much.
I remember feeling spent after he left me alone again, my eyes getting heavy, my vision starting to swirl the way it used to in science class back in high school. I never did like science.
The last thing I remember is lying down on my side and glaring at the door, willing it to open back up, my body feeling strangely heavy. But what’s weird is that I’m curled up on the mattress, under the comforter I threw out of reach. How did it get here?
Not him. If he’s going to kill me, why would he care if I had a blanket to sleep? Besides, Andriani hardly seems like the nurturing type.
But there’s no one else around, as far as I can tell.
Unless one of Andriani’s men has shown up to watch over his hostage instead.
Sitting up and stretching, I rub my ankle and decide that seems like a plausible explanation.
Turns out, being chained to a bed isn’t the most comfortable position in the world, and my skin is chafed to the point of almost being raw.
I don’t have much more time to think before the door opens and Andriani is standing there, holding a tray.
From my position, he seems even taller than before, all broad shoulders, long legs, and lean hips.
Everything about him oozes raw sex. I don’t want to notice, but it’s impossible not to.
He’s the kind of man I’ve actively avoided, all unbridled power and potent masculinity with a dark, dangerous edge.
“Food,” he announces.
My stomach growls.
I stare at him. “Is it poisoned?”
“Guess you’ll have to find out the hard way.”
He saunters over and sets the tray on the floor at the edge of my reach. I’m so starved I could eat a boiled shoe right now, but I don’t want him to know that. I flick a glance over the offering. A bowl of red soup, a toasty grilled cheese that’s cut diagonally, and a glass of water.
“I don’t like tomato,” I tell him.
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “Too fucking bad. Eat it or don’t.”
Starved as I am, I’d still rather throw the bowl of soup at the bastard’s head. And I one hundred and ten percent do not trust him.
“You eat it first.”
“Thought you might be hungry, but I can see you’re not.” He bends down again, going for the tray.
I lean forward and grab the edge. “Leave it.”
“Guess you do like tomatoes.”
“I still want you to take a bite.”
He rubs his thumb along his lower lip. “You don’t call the shots, kitty cat.”
I stare at the food again, so hungry I can practically taste it. It could be laced with something. A sedative or poison. I’d probably never know until it was too late.
Like he can hear my thoughts, he adds, “Guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
I was lying when I said I don’t like tomato.
But I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted him to eat the damn food so I know it’s not tainted.
I don’t trust Andriani as far as I can throw him, and since he’s six-foot-something to my five foot seven and his muscles probably have muscles bigger than mine, that wouldn’t be very far.
We lock eyes. His are blue. A pretty blue. Too pretty for a man. Lush and persuasive, just like his mouth. His jaw is hard, shaded with five-o’clock shadow. He’s unsmiling, might as well be carved from stone.
Into the silence, my stomach protests loudly.
“Dealer’s choice,” he says smoothly, and then he turns and starts to walk out again.
Maybe I have a death wish.
Clearly, I’m an idiot.
Because I lunge across the floor and grab half the sandwich, launching it at Andriani’s back. Like it’s in slow motion, I watch the triangle of toasted bread and gooey cheese go end over end until it pelts him directly between his broad shoulder blades before falling to the floor with a thud.
His head swivels, and he looks over his shoulder, his face an impenetrable mask. “It’s not nice to play with your food, kitty cat.”
Then he just…leaves.
Stalks out the door.
I hear his footsteps falling rhythmically and wait for something to happen. He’s not going to accept that I threw his food offering at him.
Right?
The footsteps get closer again, and he’s back, this time holding a roll of silver duct tape.
Oh shit. But at least it’s not a gun.
He’s on me in three steps, dropping the tape to the floor as he grabs both of my wrists and yanks them behind my back. I struggle, but he overpowers me easily.
“Guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” he mutters, taking my wrists in a punishing grip with one hand while he retrieves the tape with the other.
The tape wraps around my wrists next, sticky and tight.
“You don’t need to tie me up,” I protest, hating that I’m even more helpless now than I was before.
“Apparently, I do.” He winds on another few layers, and then I hear the distinct rip of the tape before he moves away.
I jerk at my new bindings, but they’re strong. “How am I supposed to eat with my hands tied behind my back?”
“I’ll feed you.”
“I’ll bite off your fingers.”
He laughs. “Try it.”
“Why do you care if I eat or not?” I demand.
I haven’t had anything since the smoothie I drank for breakfast. I’m so hungry I might eat Andriani’s fingers after I bite them off. But I’m delaying because he’s the enemy, and I’m a Sidorov. We never stop fighting.
“I don’t,” he says.
Then he pulls a cell phone from his pocket and snaps a picture of me.
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Proof of life for your asshole brother.” He smirks as his fingers fly on the screen. “Might as well get it before you die of starvation.”
My stomach growls again, and I’m beginning to feel light-headed and sick at the same time. I know this feeling. I need to eat.
He stands back up and starts to leave me here, hands tied behind my back, half a sandwich and cooling soup on the tray before me. I’ll have to eat it like a dog, and I’ll never be able to get the water to my mouth without his help. My mouth is so dry. I need that water. I need that food.
Fuck me. I need Andriani’s help.
A rusty steak knife will be too good for him. I will poison him myself. A slow and painful death.
“Wait,” I bite out.
He stills and turns back to me. “Manners, kitty cat.”
I want to shout at him to stop calling me kitty cat. But that would just give him more leverage against me and another excuse to leave me here alone, thirsty and starving.
“Please,” I grit out.
“Please, what?”
He’s really enjoying this. I see a glimmer of something in those blue eyes, a quirk to the corners of his lips. Ethylene glycol in his protein shake, I think to myself. He’ll never taste it or know what hit him.
“Please help me,” I force out.
“I’m not sure if I like your tone.”
I take a deep breath. He’s toying with me. Dragging this out.
“Please help me,” I repeat, forcing a fake smile while plotting his demise.
“Mmm.” He strokes his jaw, looking thoughtful. “And I think I’m going to need an apology for the sandwich you threw at my back like an angry toddler who didn’t get her way.”
“Half a sandwich,” I mutter, casting a longing look at the other half, taunting me from the tray I can’t touch.
“What was that, kitty cat?”
His voice forces my gaze back to him. He’s watching me, still arrogant and smug and hot as fuck, one dark eyebrow raised. Poison is too easy and quiet. I’ll run him over with a car instead.
I smile harder. “I said I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sincere, but I have shit to do.” He sinks down on his haunches by me, those long, tatted fingers picking up the sandwich first.
He has nice hands. The hands of a Mafia psycho. I wonder how many people he’s used those hands to kill. More than Misha or less?
Andriani brings the corner of the grilled cheese to my lips. “Open.”
There’s nothing sexual about what’s going on.
I’m sitting in a hovel with my hands tied behind my back and a chain on my ankle because the beautiful bastard in front of me kidnapped me and brought me here against my will.
But there’s something about the way he says open in that low, melodic voice.
For a second, I think about him offering me his cock.
Telling me to open before he slides it deep into my mouth. He would be long and thick and big.
Heat skitters through me, my clit pulsing, and now I know for sure that I’m on the verge of passing out from low blood sugar because I’m fucking delusional.
I open my mouth, and he stuffs the sandwich in. The bite I’m forced to take is too large, but I don’t complain. I take my time, chewing. It’s cooling off, but the cheese is still melted. Sharp cheddar and mozzarella along with crusty, fresh bread.
Nirvana on my tongue.
This bread isn’t store-bought. I know the grinning sadist who’s hand-feeding me didn’t make it by hand, which means someone else did. Who? Is there a woman in his life? I swallow hard, choking the sandwich down. Not that I care.
He holds the glass of water to my lips next, tilting it. I drink deeply, trying to chug. But he withdraws it, not letting me.
“Slowly. I’m not cleaning you up if you get sick.”
Right. I swallow the water and wordlessly open my mouth. He offers me a spoonful of the soup next. My lips close around the creamy tang of soup on my tongue. It’s as delicious as the bread. I’d assumed it came from a can.
His sky-blue gaze is fastened to my mouth, watching me with stern concentration. I think about how he would look at me if I were on my knees for him, his cock in my mouth instead of his spoon.
Still low, I decide. I need more food.
I’m tempted to ask him to dip the grilled cheese into the tomato soup. That’s the way Svetlana taught me to eat this comfort food combo when I was a kid. But I’m not going to push my luck.