Chapter 5 #2
But there’s nothing but a little black camera staring at me and no answer from the other side of the locked door.
I’m starting to go stir-crazy. This is the longest I’ve gone without some form of exercise in as long as I can remember.
I’ve been training as a ballerina for my whole life. It’s what I eat, breathe, and sleep.
Until now.
Now, I’m trapped in this hellhole with no escape in sight.
“Answer me!” I rage at the camera.
Still nothing.
Beyond the cabin walls, I hear birds chirping. It’s definitely daylight. My shouting would have woken Andriani if he’d been asleep. And he could be ignoring me. That’s his MO. But I swear that I can feel his presence when he’s anywhere close. I don’t think he’s here.
With a frustrated sigh, I stomp to the bathroom, doing my morning routine.
And because he’s not here and I’m sick to death of being a prisoner, I decide to take a shower on my own.
I drag it out for as long as possible, doing my typical morning stretches under the water.
Shampooing my hair twice. Soaping myself up and then rinsing before doing it all again.
By the time I’m finished, the tiny bathroom is almost humid, and my body feels slightly appeased, even if the rest of me feels anything but. I throw back the shower curtain and let out a scream.
Because there he is.
Andriani, watching me from the doorway with a scowl and a designer suit.
I instantly jump backward into the shower, pulling the curtain over me.
“What are you doing in here?” I demand, water running down me, heart rapping against my chest faster than it does when I’m onstage.
“You’re my prisoner, remember?” His tone, like his impassive expression, is unimpressed.
I’m not even sure he looked at me. I may as well have been fully dressed. His disinterest is almost as annoying as his intrusion into my shower is.
“You could have knocked.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”
He’s sinisterly beautiful, dark hair falling over his brow, that damn stubble on his sharp jaw even thicker. His tatted hand rests on his piece, a reminder that I’m not here of my own free will.
“What do you want?” I bite out.
“Time for lunch.”
“Lunch? What happened to breakfast?”
“You slept through it.”
My eyes narrow on him. “Did you drug me again, Andriani?”
It’s possible. He did feed me dinner last night. And wine. I don’t ordinarily drink, but it was there and I was bored and it’s not like I had to stay sharp for class and rehearsal today. Maybe that’s why my brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls.
“Didn’t need to. You drank three glasses of wine, and I practically had to carry you back to the bedroom.”
Vague and indistinct memories hit me from last night. I shouldn’t have had anything to drink. I should have known better. I don’t usually have such a loose grip on my control, but this whole situation has turned everything upside down.
My gaze narrows on him. “Is that why I wasn’t wearing anything but a shirt to bed?”
“Relax. Like I said, feral Russian cats aren’t my type. I made sure you got into bed. Any missing clothing is all you.”
For a brief moment, I catch myself wondering what kind of woman is his type, if not me.
It’s not as if I’ve had the time or the inclination to have steady boyfriends, but I’ve never been at a loss for male attention.
The idea that I wouldn’t be good enough for Andriani stings my pride, I’m not going to lie.
But then I remind myself how ridiculous that is. Being held hostage does fucked-up things to your mind, and I’m sure this bizarre attraction I feel to him is nothing more than a by-product of being held prisoner. That has to be all it is.
“Perfect.” I smirk at him. “Glad we’re on the same page since psycho Mafia kidnappers aren’t mine either.”
“Get dressed,” he clips out.
“I’d like to,” I deadpan. “Without an audience.”
“Too fucking bad.” He snaps his fingers. “Do it now. We don’t have time to waste.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. We have nothing but time.”
“No, we don’t.”
He’s still watching me, his jaw hard, his expression unreadable. Something has changed, even if he’s not giving me much to go on.
“Clothing,” he snaps. “Now.”
I flick a glance toward my towel, which is out of reach on the small bathroom counter. “I need to dry off.”
Scorpion’s ice-cold eyes stay on me. “So do it.”
He’s expecting me to get the towel myself. I’ve been naked in front of him before, and he’s made his lack of interest in me painfully obvious. Fine. I’ll play his game.
I freeze my face into a mask, putting myself into the same headspace I use when I’m onstage. I’m not Katya now. I’m someone else.
I throw back the shower curtain and step out. The air is cool, the wet hair cascading down my back even colder, thanks to the time we spent arguing. I snatch up the towel and wrap it around myself, drying off as fast as I can.
“What’s going on?” I ask him, my curiosity getting the better of me when he just stays where he is, stony and silent.
Totally unmoved by the fact that I’m naked and dripping wet, standing two feet away from him.
“You’re getting dressed and we’re eating lunch,” he says coolly.
I finish drying off and wrap the towel around me like a makeshift dress, tucking the corner into my cleavage. “I’m going to need some new clothes if I’m getting dressed.”
He makes a sound of annoyance and disappears from the doorway.
Jerk.
To think, I drank his wine and ate his ridiculously delicious dinner and lowered my guard last night. Those meatballs were out of this world, and I don’t usually eat any protein other than fish.
Is he getting me clothing, or did he just give up on watching me dress in my nonexistent outfit?
All I have is his borrowed shirt, which I wore all day yesterday, and my clothing from the day he kidnapped me.
I didn’t see any washer and dryer in this shithole, and the idea of Andriani separating the dark clothing from the light is laughable.
I wring out my hair again, wondering what I’m supposed to do. Put on my dirty clothing again?
Huffing an annoyed sigh, I pad into the bedroom, not surprised to find that he’s closed the door. I’m sure it’s locked, but I cross the room to give it a try anyway.
I was right. Locked.
Great. What now?
I glare up at the camera that’s watching me. “Am I going to get some clothing, Andriani?”
The door opens, as if on cue, and he’s standing there with a pile of clothes in one hand and his gun in the other.
He tosses the clothing at me, a light lob that has me scrambling because it’s so unexpected.
I almost lose my towel, but I manage to catch what he’s brought me, a pair of men’s pajama pants that thankfully have a drawstring and a crisp white T-shirt.
“Thanks,” I tell him as he slams the door closed.
Well, then.
I extend my middle finger toward the camera mounted overhead, and then I head back to the bathroom.
Once there, I slip into the shirt and pajama pants.
They’re soft and made of black silk. I tuck in the shirt and tighten up the drawstring to keep the waist from sliding down.
Not the best look I’ve ever rocked, but this isn’t a fashion show.
I’m a captive. I comb my fingers through my damp hair as best as I can before heading back out, wishing I had a brush.
Almost the second I’m out of the bathroom, Scorpion is whipping open the bedroom door.
He motions with his Glock. “Come on.”
A new tenseness is radiating off him, a dangerous edge.
I decide not to press my luck and bite my tongue to keep from blurting the snarky response I had for him.
He’s going to feed me, I’ve just showered, and I’m not wearing handcuffs.
I need to focus on that and get back to plotting my plan of escape.
I’ve been trapped here in this cabin with him for two nights, and I’m not sure I’ll survive a third. I need my apartment, my work. I need to move, to be free. I need to get as far from this lethal man’s presence as possible. To forget all about him.
A salad is waiting for me at the kitchen island. My stomach growls at the sight of the leafy greens. There’s even a hunk of bread on a plate. I love carbs. Carbs, sadly, do not love me. But right now, only an act of nature is going to keep me from sinking my teeth into that gorgeous, crusty slice.
I settle onto the stool without his orders, hooking my bare feet in the cold metal rungs, and grab the bread first.
“Who said that was for you?” he asks.
I’m already taking a bite. I wouldn’t put it past him to offer me dog kibble and then eat the salad and bread in front of me, but something tells me that this lunch was actually prepared for me.
By Andriani.
The bread is fucking delicious.
And fresh.
“You baked this?” I ask around a mouthful of yeasty goodness.
“No, the tooth fairy did.”
I roll my eyes but don’t bother saying anything else, because I’m too busy hoovering up the bread like a starving woman lost on a deserted island who’s just been picked up by a cruise ship and taken to the buffet.
There’s no way he was out here making bread and kneading it, so I can only assume this came out of a freezer, but there’s also no doubt about it that it’s homemade.
Who made the bread dough? And the meatballs?
I finish the bread and look up to find him watching me.
His Glock is tucked away, and he’s leaning against the counter behind him, arms crossed over his dress shirt.
It’s not the first time I’ve caught myself wondering if this insanely beautiful, lethal man has someone waiting for him at home.
Someone who bakes bread and makes the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted.