Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Milana
I wake up slowly, wrapped in warmth and the faint scent of Ilya. For a blissful second, I don’t open my eyes.
I just let myself feel it, savoring the strange sense of peace wrapped around me. I can’t remember the last time I slept this deeply.
I let out a contented sigh, reaching blindly for the warm body beside me.
My hand comes up empty. The sheets on his side are cold.
I slowly open my eyes. The room is dim, morning light softened by the heavy curtains he must have drawn sometime during the night so I could sleep longer.
Thoughtful of him.
I sit up, wincing slightly at the pleasant ache between my thighs and the marks scattered across my body.
My eyes land on a small, folded note on the bedside table, with a single long-stemmed red rose beside it. I pick up the note.
Good morning, solnyshko.
Had to run an errand. Didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful. Breakfast is in the kitchen. Be a good girl for me until I get back. No wondering outside the apartment.
— Ilya
A slow smile spreads across my face. The disappointment I felt waking up alone fades as I read the note again, tracing my fingers over his words.
I pick up the rose and bring it to my nose, inhaling its delicate fragrance. It’s just a single rose.
Yet somehow, it means more than the lavish bouquets I’ve received over the years.
Because it's from him. I read his note again, my fingers tracing the ink as warmth settles deep inside my chest.
The need to use the restroom has me getting out of bed. I spot one of his shirts draped over a chaise by the floor-to-ceiling window.
I slip it on, the fabric falling to mid-thigh, still carrying a faint trace of his scent. I lift the collar to my nose and inhale deeply, closing my eyes for a second.
I head to my own room first, using the bathroom and brushing my teeth.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I pause. My hair is a tangled mess. There are faint bite marks and hickeys scattered across my neck and breasts, visible where the shirt slips off one shoulder.
I run my fingers over one of the marks, a little thrill running through me.
I kind of like them. The thought surprises me. I’ve never been the type to want marks like this, but seeing his claim on my skin… it does something to me.
After brushing my teeth, I pull my hair into a messy bun. As I reach for my moisturizer, my gaze catches the faint red welts circling my wrists.
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
My mind flashes back to the first time I noticed similar marks on Calina’s wrists. She’d brushed them off, claiming she’d had an allergic reaction to a bracelet.
I almost laugh. Liar. Now I know exactly where those marks came from.
A smile spreads across my face as I imagine teasing her mercilessly about it. She’d deny everything for all of five seconds before we’d both burst into laughter.
God, I wish I could call and tell her everything about Ilya. The moment I told her I’d been sleeping with my bodyguard, she’d completely lose it.
Letting out a sigh, I splash more water on my face, and leave the bathroom.
The penthouse feels as usual. I make my way to the kitchen, still wearing nothing but his shirt, the fabric brushing softly against my thighs with every step.
My eyes immediately find the plate waiting for me on the island.
Scrambled eggs. Buttered toast. Fresh berries arranged neatly on the side. A mug of coffee still sitting beneath the warmer.
A smile spreads across my face. He told me he doesn’t like cooking. He said he’s no good at it. But he still took the time to do this for me.
I take a seat by the island and eat slowly, the apartment wrapped in silence around me. My mind drifts back to last night. The way he had been there for me when I broke down over Maria.
I can’t stop thinking about last night. The way he tied me. The blindfold. The way he controlled my breathing.
The intensity of it all. I’ve never felt pleasure like that before. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.
I smile to myself as I start reheating the breakfast he left for me, wondering when he’ll be back.
And how soon I can have him again.
I bring the fork to my lips, then pause as a memory flashes, the soft brush of his mouth against mine right before I fell asleep.
Did he really kiss me? Or was that a dream? He told me he doesn’t kiss. But it felt so real.
I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. No, it can't be. I must have imagined it.
I finish eating, wash my plate, and decide I need to move my body. Working out always helps clear my head.
I go back to my room to change into workout clothes and look for my earbuds. I can’t find them. I must have left them in the gym the last time.
I leave the apartment and take the private elevator to the gym. The hallway is empty.
As I walk past the basement door, I hear it again. That low, pained groaning.
I stop dead in my tracks. My heart picks up speed. Maybe I’m imagining it again.
Then it comes a second time. Longer this time. Someone is definitely down there, and they sound like they're in pain.
Every instinct tells me to investigate. Another voice immediately argues back. You're not meant to go down there.
Don't put yourself in danger.
I hesitate, biting my lip. If someone is really in pain, I can’t just ignore it.
I remember when I saw him go down there before. I watched him put in the password. I memorized it without him knowing.
He’d claimed he’d been checking the basement. Said there was nothing down there.
This is ridiculous. The house isn’t haunted. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for the sounds.
I step closer to the door. My hand hovers over the keypad.
Just a quick look, I tell myself. If there’s really someone down there who needs help, I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.
A narrow staircase disappears into the darkness below, illuminated only by recessed lights tucked into the walls.
The polished concrete steps are spotless, every surface as sleek and immaculate as the rest of the building.
I hesitate before taking the first step.
The air grows cooler with every step down, wrapping around my bare arms like damp fingers. Gone is the faint scent of coffee and fresh linen from upstairs. Down here, the air is stale, carrying the unmistakable tang of metal.
It reminds me of a hospital. Or… blood.
The groaning gets louder with every step. My heart pounds harder. Every hair on the back of my neck stands on end. My pulse begins to pound against my ribs.
I should turn back. Ilya told me not to come down here. But if someone is hurt, I need to help them.
I reach the bottom. The staircase opens into a wide underground space that looks nothing like the luxurious apartment above.
The walls are smooth concrete, interrupted by heavy steel doors spaced several feet apart.
Harsh fluorescent lights cast a cold, sterile glow over everything, making the entire place feel less like part of a home and more like some hidden military facility.
A chill races down my spine. What the hell is this place?
Directly across from me, at the far end of the room, stands a single heavy steel door.
Another muffled groan drifts through it. That’s where it’s coming from.
My stomach twists as I force my feet forward. When I finally reach it, I realize it isn’t fully closed.
I hesitate for a second. Then, before I can lose my nerve, I press my hand against it, and it swings open.
The sight that greets me makes me freeze.
A man is chained in the corner of the dimly lit room, wrists and ankles bound to heavy metal rings in the wall.
He looks terrible: bruised, malnourished, clothes torn and filthy. His head lifts weakly when he hears me, eyes widening with desperate hope.
“Please,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “Help me. They’re going to kill me. Please… get me out of here.”
I step closer, heart hammering. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Who’s going to kill you?”
He tugs weakly at the chains, tears cutting through the dirt on his face. “Please… if he comes back, he’ll kill me. Help me. I’m begging you.”
A cold shiver races down my spine. Kill him?
My gaze darts around the room. The walls. The restraints. The dried blood staining the concrete beneath his feet.
There’s a table against the wall covered in tools, pliers, knives, things that look like they’re meant for pain, not repair.
“I…” My voice catches. “I don’t understand. How did you get in here?”
“I was kidnapped," the man pleads. “Please. Just don’t leave me here.”
I stare at him. His face is bruised beyond recognition. His clothes hang loosely from his body. He looks broken and exhausted.
But appearances can lie. I’ve seen Artyom and Mikhail interrogate people who looked just as pitiful.
Those men weren’t innocent. They were traffickers. Murderers. Men who’d destroyed countless lives without losing a second of sleep.
What if this man is one of them? What if he deserves every bruise on his body?
What if I free him… and he turns around and hurts someone else?
Or worse…
Hurts me. My fingers curl into my palms.
Does Ilya know he’s here? The thought is almost laughable. Of course, he knows. He’d lied to me. Which means, he put him here.
The man lets out another broken sob.
“I have a family,” he says hoarsely. “Please… I don’t want to die.”
My heart twists painfully. Maybe he’s lying. But what if he isn’t? What if he’s telling the truth?
What if I walk away… and he dies because I was too afraid to help?
I think of Maria. Of wishing I’d done more.
I grab a heavy hammer, the weight strange in my hands.
If I’m wrong… I’ll deal with the consequences later.
But if he’s innocent… I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.
I draw a shaky breath and walk toward the table. My hand hovers over the scattered tools before settling on a heavy pair of bolt cutters and walk over to him.
“I need you to stay as still as you can.”
The man nods frantically.
I kneel beside him, my heart hammering against my ribs. Up close, the smell hits me immediately.
Stale sweat, dried blood, urine. The sour, sickly odor of someone who’s been trapped in the same place for far too long without a chance to wash.
My stomach lurches. I have to fight the instinct to recoil.
His lips are cracked, his skin clammy, and his wrists are rubbed raw beneath the thick steel cuffs. How long has he been down here?
I swallow hard and force myself to focus, and grip the bolt cutters with both hands.
Careful not to jostle his swollen wrists, I slide the jaws of the bolt cutters around the first length of chain, and squeeze.
Nothing. The chain doesn’t even budge. I grit my teeth and reposition the cutters.
One more time. I throw my weight into the handles until my forearms burn. The metal groans, and then snaps.
The broken chain crashes onto the concrete floor, the sharp clang echoing through the room.
The man’s entire body jerks.
A ragged sob escapes him as his freed arm drops limply into his lap. He cradles the wrist against his chest, wincing as blood slowly begins flowing back into it.
“Thank you,” he breathes.
I move to the second wrist. It takes another attempt before that chain finally breaks too.
Then I move to his legs. I work the bolt cutters around the shackles at his ankles. One by one, the chains give way, each snap echoing through the room until the last length of steel falls to the floor.
The man stares at his freed limbs as though he can’t quite believe they’re his again.
Still wary, I take a step back, keeping a firm grip on the hammer.
“If you try anything,” I warn, lifting it slightly, “I won’t hesitate to cave your head in.”
A weak, humorless smile flickers across his bruised face.
“I couldn’t hurt you even if I wanted to.”
My gaze drops to his trembling legs. He’s right. In his condition, he’d barely make it two steps before collapsing.
I loosen my grip on the hammer just a fraction. “Can you stand?”
He nods weakly.
He tries. The moment he puts weight on his legs, they buckle beneath him.
I drop the hammer on the floor and lunge forward, catching him before he hits the concrete.
“Easy,” I murmur, wrapping his arm over my shoulder.
He nods weakly and pushes himself upright, his entire body trembling with the effort. For a second, I think he’s going to collapse again.
Then he looks at me for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes narrowing like he’s trying to place me. Then his face changes.
“Milana?” he whispers.
I freeze. “How do you know my name?”
He takes a shaky step forward. “Because your brothers hired me.” He swallows painfully. “I was supposed to extract you from England.”
I frown. “What? That's not possible. What's your name?”
“Ilya.”
I stare at him, stunned. “What? No, you're not.”
He sags against me, struggling to stay conscious. “Please… just help me get out of here.”
I hesitate for a second before slipping my arm farther around his waist, bracing myself beneath his weight. He’s heavier than he looks.
We make it up the stairs slowly, him leaning heavily on me the whole way. When we finally reach the apartment, I'm breathing hard.
I help him to the kitchen island and ease him onto one of the stools.
I grab a glass, fill it with water, and hand it to him.
He drains it in desperate gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks. His hands shake so violently that water spills down his chin and onto his filthy shirt.
I refill it immediately. He finishes the second glass just as fast, letting out a shaky breath when he’s finished.
I swallow hard. “You said my brothers sent you to extract me from England. Is that true?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?”
He braces both hands on the kitchen island, and my gaze catches the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. The Russian diminutive for Ilya.
“I was abducted on my way to the airport,” he says hoarsely. “I never made it to England.”
The world tilts.
If this is Ilya… then who the hell has been with me this whole time? The man I woke up in his bed this morning.
The man who blindfolded me. The man I let inside me. The man I’m slowly, terrifyingly falling for.
I look at the man in front of me, and feel like I’m going to be sick.
I have a lot of questions, but he looks seconds away from collapsing.
“You need a doctor,” I say quickly, pulling out my phone. I dial 911 with trembling fingers.
I stare at him as I wait for the call to connect, my mind spinning.
Is this a dream? Am I imagining all of this?
Because if this is the real Ilya… then who left me that note on the bed this morning?