Chapter 8
Roman
The high-definition camera captures every nuance of her panic. Zoya stands frozen in front of the open wardrobe, her fingers hovering over the silk blouses and cashmere wraps I selected for her.
She looks horrified.
A dark, twisted satisfaction settles in my chest. She has no idea how long I have curated that collection.
I know her measurements down to the millimetre.
I know she prefers emerald green over navy, prefers lace over cotton on her La Perla lingerie, and that she prefers to sleep naked.
Seeing her surrounded by my gifts, in my house, soothes the beast inside me that has been clawing to get out for years.
It isn’t just a collection of clothes; it is a statement of ownership.
I pour a measure of vodka, the crystal decanter heavy in my hand. The liquid burns pleasantly on the way down. Bringing her here was the easy part. Keeping her without crushing that defiant spark will be the challenge. I don’t want a broken doll. I want the woman who tried to hit me with her phone.
My mobile vibrates against the mahogany desk. Baron.
“She is secured,” I answer, skipping the pleasantries.
“Good.”
I end the call without responding. On the screen, Zoya moves to the window and tests the latch.
“It’s reinforced, Devochka,” I whisper to the silence. “You aren’t going anywhere.”
Making a snap decision, I dial.
“It’s done, I’m on my way back,” Petr says before I can say anything.
“Turn around. Go back. Go to her bedroom and pick up her photos, that crystal duck collection and whatever is on and in the bedside cabinet.”
There is no hesitation in his reply. “Of course.”
I hang up and smile as Zoya frantically tries the window in the lounge area of the suite.
She is determined to get away from me, but that is why she needs to be caged.
Out there, she is alone, a target to either be killed or used.
The thought of Nik selling her off to the highest bidder makes my temper flare dangerously.
The mental picture I have of her under some fat, old billionaire as he pumps away inside her tightens my fist, crushing the glass in my hand.
The broken shards slice into my skin. Blood drips onto the mahogany, a dark, viscous reminder of my lack of control where she and other men are concerned.
I open my hand, letting the jagged shards fall onto the leather blotter.
The sting is sharp, grounding. It pulls me back from the edge of the dangerous rage.
Zoya has stopped pacing. She sits on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Defeated? No. Planning. I can see the tension in her spine even through the pixelated feed. She is plotting her escape, unaware that the fortress walls are impenetrable.
I pull a shard of glass out of my palm and drop it on the desk.
“Andrei,” I call out.
The door opens instantly. Andrei steps in, his gaze flickering to the bloody mess on my desk and then back to my face. He doesn’t ask. He knows better.
“Why isn’t she fed yet?”
“The chef is plating it now,” Andrei replies, his tone flat, though his gaze lingers on the blood dripping onto the leather for a fraction of a second too long. “Shall I call for a medic?”
“No.” I pull a handkerchief from my breast pocket and wrap it tightly around my palm, making a fist. The white linen stains crimson instantly. The pain is a dull throb with a sharp sting. “Bring the tray here. I’ll take it up myself.”
Andrei nods once and disappears. I turn back to the monitor.
Zoya has her legs pulled up to her chest, her chin resting on her knees.
She looks small in the centre of the king-sized mattress, surrounded by the grey silk sheets I chose specifically because I knew how her dark hair would spill across them. She isn’t crying. She is waiting.
When Andrei returns with the silver tray, the rich scent of medium-rare fillet steak and truffle mash fills the office.
“Leave it,” I command.
He places it on the credenza and backs out without a word. I pick up the tray and take the stairs, careful not to spill the red wine sloshing about in the decanter. I want to catch her off guard. I want to see the fire in her eyes when she realises her jailer is also her waiter.
I slide the deadbolt across and push the door open.
Zoya’s head snaps up.
“Room service,” I drawl, kicking the door shut behind me.
“Let me out of here!” she spits out. “I am not some bird you can keep in a cage.”
“No,” I say, placing the tray on the circular table near the window. “You are the tigress who needs to be caged for her own good.”
“I hate you,” she spits out.
I pull the stopper out of the decanter and pour a glass of rich red vintage, the liquid mirroring the stain spreading across the white linen wrapped around my hand.
Zoya’s gaze drops from my face to my fist, her expression faltering for a fraction of a second.
The anger remains, but curiosity bleeds in.
I slide the glass towards her across the polished wood. “Sit. Eat. The mash will go cold.”
She doesn’t move. “I’m not hungry. And I’m not eating anything you give me. For all I know, it’s drugged.”
I huff a laugh, picking up the fork and slicing a piece of the pink steak. I bring it to my mouth and chew slowly, holding her gaze. It’s tender, perfectly seasoned. I swallow and take a sip of the wine. “Not drugged. Just expensive. A waste, if you let it spoil. Eat before I make you eat.”
Her eyes flash dangerously, but she stands up slowly.
I can see the move she is about to make before she makes it.
I let her think for one second that she will make it as she lunges for the bedroom door.
I’m behind her in three strides, slamming my injured hand over her head to the hard oak to keep it closed.
Blood drips down the wood as she breathes heavily.
After a couple of seconds, she turns to face me, my body caging her in.
“I am not an animal,” she hisses.
“Your instincts border on feral,” I murmur, staring at her full red lips, desperate to taste her.
“Get away from me.”
“Sit down and eat.” I take a step back.
She breathes in deeply and stiffly walks to the table. My gaze lingers on her as she picks up the knife and fork, slicing into the steak. I smile. She is plotting how she can stab me with the utensils.
I pull out the heavy oak chair opposite her and settle in, ignoring the dull throb in my palm.
The white linen is already saturated, turning a deep, wet crimson, but I keep my hand resting on the table, a gory centrepiece.
Zoya’s eyes flick to it again, then back to the serrated blade in her hand. Her knuckles are white.
“Do it,” I challenge softly, nodding at the knife. “If you think you’re fast enough.”
She holds my gaze, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.
For a second, I think she might actually try.
The air between us is thick with violence and lust—two sides of the same coin in my world.
But self-preservation wins. She looks down and saws aggressively at the meat, channelling her rage into the porcelain plate.
It screeches, a horrible sound that sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m not stupid,” she mutters, shoving a forkful of truffle mash into her mouth. “I know I can’t overpower you. Yet.”
“Yet,” I echo, amused. “I admire the optimism.”
“What did you do to your hand?” she asks.
“I broke a glass.”
“Clumsy,” she says, though her eyes narrow, calculating.
“Angry,” I correct. “Thinking about anyone else touching what belongs to me.”
She freezes, the fork hovering halfway to her lips. The colour drains from her face, leaving her pale and beautiful. She understands. She sets the fork down with a clatter, her appetite clearly gone.
“I am not a possession, Roman.”
“You are to me. Defy me, Zoya, and you won’t like the outcome. I will scare you. I will cage you, but I won’t touch you unless you ask. Do you understand?”