Chapter 12 Roman
Roman
The ache in my cock is a persistent annoyance as I stride down the corridor. My control is thinner than I pretend, and Zoya knows it. She pushes boundaries I set for my own sanity, testing the bars of her cage with a defiance that only makes me want to tighten the lock.
Petr waits at the bottom of the stairs. He looks uneasy.
“Well?” I demand, skipping the pleasantries.
“Nothing in the bag except her purse, a bottle of water, and other shit women have in their bags.”
I stop on the final step. Mikhail wouldn’t leave her just money. He left her the keys to the kingdom. If it’s not in the bag, she moved it. “How much was in her purse?”
“Five hundred. Pocket change for a woman like her.” The sneer is unmistakable.
It’s unacceptable.
My hand closes around his throat, and I squeeze. “A woman like her is worth more than a hundred of you. Remember that.” I release him roughly.
He stifles his cough and nods briskly.
“She’s smarter than you give her credit for,” I say, ignoring the recent transgression. “She moved it.”
“We can tear the room apart,” Petr offers.
“No.” A cruel smile touches my lips. “Let her think she has won a round. It gives her a false sense of security. I want her to feel like she has wins. Besides, she is probably the only one who can decipher the code. We give her time to do it.”
I head towards my office, dismissing Petr. He knows what he has to do. Nik is the pressing issue. Zoya is a puzzle I will solve later, preferably once I’ve broken down every wall she has built. My phone buzzes. My father again.
“Progress?”
“More than you know,” I murmur.
I can almost feel the eye roll.
“Do you have the ledger, Roman?”
“Not yet. But I know Zoya has it. I’m going to leave it with her for now. It is useless to us without the code anyway. If she can decipher it, then we don’t need it yet. Besides, it’s a tool.”
“A tool for what?”
“This game where she thinks she can win, but won’t.”
“You are playing with her like a cat would a mouse.” There is slight approval in his tone, even though he tries to disguise it.
“Precisely,” I say, ending the call. I toss the mobile onto the mahogany desk, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
I swivel the chair to face the wall of monitors. Zoya is pacing the length of the bedroom suite, her movements agitated. She clutches her elbows, her black dress swirling around her legs. She looks like a trapped storm. Beautiful. Destructive.
Zoya looks like a trapped animal, vibrating with nervous energy. She thinks she has secured a victory by hiding the ledger from me. Let her believe it. Hope is a dangerous thing, and right now, it’s the only thing keeping her from shattering completely.
I manipulate the controls, zooming in on her face. She is muttering to herself, fingers twisting in the fabric of that black dress. It fits her too well, clinging to curves that haunt my waking hours.
“Decipher it, Zoya,” I whisper to the empty room. “Do the work for me.”
My gaze shifts to the second screen showing the front gates.
Rain lashes against the iron, blurring the world outside.
Nik will make his move soon. He won’t be able to resist the power vacuum Mikhail left behind.
But he is a thug playing a gentleman’s game.
I open the drawer and pull out a fresh Stark pistol, checking the magazine with a satisfying click.
The funeral will be soon. Nik will send out the invitation to my father.
I will attend in his place as the Voronov representative with Zoya on my arm, a beautiful, grieving daughter who Nik will assume left the country, and therefore is out of his hair to make his move.
It will be his last. No one takes what my woman is owed, even if it means putting her on a throne she isn’t ready for.
She will be.
I’ll make sure of it.
I turn away from the monitors and work on a file my father sent over.
A small group of Albanians have moved into the area and is trafficking women for prostitution.
Not on my watch. Women are to be revered, not sold like cattle.
That is already two strikes against this group, and they have barely begun playing.
Baron wants me to deal with this the Bratva way, but first, I want to deal with it my way.
The way of the law. I pull up the land registry details for the warehouse in Southwark.
It is a crumbling relic of the industrial age, perfect for hiding misery.
A quick search reveals the ownership is buried under shell companies, but I enjoy digging.
I find the weak link—a lack of fire safety compliance and expired permits.
I draft a tip-off to the local council and the fire brigade.
Bureaucracy is a slow poison, but it is effective.
It forces them into the light, and once they are exposed, the police will do the heavy lifting.
If the law fails, then I will do this the easy way and send Andrei with a petrol can and a match.
My attention shifts back to the screen. Zoya has stopped pacing. She sits on the edge of the bed, her head bowed, staring at her hands. The frantic energy seems to be draining out of her, replaced by the crushing weight of grief.
I hate seeing her like this. I prefer the fire. I prefer the way she looks at me with murder in her eyes.
I close the laptop with a snap. The Albanian problem is simmering. The Nik problem is about to boil over. But right now, the Zoya problem requires my personal touch. I check the time. Lunch.
I stand, adjusting my jacket over the holster.
I promised her food. I didn’t promise I wouldn’t be the one serving it.
The need to be in her presence is an itch under my skin I cannot scratch from a distance.
I walk to the door. It is time to feed the tiger.
I descend the main staircase, the plush carpet silencing my heavy tread.
The house hums with the quiet efficiency of my staff, invisible gears turning to keep my world pristine.
In the kitchen, the chef is placing the final garnish of dill on a plate of poached salmon.
It looks delicate. Expensive. Exactly what Zoya deserves, even if she will likely throw it at the wall.
“I’ll take it,” I announce, startling the man. He wipes his hands on his apron and steps back, nodding respectfully.
I lift the silver tray, testing its weight. Andrei waits in the hallway, looking like a spare part.
“Wait here,” I command. “If I need you to drag her off me, I’ll call.”
He smirks, but the humour doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows better than to question my methods.
Ascending the stairs, the anticipation tightens in my chest. It is pathetic how much I look forward to these small interactions, these brief collisions of our orbits.
I reach the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor and balance the tray on one hand to slide the bolt back.
The metal clunks, a heavy sound that signals my arrival.
I push the door open.
Zoya sits exactly where I left her on the screen, but her spine snaps straight the moment I enter. The defeated slump vanishes, replaced by that delicious, sharp-edged fury.
“Lunch,” I state, kicking the door shut behind me. “Try not to stab me with the fork.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I set the tray on the small table and cross the distance between us. “Starving yourself is a boring form of protest, Zoya. It lacks imagination.”
“Maybe I’m just sick of looking at you.”
“Good.” I smirk, satisfied. “Hate me all you want. Just eat.”
“Will you leave if I say I will?”
“No, I want to watch you.”
“You’re sick.”
“No, I’m protective. You will learn the difference one day and appreciate it.”
“In your dreams.”
But she rises nonetheless and sits at the table. She picks up the plastic fork and glares at it. “Are you joking?”
“I rarely joke about potential weapons, Zoya,” I reply, settling into the chair opposite her. “And until you prove you can handle sharp objects without fantasising about plunging them into my jugular, you get the picnic ware.”
She stares at the flimsy white utensil as if it personally insults her ancestors. “I can do a lot of damage with plastic if I try hard enough.”
“I am counting on it.”
A huff escapes her lips, but she stabs the salmon.
The tines bend under the pressure, yet she manages to secure a mouthful.
I sit back, observing the way she eats. Even in her fury, she possesses an innate grace.
She hates that I am here, witnessing her sustenance, but I feed off her resentment just as much as she feeds off the fish.
“You’re staring,” she mutters around a bite of asparagus.
“I am ensuring you… swallow.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, her cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink. She chokes, coughing to clear her throat, but she refuses to look away.
“You are vile,” she wheezes, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
“I am honest,” I counter, enjoying the way the flush spreads down her neck. “There is a difference.”
She abandons the asparagus and attacks the potatoes.
The plastic fork bends dangerously under her aggression.
I wait for it to snap. It holds, barely.
She eats with a desperate sort of dignity, refusing to give me the satisfaction of seeing her falter again.
Every bite she takes is a victory for me.
I am keeping her alive. I am sustaining her.
She eats when I say, what I say and how I say.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice quieter now, though the venom remains. “The food. The clothes. The...” She waves the flimsy fork at the room. “All of it.”
“Because you belong to me. It is my job to take care of you.”
“I am an adult. I can take care of myself.”
“Really? So when you were locked out of your home, who saved you?”
“You didn’t save me. You abducted me.”
“Do stop using that word, Devochka. It’s insulting.”
“I am insulted by your presence.”
“For now. But I know you will think of me when I leave.” I lean forward, respecting her space. “I know you will dream of me when you are lying in that big bed all by yourself. Maybe you will touch yourself, pretending it is me—”
The cool water hits my face before I can finish tormenting her.
I sit motionless for a heartbeat, the liquid dripping from my chin onto the lapel of my charcoal suit.
It’s a waste of good mineral water, but the shock is almost refreshing.
Silence stretches between us, taut as a piano wire waiting to snap.
Zoya stands with the empty glass clutched in her hand, her chest heaving.
She looks terrified, realising she just assaulted the man holding her life in his hands, but her chin remains high.
The defiance is exquisite.
Slowly, deliberately, I lift a napkin and wipe the moisture from my eyes. I toss the linen onto the tray.
“Better,” I murmur, standing up. “I was feeling a little overheated at the thought of you coming all over your fingers with my name on your lips.”
The glass trembles in her grip. “You deserved it.”
“I deserve a lot of things, Zoya.” Water tracks down my neck, soaking into my shirt collar. “But be careful. Water is harmless. If you throw something harder next time, I might forget my manners.”
Her gaze is locked on mine. She daren’t move. She is barely breathing.
“Andrei will bring you fresh water. Don’t waste it.”
I step back, straightening my damp jacket. I walk to the door without looking back, leaving her trembling in the wreckage of her small rebellion. The lock clicks home, sealing her in with the monster she’s slowly waking up.