Chapter 12
Varvara
His silence gets under my skin. I’ve asked a real question, and now I have to stand here in his bedroom, half-dressed in his clothes, waiting for whatever deranged answer comes out of his mouth.
He finally moves, slow and deliberate, circling the end of the bed while keeping his eyes on me. I hold my ground. My pulse is still too fast, but at least now it is anger driving it instead of panic.
“Because I want you alive,” he says.
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Why? People don’t abduct women and lock them in bedrooms because they want them alive. That is not normal behaviour.”
“I never claimed to be normal.”
“Convenient.”
He clenches his teeth. “You want honesty?”
“I want something that isn’t bullshit.”
His stare drops to my mouth for one awful second before it comes back to my eyes. “Fine. I kept you because you’re in danger, because I made a judgement call, and because from the second I saw you, I haven’t been able to leave you the fuck alone.”
I don’t say anything. That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
Instead, I notice how close he is, how broad he is, how that low voice drags over every already-frayed nerve in me and makes them spark.
That’s the part that undoes me more than any of the rest of it.
“So, this is obsession,” I say, keeping my voice flat by force.
“I answered the question you asked.”
I know. That’s why it bothers me so much. Unfortunately, his motives are out now, and there is nothing I can do about it. I clear my throat and instantly regret it when his gaze drops. “So, I’m trapped in a serial killer’s wet dream.”
“I’m not a serial killer. Where did you get that idea?”
“You shove people into barrels and drop them in the Channel.”
“Not alive, and not on a premeditated basis.”
“That’s not helping,” I croak, a whimper catching in the back of my throat.
Fuck. What have I got myself into?
“What do you plan to do with me?”
He lets out a noise that sounds a bit like a snarl, shoving his hand into his hair and turning from me.
I take a moment to stare at his back. I’ve been keeping my eyes firmly on his face, so I didn’t accidentally drool all over his inked chest. His back is covered in tattoos as well, and I allow myself this moment to appreciate a rock-hard body covered in Bratva tats.
He doesn’t speak for a beat. It is starting to get a bit awkward when he finally turns back to me. “I made a vow, and I don’t break them,”
“A vow to whom?” I whisper.
“Myself. I’m not letting you die. That means I cage you. Get used to it.” He storms off to the bathroom, leaving the door clear for me to run.
I make it two steps before he returns, his hand clamping down on my wrist, painful enough for me to make a noise of protest.
“Really?” he says, dragging me close enough to him that I’m pressed against his chest. “Really, Varvara? The second my back is turned, you run?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to wrench free. “That’s what people do when you threaten to cage them.”
His fingers tighten for a second, then loosen just enough to stop hurting but keep me where he wants me. His face is close. Too close. Blue eyes. Hard mouth. A pulse ticking in his throat. I wish I didn’t notice.
“You’re not hearing me,” he says.
“I’m hearing you perfectly. You’re just not saying anything a sane person would say.”
His other hand comes to my hip, not gentle, not rough enough to bruise, just absolute. Containing. I gasp, and fury surges up to cover everything else.
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
I shove at his chest with my free hand. It’s like shoving a wall. He doesn’t move. Not even a little bit.
“You don’t get to decide I’m yours because you’ve got a fixation and too much money.”
His expression changes at that. Not softer. Sharper.
“It isn’t a fixation.”
“Obsessive stalking, breaking into my life, following me on my run, dragging me into your car, locking me up. What exactly do you call that?”
His eyes burn into mine. For one moment, I think he is going to kiss me. I lift my chin, almost daring him to try. I want to break him. If he is obsessing over me, I want to see how far I can push him before he snaps.
I don’t know why. I’ve never played a dangerous game with a dangerous man before.
He pulls me even closer. “Is that what you want? For me to kiss you.”
I blink. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“You did, with your eyes, your lips. I read people for a living, Varvara. If I weren’t so fucking good at it, you’d have a bullet in your head right now because I’d have assumed you were guilty.”
Heat rushes into my face so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
His hand is still locked around my wrist. His other hand is still on my hip. Every part of me is aware of it. That is the problem.
“That’s what makes you terrifying.”
His expression shifts at that. I don’t know what to do with it, so I go for the only weapon I have left. I lift my knee, but he is faster, his hand moving from my hip to grip my bruised knee.
The smirk on his face is the most arrogant thing I’ve ever seen.
“See?” he says. “I can read you like a fucking book, and you hate it.”
“I hate you,” I spit out.
“Maybe. But that changes nothing.” He releases me with an exaggerated movement and steps back. “Run, then. See how far it gets you.”
I hesitate. But then I lunge for the door and grip the handle, yanking it hard and nearly dislocating my shoulder when it doesn’t budge.
“You bastard,” I say.
“Pyotr came up and locked it behind me. He isn’t an idiot, and neither am I.”
“No, you’re both psychos that need arresting and throwing in jail.”
“Better people than you have tried, moya sladkaya.” With that parting shot, he turns and this time closes the door behind him after he enters the bathroom. Seconds later, I hear the shower running and hot tears prick my eyes.
That was my only shot, and he already knew I’d take it.
I stand there with my hand still on the useless handle, chest heaving, and stare at the wood as if I can burn through it on fury alone.
“Fucking arsehole,” I whisper.
The shower keeps running.
I scrub at my eyes with the heels of my hands before the tears can fall properly.
I refuse to cry over him. I refuse to give him that.
My throat aches, my knee throbs, and I’m trapped in a rich criminal’s bedroom wearing his tee and nothing else.
That is bad enough without adding more sobbing to the situation.
I force myself to turn away from the door and pace once, then again, trying to bleed off the wild, frantic energy tearing through me.
The shower runs on, steady and maddening.
He’s in there like he didn’t just tell me he’s going to cage me.
Like that’s a thing a person says and then just goes to have a wash.
The reality of my situation crashes into me, and there is no amount of wishing that will get me out of it.
I’m trapped here. Caged. My chest constricts, and my hands tremble.
It’s only when I slide down the wall in the furthest corner of the room from the bathroom, behind the armchair, that I realise what I’ve done.
I pull my knees up to my chest, pulling his tee down over my knees to my ankles, and I wrap my arms around myself.
I count my breaths because if I don’t, I’m going to start screaming and never stop.
Four in. Four out. The water still runs behind the bathroom door. He’s right there. Barely a few feet away. An insane, violent man with too much power and a fixation he admitted to my face like that was meant to reassure me.
It doesn’t.
It only makes me more afraid.
The water shuts off suddenly, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens. It is silent for a couple of seconds before I hear him move further into the room.
He is looking for me. I curl up more as if that is going to help.
It doesn’t. He finds me easily behind the chair a second later, standing there in just a towel, wrapped low around his hips.
He stares down at me for a few moments. I don’t look at him.
Then he crouches down again, getting onto my level. “Who hurt you, moya sladkaya?”
A tear slides down my cheek. “Don’t,” I croak. “Just don’t be that man. Be the Bratva man who terrifies and threatens, not the kind one who asks who hurt me.”
“I’m not being kind, Varvara. I’m being every bit the Bratva man you want me to be. I will find out who it was, what they did and then shoot him before I stuff him into a barrel and dump him in the Channel.”
My gaze shoots to his as he mocks me.
But I’m caught off guard at the look on his face. He means every fucking word of it. “Don’t say things like that. I am not your responsibility, and neither is my trauma.”
His expression hardens. “I decide what becomes my responsibility.”
“No. You decide what you control. That’s different.”
He stays crouched in front of me, wet hair pushed back, water still tracking over ink and skin before disappearing beneath the towel. I’ve already noticed every drop of water tracking down his chest before my mind has finished processing the part where he offered to commit murder on my behalf.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m trapped in a bedroom with a man who just offered to kill someone for me like it was nothing. What exactly did you expect?”
A breath leaves him, sharp and annoyed. “I expected you to understand that I will kill anyone who hurts you. No one hurts what’s mine.”
“That’s rich,” I say.
His eyes drop to the cut on my neck, then back to mine. “I know what I did, and I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t fix it.”
“Are you going to get back in bed?”
“No.”
He nods once, stiffly and rises, moving away.
He returns a moment later with a pillow and the duvet.
“Make a place of safety for yourself, Varvara. Do whatever you need to do to survive this. I have some errands to run. I’ll be going out, but I’ll be back later.
Pyotr will be up intermittently to check on you. ”
I watch him set the pillow and duvet down in front of me. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He says nothing else as he moves away. I hear him getting dressed, and moments later, the door unlocks.
I clench my fists, but I can barely take a breath before it opens and closes again, the lock clicking back into place.
Reaching for the duvet and pillow, I make a cocoon in the corner behind the armchair and close my eyes, willing myself to sleep before the fear response sets in.