Chapter 17
Nika
Hungry?
I’m famished. After spending part of the day and all night tied up, I could eat my shirt. Or maybe his balls, sautéed with garlic and herbs. On second thought, maybe not, but I’d certainly like to chop them off at this point.
But why offer me food? I fully expected him to starve me, weaken me, and then start torturing me. That’s what I’ve been anticipating.
What Dimitri said would happen if a Kozlov ever captured me.
“Time to eat.”
Max’s words snap me out of my internal conflict. When I glance up, I catch the glint of light off a blade.
Jerking my head away, I throw myself on my back. The knot I worked to loosen overnight becomes snug again.
The blade never comes near my head like I feared. Max cuts the stocking between the slats, my arms falling slack. He clamps handcuffs on my wrists, the metal freezing against my skin.
Bastard.
I’m free and captive again all at once, fuming as he tugs the rest of the stockings off my wrists. Before I can lash out, he’s out the door, the knife hidden somewhere in his clothes.
“Hurry up, or lunch will be cold.”
I want to tell him I’d rather go hungry, but my stomach clenches at the thought of food, gurgling desperately. I should keep up my strength while I can.
Using my legs, I push the blankets off and squirm to the edge of the bed. As my bare thighs come into view, I consider asking if I can put on leggings. Shorts. A skirt. Anything to cover up a bit.
I shove the idea aside. I will not beg him for anything. I will be comfortable and dignified in my own skin. And underwear.
He’s caused a bigger mess in the main room than I realized. Cushions are torn apart, white filling scattered across the floor. Every book lies on the concrete, pages bent, spines cracked, covers scuffed.
I’m going to kill him. Gouge out his eyes. Snip off his fingers. Cut his dick off and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
As I follow the jerk into the kitchen, I resume planning my retribution.
His crazed search continued here.
I gawk at the open doors, the garbage scattered across the floor, and the coffee ring on the counter. If I considered this my home, I’d be pissed. But I’ve always considered this sanctuary more like my office than anything else. A house, but not a home.
Home doesn’t exist for someone like me. It died on the island with my mother.
The appliances hum. “What’s going on? I thought the power was out.”
“It is and isn’t.” The fridge brightens the space as Max pulls open the door. “The power went out last night, and when it came back on, several fuses overloaded. Your circuit panel looks like it was set up by a drunk monkey on crack.”
I suppress a laugh.
“Then why is it still cold in here?” If I can distract him with conversation, maybe I can find myself a weapon. I peer through the disarray for a knife.
He tosses sandwich components on the counter, then digs out a pot from a lower cabinet.
“Because when the heater tried to kick on, it went into emergency heat mode. The poorly maintained system burned out. Not just the fuse, but the element itself. We’re lucky the whole unit didn’t go up in flames.
Or melt the container, pipes, and wires of the water filtration system right next to it.
For now, we’ll have to rely on the fire to stay warm. ”
I frown, my mind spinning.
Dimitri set up the whole house. He insisted the HVAC system had to be carefully controlled to keep the greenhouse hot and the communication room cold. He refused to hire contractors or let anyone else look at it, determined to keep our defenses a secret.
A secret disaster, apparently.
That’s if I believe Max’s word over Dimitri’s.
Which, of course, I don’t.
But if Dimitri could’ve gotten us killed just because he was too paranoid to have a professional come and—
I flinch when the can opener whirs.
Max dumps the contents in the pot before refilling the container with milk that he also pours in.
He moves through the kitchen methodically, assembling lunch like he might assemble a gun.
Picking up a slice of bread, he slathers one side with mayonnaise and sets it down on the counter, wrong side up.
He does that three more times as I bite my lip to hold my tongue.
What is he doing? Trying to cause more havoc? Or just piss me off again?
Then he pulls out sliced cheese, which he layers on the uncoated sides, and puts the sandwiches together, mayo end out. The bread hisses as he drops the whole chaotic concoction in a skillet.
Dear god, what is he making? And how am I supposed to eat that slop?
Then the aroma hits me.
My mouth waters.
I can barely concentrate on anything other than the cheesy, delicious scent of sizzling sandwiches.
Before I realize what’s happened, Mad Max turns around, holding out a fully prepared meal. Tomato soup and a grilled cheese, cut into halves and leaking melty goodness onto the plate.
Max Belov, with his hair falling over his forehead, his muscles rippling under his t-shirt, and those hands that killed Sasha…delicately plating food.
It’s unnerving and entirely too intimate.
“I’m not hungry.” My denial is automatic, even as I continue to salivate.
Max raises a brow and pushes the dishes closer. When I don’t accept the offerings, he sets them next to me.
Then he leans his hip against the counter, dips his sandwich in his soup, and takes a bite, all while maintaining eye contact.
Is he trying to prove he didn’t poison it? Taunting me? Performing some weird Kozlov mating ritual?
Stop eye-fucking him, Nika. He doesn’t deserve your admiration.
My stomach growls audibly in the quiet, my body betraying me once again. I avoid looking at him, glaring at the floor instead.
Max sighs, and he sets his plate down with a clink. “Fine. Since you’re apparently too weak and tired to do it yourself, I’ll feed you.”
I whip my head up and open my lips to snap out a scathing retort, only for him to shove the corner of a sandwich into my mouth.
All I can do at that point is bite while baring my teeth.
The asshole smiles. “Good. I can’t have you dying of starvation before you break.” He scoops up a spoonful of soup and lifts it to my mouth.
I seal my lips together and lock my eyes on his as I chew the perfectly toasted sandwich.
Man, I’ve never had a better meal in my life.
Guess he has one redeeming quality. He can make a mean grilled cheese.
He leans closer, those arctic eyes boring into mine. The deep shadow of beard stubble creeps across his jaw. “After all, killing you is my job. Can’t let nature get in the way.”
I open my mouth to spew out the food I’ve already chewed.
He responds by covering my lips with his palm, his thumb and fingers pressing into my cheeks right in front of my ears. Not crushing or choking, only keeping my mouth closed and showing me how easily he can control even this.
“I wouldn’t if I were you. You don’t need a working jaw to eat. Smoothies go down just fine.”
The comment oozes with deadly promise, and I don’t doubt for a moment what would happen if I spit his food in his face.
Instead, I swallow.
Not because I’m scared. I’m not afraid of Max Belov.
As much as I detest him, I don’t want to become any weaker. Dimitri would stay strong in this situation, so I will too.
Max removes his hand and waits, one expectant brow hopping up past the hair hanging over his forehead. My nails dig into my palms as I open my mouth just enough for him to slide the spoon in.
The tomato soup tastes silkier and more delicious than any I’ve ever eaten, carrying hints of basil, butter, and garlic. He must have jazzed it up.
As soon as I swallow, he’s ready with the sandwich.
He’s a little too fast, so the liquid spills onto my lips and chin. He pauses when he notices, so I at least know he’s not trying to humiliate me. Still, I must look like a wreck.
He tracks my swallow as I nearly choke on the next bite, gagging on both the meal and unwanted yet irrefutable desire.
Because my body doesn’t care about my pride. My mind resists, but my flesh responds, reminding me of how good last night felt with his hands on me.
As he feeds me another bite, his thumb brushes my lower lip, wiping away food while also lingering longer than necessary. My tongue darts out, licking the soup and him at the same time.
The touch is electric. Wrong. Terrifying in its gentleness.
I’m sure this was meant as a lesson in control. A demonstration of his power by taking over my sanctuary, then me.
The result is strangely intimate.
This is all his fault.
He’ll pay for messing up my safe place and invading my privacy. For breaking into my place, tying me up, destroying my things, touching me, and stirring up sensations I’d prefer to never acknowledge.
For now, I’m nearly helpless, dependent on him for food, warmth, and survival. Dimitri’s training echoes in my head. Think. Plan. Execute.
Assess the situation. Identify weaknesses. Wait for the right moment.
When that moment comes, I won’t hesitate.