Chapter 6 Alina
Alina
The brass elephant is heavier than it looks, and my arms are already aching from trying to use it as a battering ram. The door hasn’t even got a dent in it, which is infuriating. I drop the ornament with a thud and shudder.
“Let me out!” I scream at the top of my lungs, even though I know it’s pointless.
This house swallows sound because it’s designed to hide screams. I never knew I had a fear of being locked in a room until it happened.
Earlier, in the blue room, I was tired, and still in hope of Dad coming to rescue me.
Now, I’m trapped, wide awake and in fear of never getting out of here.
The walls are closing in, and I can’t stop thinking about that neat hole in Nikolai Saranov’s forehead.
About the way Arkady’s face went blank when he saw it.
About the fact that I’m now trapped in the house of a man who just inherited an empire built on violence, blood money, and God knows what else.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I turn from the door, panic hitting my insides enough to make me feel sick.
The lock clicks, and I spin around as the door swings open.
Arkady fills the doorway, all six-foot-four, at least, of dangerous male.
His tattoos snake up his forearms like living things, and I force my gaze away from them to glare angrily into those blue eyes that are flashing with darkness, but also something a lot hotter.
He enters the room and kicks the door shut behind him.
He leans against it, raking his gaze over me. “You have worn out Dima’s patience. Consider me the better option.”
That puts this entire fucked up situation into perspective, and I gulp back the fear that has spiked my blood. But I was raised by Valery Belov, and I won’t go down without a fight. I lift my chin higher.
“That was a gift, you know,” he says calmly, staring at the elephant. “I quite like it.”
“Yeah, well, don’t lock up women in your bedroom with nice things about.”
“I didn’t lock you up with nice things. I locked you up with necessary things. The elephant is decoration.” He pushes off the door and moves closer. “Breaking my property won’t get you out of here faster.”
“Then what will?” I snap, hating how breathless I sound. He’s too close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker. Something that makes my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.
“Good behaviour.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Good behaviour according to who? You? You are hardly a poster child for the side of good.”
He chuckles, genuinely surprised, or so it seems. “No, quite the opposite. There is a man downstairs missing three fingers because he didn’t have the answers to the questions that I asked.”
The blood drains from my face, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of showing him he got to me. “And? You expect me to be scared because you come up here bragging about what a monster you are?”
“Bragging?” He practically chokes on it, and I feel that was a goal for me. If anyone is keeping score. He moves closer and takes my wrist in his grip, peeling my arms away from my body before he spins me around, brings my arm up behind my back and bends me over the bed.
“Hey,” I snap and struggle, but all I end up doing is hurting myself.
I freeze when his hand lands on my arse.
He lets go of my wrist but places his hand firmly on my lower back.
He doesn’t spank me straight away. He pauses—one breath—like he’s listening to my body instead of my mouth.
His hand spreads over my lower back, steadying, grounding, and I hate that the contact calms me.
Then the first slap lands, sharp enough to steal air, controlled enough to tell me he chose it.
The sharp sting makes me gasp, but it’s the heat that follows that makes my breath catch. He spanks me again, harder this time, and I bite down on my lip to keep from making any sound that might encourage him.
“This is what happens when you destroy my property,” he says, his voice low and controlled. Another spank lands, and I feel the heat spreading through the thin fabric of the joggers. “And this is what happens when you wear out Dima’s composure.”
“Fuck you,” I grit out, even as my body betrays me by responding to his touch in ways I absolutely do not want to examine.
He chuckles, dark and amused. “You keep begging me for that, krasotka. We’ll get to it.” His hand smooths over the spot he just spanked, and I hate how good it feels. “But first, you need to learn some manners.”
I try to push myself up, but his hand on my back keeps me pinned. “Let me go, you bastard.”
“Not until you understand the rules.” Another spank, this one making me arch involuntarily. “Rule one: you don’t destroy my things. Rule two: you don’t make Dima’s job harder than it already is. He’s here to protect you, not to babysit a spoilt brat.”
Each rule is punctuated by another sharp slap to my arse, and I’m mortified by the way my body is reacting.
Heat pools low in my belly, and I press my thighs together, praying he doesn’t notice.
His hand comes down again, and this time I can’t stop the small sound that escapes me.
“Rule three: you don’t test my patience when I’ve just had to cut fingers off a man to get information about who wants to hurt you. ”
The mention of the tortured man downstairs makes my stomach lurch, but my body is still responding to his touch in ways that make me want to crawl under a rock and hide. “I’m not spoilt,” I manage to get out.
“No?” His hand slides up my back, fingers trailing over my spine. “Daddy’s little princess who gets to play at being normal whilst living off blood money?”
That hits too close to home, and I struggle harder. “That’s not—I don’t—”
“You don’t what? Live in a nice house in South Ken that your father bought with the money he earns breaking bones for the Kuznetsovs? You don’t wear designer clothes and go to expensive clubs because Daddy makes sure his little girl never wants for anything?”
“I hate you,” I breathe, but it comes out shakier than I intended.
“No, you don’t.” His hand slides up my spine, tracing the line of my tattoo through the fabric. “You hate that you want me to keep going.”
The bastard is right, and that makes me angrier than anything else. I do want him to keep going. I want those hands on me, want to feel the controlled violence he keeps leashed turned into something else entirely.
“You’re delusional,” I manage, but my voice is barely a whisper.
“Am I? Your pulse is racing, your breathing’s changed, and you’re not fighting me anymore.”
My breath hitches, and I curse myself for being so transparent. He’s reading me like a fucking book, and I can’t stand it.
“Get off me,” I whisper, but there’s no force behind it. My body has gone pliant under his touch, betraying every principle I thought I had.
“Say it like you mean it, and I will.” His thumb traces along my spine, under my top now, following the Cyrillic script of my surname. “But we both know you don’t mean it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that he’s right. Hating that my body is responding to him like this when he’s holding me prisoner. When he just told me he tortured someone downstairs. When his father’s body is probably still being photographed by crime scene techs.
“This is fucked up,” I breathe.
“Yes, it is.” His hand stills on my back. “But that doesn’t make it less real.”
I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder, and the heat in his eyes makes my stomach flip. “You’re a monster.”
“I am.” His voice is matter of fact, with no shame or apology. “Does that scare you? Or does it turn you on?”
The answer sits on my tongue, dangerous and true, but I won’t give it to him. I won’t give him that power over me.
His hand slides lower, fingertips grazing the small of my back where my top has ridden up. He presses his lips to the base of my tattoo. His tongue darts out, and I let out a moan without meaning to. He chuckles and licks me salaciously as if he owns me.
“Obsession is a dangerous thing, krasotka,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath making me shiver. “And I’m becoming obsessed with you.”
“Don’t waste your time. I’ll be out of here before you know it.” But we both know that isn’t true. I’m stuck here, as his prisoner, and no one is coming to rescue me any time soon. Not even my dad.
“You think I’m wasting my time?” he says, pulling away and hauling me back up to face him.
“I think you have better things to do than play games with me.”
“But playing is so much more fun,” he murmurs, gripping the hem of my top and pulling it up and over my head before I can stop him.
“Arkady…”
“Are you saying no, krasotka?”
Am I? I don’t even know anymore. Before I can answer, there is a loud knock on the door, and Dima calls out, “Pakhan. You are needed downstairs.”
I breathe out shakily. Dima saved me from having to humiliate myself as I open my legs so wide for Arkady, he can screw me from here until next week.
“Don’t lock me in,” I say, my voice trembling as he pulls away, back to the cold monster he shows to the world.
But I’ve seen the heat underneath. It’s scorching.
He pauses, scrutinising me to see if I’m trying to play him.
I’m not playing him. I’m too rattled to be strategic right now. The spanking, his mouth on my skin, the way he stripped my shirt off like he owned me—it’s all scrambled my brain into mush.
He moves to the door and looks back at me, standing there in just my joggers. His gaze drags over me slowly, possessively, and I fight the urge to cover myself.
“Put your top back on, krasotka. I don’t want Dima getting ideas. I don’t share, and I’d hate to have to kill him.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“His blood will be on your hands if you test me.”
His threat makes me yank my top back on and pull it down so far that I stretch it to my knees.
He smirks and leaves the room, locking it behind him.
It comes as no surprise. I should’ve known better.