Chapter 9
ALINA
My body wakes up before my brain does. There’s a dull ache along my thighs and hips, not painful exactly, just a reminder of last night.
My lower back feels tight and there’s a slight tingle between my legs, but I still feel warm and cozy.
I roll over, wanting to check my phone to see what time it is, and then I remember that I don’t have my phone.
This is not my bed. It’s not my apartment. In fact, I don’t know where the hell I am right now, and that’s by design.
As my brain does finally wake up, it remembers all the horrible things that happened last night. Kostya cheating. Meeting Andrei Markov. His car blowing up.
Then it remembers certain other things. Like his hands on my hips and the look on his face when he came inside me.
My chest starts to tighten in the way it always does when a panic attack is oncoming. Then I look over and see the indent in the mattress where Andrei must have slept. The panic dulls, replaced by an almost giddy sensation.
I felt magnificent.
Despite everything that happened, I had the best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.
The best sex, really. I have to stifle a grin, because the more I think about what happened, the better I feel.
He knew my body like he’d been given a user manual.
He made me feel things I didn’t think were even possible.
I sit up slowly, the concrete floor cool beneath my bare feet when I plant them down. The ache shifts again, sharper this time, and I hiss under my breath, pressing a hand to my thigh.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself.
I glance around the room, grounding myself in the space.
It’s pretty drab, with concrete floors and furniture that looks like it came from Goodwill.
The curtains are old and limp, barely blocking out the sun.
There’s no warmth or life in this place at all.
I desperately hope we aren’t going to be staying long.
I have no basis for what’s going to happen next.
My engagement is definitely over. Kostya isn’t who I thought he was.
Neither is my father, for that matter. I don’t know when I’m going to get to go home again, or even to my job.
I have no phone, no computer, no car, no way to interact with the outside world.
The panic comes back sharply and I have to try some grounding exercises just to breathe normally. I carefully pick up the discarded sweatsuit from last night and slip it back on, realizing that clothes are another thing I don’t have here.
I stand and pace, my steps uneven as the adrenaline starts creeping back in. I run a hand through my hair, realizing just how much hairspray is still in it from the party. I don’t feel like myself. Everything is completely out of control.
I hear movement behind the closed bedroom door, and what sounds like typing. Andrei must be awake, which means I can ask him questions. I can figure out the next steps. I slowly open the door and pad out to the living room where he’s sitting on the couch, looking composed and sure of himself.
“Good afternoon, Alina,” he says calmly. “Did you sleep well?”
I blink back at him in surprise. Afternoon?
“What time is it?” I ask in confusion.
He pauses, then inclines his head slightly. “It’s almost one. Are you hungry?”
“No,” I say firmly, although that isn’t true. I’m famished. “I need to call my father.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” he replies without hesitation.
My cheeks flame and my heart starts racing again. “Excuse me?”
“It isn’t safe for you to be making calls right now,” he answers, still calm.
“I am not a hostage,” I snap.
“No,” he nods. “But you are being protected, and contacting the outside world would put your protection in jeopardy.”
I start pacing again, anger buzzing beneath my skin, cutting through the lingering warmth from earlier.
“My father is going to wonder what happened to me last night, and he’ll freak out when he can’t get in contact with me.
He’ll probably call my boss, who will also be wondering why I didn’t show up for work today.
” I stop pacing as a new reality hits. “Shit, I’m going to lose my job because of this! ”
Andrei watches me carefully, his expression unreadable.
“Andrei, you have to let me call someone to let them know I’m okay.”
“A good Bratva daughter would not suggest such foolish things,” he says mildly.
I stop short and stare at him. Did he really just say that?
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Oh, that’s rich.”
He arches an eyebrow, daring me to finish that thought.
“I didn’t even know I was a Bratva daughter until last night,” I remind him. “I wasn’t exactly taught the etiquette of the position.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or approval. It’s gone before I can be sure.
“No better time than the present to learn,” he quips. “The first lesson: we don’t use outside communication unless absolutely necessary.”
I run my hands over my face in frustration.
“I just want to tell my dad I’m alive,” I say with a little desperation. “You can stand right there the whole time and make sure I don’t say anything that gives away where I am.”
Andrei considers this for a moment, and I think I might be getting through to him when he shoots back another, decisive, “No.”
I feel something inside of me snap. Anger replaces the panic, and he’s the only one here I can take it out on.
“You aren’t the boss of me,” I say, cringing at how petulant and childish I sound. “Just because we slept together doesn’t mean you get to dictate my every move from now on.”
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. His jaw tightens slightly and I swear I see a look of regret pass over his face, but it’s gone before I can really examine it.
“That wasn’t my intention,” he says simply, turning back to his computer. “But I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
I growl in frustration and storm back to the room, slamming the door behind me.
I sit on the bed, fuming, wondering what the hell is going to happen.
How long am I supposed to stay in this shithole apartment with no contact with the outside world?
How long will I be stuck in such close proximity to such an infuriating man?
Thoughts of Andrei soon transform into thoughts of Kostya, and I feel the panic building once more.
I have so many questions about last night, about the last six months, maybe about my entire life.
Who exactly is Kostya? What’s his role in all of this?
I take a deep breath and force myself to go back to the living room.
If he won’t let me talk with the outside world, the least he can do is answer a few questions.
“Can you at least tell me what happened last night?” I ask, standing in front of him and crossing my arms.
Andrei puts his computer on the coffee table and leans back against the couch, studying me. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.
“I mean,” I start slowly. “Why would someone try to kill you the night of my engagement party? Was the party just a ruse to get to you? Is Kostya even who I thought he was, or has he been planning this the whole time?”
His lips quirk up in a smirk as he lets me air out all my questions.
“Why wouldn’t my dad tell me about the Bratva? Why would he let me think he’s a dock worker all this time? Why—”
“Alina,” Andrei says patiently. “I can’t even begin to answer any of those questions. I’m trying to get to the bottom of what is going on. Until I do, I think you need to learn to be content with the unknown.”
I turn away, breathing through the frustration. My entire body feels wrung out.
“Can you at least tell me how long we’ll be here?” I ask in a small voice.
“Unfortunately, I can’t,” he answers with an apologetic smile. “It will take as long as it takes.”
“This is all too much,” I huff out. “I need something normal. I feel like I’m spinning out of control here.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
“I’ll have my men bring you a few things,” he says.
My face lights up with hope. “A phone?”
“No,” he answers firmly.
“A tablet?”
“No.”
I scowl at him. “You aren’t winning any points here.”
“I’m not trying to win points,” he replies. “But if we’re going to be trapped here together for an indefinite amount of time, it would help if you weren’t so idle.”
I roll my eyes and turn away from him, staring at the small kitchen.
I turn my focus on finding something to eat, slamming cabinet doors and making a big show of not being “idle.” He doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me, though.
He’s back on his computer, which isn’t fair at all.
Apparently, there’s no issue if he has contact with the outside world.
A knock sounds at the door not long after. One of his men enters carrying a small sack of items and sets it on the table before leaving without a word.
“These are for you,” Andrei tells me, getting up and bringing me the bag.
I peer inside to see a stack of books. Not random ones, either. Large, detailed volumes with thick pages and glossy photographs. Gilded Age architecture. Victorian Eclectic design. Historic hotels. Restoration case studies.
“What are these?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You mentioned last night, after…” he trails off. “Anyway, you said that you want to restore an old mansion into a hotel. I thought these might help give you some ideas.”
I take them from him and set them on the counter. I open one, flipping through the pages, my fingers already itching to sketch, to plan, to lose myself in something constructive.
“I didn’t think you were listening,” I murmur.
“I always listen,” he says.
Our eyes meet and something passes between us. Maybe it’s just a mutual understanding, but it feels more like undeniable attraction. I take the books back into the bedroom, but this time I leave the door open.
There’s also a notebook and some pens in the bag, like Andrei knew I’d want to take notes. It hits me again just how thoughtful he is, and how perceptive. It’s almost unnerving.
I sink onto the bed and start going through the books, making notes of designs I find aspirational. I don’t know how long I’m there when movement catches my eye from the living room.
I look up and immediately regret it. Andrei is doing pull-ups against the exposed beam near the wall, his movements smooth and controlled. Muscles flex beneath his shirt, sweat darkening the fabric slightly. He transitions into push-ups with the same ease, breathing steady, expression focused.
Heat curls low in my stomach, unwelcome and insistent. I look back down at the page, pretending to be very invested in a photograph of a turreted roofline. It’s no use, though. My eyes keep getting drawn to him without my permission.