Chapter 10 #2
"You didn't ask for any of this," he says.
"My men—they made a mistake. They grabbed the wrong woman.
That is on them, not you." His hand cups my cheek, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
"Your father, he refuses to pay the ransom. He’s chosen war instead of bringing you home. That is on him, not you."
Something in my chest cracks at his words. He's trying to comfort me. Trying to absolve me of the guilt that's been eating at me since I realized men were dying because of my presence here.
"You are innocent in this," he murmurs. "You were walking down the street, going about your life, and my organization took that from you. You did nothing wrong."
His fingers trace patterns on my skin, soothing and gentle. I want to believe him. Want to accept the absolution he's offering. But there's something in his words that doesn't quite fit, something that's nagging at the edges of my consciousness.
"The men who grabbed you," he continues, "they were supposed to take someone else. A different woman. They fucked up and took you instead." He shakes his head. "That mistake is theirs. Not yours. You understand?"
It’s meant to reassure me. I know it is—that this is his way of trying to be gentle, soothing, something that I have a suspicion he might never have attempted before in his life.
But all it does is hit me like a bucket of ice water, driving away the lingering pleasure and the dazedness from the sex we just had as I’m reminded of the truth of the situation.
They were supposed to take someone else. A different woman.
My entire body goes rigid against him. He notices immediately, his hand stilling on my face and his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Liesl?"
I swallow hard, my throat tight. I can’t speak. Suddenly, all I want is for him to stop touching me.
I’m reminded of the fact that Andrei deliberately ordered someone else's kidnapping. An innocent woman. Someone who was just going about her life, just like I was, completely unaware that she'd been targeted by a criminal organization. Someone who didn’t deserve this, either.
Someone who would have ended up exactly where I am now if his men hadn't made a mistake.
Maybe even in his bed. Would he have fucked her, too? Is this just his way of keeping his captive quiet and malleable? Giving her the best orgasm of her life so she’s confused?
The horror of it steals my breath.
He kidnaps women. Not as a crime of passion or desperation or even revenge. As a calculated business decision. As strategy. He orders his men to grab innocent people off the street and use them as leverage, as bargaining chips, as tools in his endless power games.
And I just let him inside my body. I just came apart in his arms, crying his name, begging him for more.
The shame is immediate and suffocating, like a living thing that wraps around my throat and squeezes. My stomach turns over, bile rising in my throat. I pull away from him abruptly, scrambling backward on the bed until my back hits the headboard.
"Liesl?" He sits up, concern flickering across his face. "What's wrong?"
What's wrong? Everything. Everything is wrong.
I've let myself become attracted to a man who kidnaps innocent women.
I've been falling for someone who orders violence against people who've done nothing to deserve it.
I've been lying in bed with a monster, letting him touch me, wanting him to touch me, and somehow convincing myself that it was okay because he was gentle with me, because he made me feel things I'd never felt before.
But none of that changes what he is.
None of that changes what he does.
I wanted to help him. Patch him up, take care of him, like he’s an injured wolf that just needs to be tamed.
And now I’ve been reminded that he bites.
"You ordered them to kidnap someone," I whisper, my voice shaking. "You told your men to grab an innocent woman off the street."
He goes very still, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Yes. Why does this matter so much to you?"
Just like that. No hesitation. No shame. Just a simple acknowledgment of fact. If anything, he’s more worried about my reaction than what he actually did.
"Why does it matter?" I can feel myself starting to shake, my hands fisted in the sheets. "You were going to do to her exactly what you did to me. You were going to lock her up, terrify her, use her as leverage against someone who cares about her. You were going to—"
I can't finish the sentence. I can't articulate completely what he was planning because it's too horrifying, too monstrous.
And I wanted him anyway.
It makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. I knew he was violent. I knew he was ruthless. I knew he'd killed people, ordered executions. But somehow I'd managed to compartmentalize that knowledge, to separate the man who touched me gently from the man who ordered violence.
But they're the same person. I just didn't want to see it when he made me feel something I wanted so badly to feel.
"Liesl." He moves toward me slowly, like I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. "Listen to me—"
"No." I hold up a hand, stopping him. "Don't. Don't try to explain it or justify it or make it sound reasonable. You kidnap people. Innocent people. That's what you do. You kill people, you…"
"Yes." His voice is flat now, emotionless. "That is what I do."
The admission just makes me hate myself more. Because even now, even knowing what he is, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin. I can still feel the warmth of his release inside me. Can still remember the way he looked at me as he made me feel things I’ve never felt before.
And part of me wants him to do it again, despite everything.
I press my hands to my face, trying to block out the sight of him. Trying to make sense of the war raging inside me between desire and morality, between what my body wants and what my mind knows is right.
"I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't—I don't know how to—"
How to want someone who does terrible things. How to reconcile the gentleness he’s just shown me with the violence he orders. How to be attracted to a man who kidnaps innocent women and uses them as pawns in his power games.
How to live with myself for wanting him anyway.
"You think I am a monster," he says quietly. It's not a question.
I lower my hands and look at him. He's still half-lying on the bed next to me, pushed up on his elbow, watching me with those cold blue eyes. He’s still naked, gorgeous and muscled, his softened pierced cock lying on his thigh, and I have to struggle not to stare despite the war raging in my head right now.
There's no defensiveness in his expression.
No anger. Just a kind of resigned acceptance, like he's heard this before and knows exactly what comes next.
"Yes," I whisper. "I think you're a monster."
He nods slowly, like I've confirmed something he already knew. "And yet you let me fuck you. You came on my cock. You begged me to come inside you."
The words are brutal, and I flinch like he's struck me.
"So what does that make you, ptitsa?" He tilts his head, studying me. "If I am a monster, and you want me anyway?"
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don't have an answer for that.
I can't articulate why I'm compromising every moral principle I thought I had.
I can't explain how I can be disgusted by what he does and still feel my body respond to his proximity, still want his hands on me, still crave the way he makes me feel.
"I don't know," I finally manage. "I don't know what that makes me."
I slide off the bed, my legs still shaky, and look around for my clothes. They're scattered across the bathroom floor, mixed with his blood-stained shirt and the towels I used to clean him. The sight of them makes my stomach turn over again.
"Where are you going?" he asks. His voice is curiously flat, like he’s purposefully hiding his emotions from me right now. A part of me aches for him, for whatever pain is under that sound, for whatever he’s feeling in this moment, and I don’t know how I can feel that way. I feel like I’m going crazy.
"Back to my room." I don't look at him as I gather my clothes. "I need to think. I need to—I can't be here right now."
He doesn't try to stop me. He just watches as I dress with jerky movements, my hands shaking so badly I can barely pull up my shorts.
When I'm finally clothed, I risk a glance at him.
He's still sitting on the bed, naked and blood-stained, beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like understanding.
"This doesn't change anything," he says quietly. "You are still mine. You are still here. And I am still what I am."
The words should sound like a threat. Instead, they sound like a promise. Or maybe a warning.
I don't respond. I just turn and walk out of his room, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounds too loud in the silent hallway.
My room is exactly as I left it. I lock the door behind me and slide down to the floor, my back against the wood, and finally let myself fall apart.
The sobs come hard and fast, tearing through me with the same intensity as the orgasm he gave me less than an hour ago.
I cry until there's nothing left, until I'm empty and exhausted and numb. Then I drag myself to the shower and let the water until it’s hot enough to burn, then scrub at my skin until it's raw and red.
I try to wash away the feel of his hands, the scent of his cologne, the evidence of what we did, even though a part of me wants to keep all of it.
It felt so good. But it was wrong. I tell myself over and over that it was, but it doesn’t change that I can still feel him inside me.
I can still feel the warmth of his release, the ache between my thighs where his piercings stretched me.
I can still hear his voice in my head, calling me ptitsa, telling me I was good, claiming me as his.
The water runs cold before I finally turn it off. I dry myself off, pull on clean clothes, and climb into bed. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest, and stare at the wall.
I should hate him. I do hate him. But I also—
No. I can't finish that thought. I can't acknowledge what else I feel because acknowledging it makes me complicit in everything he is, everything he does.
I can’t let this happen again.