5. Isabela
ISABELA
Demin's men are total jerks, dragging me around at his whim.
I try to tell myself all day that I have to remember what those bastards in Madrid are probably doing to my father right now, but it's hard when I know the sort of place he'd be dragged to.
It would be out of the frying pan and into the fryer for him.
I know that's not a life he would want to live.
But Demin's threat's to return me to Solano and tell him what I've done scare me more.
The obvious solution is for him to back off and just help me, but I didn’t think this through at all. Of course a man buying drugs my father cooks would want to get my father here to do it for him. It makes sense, and it's good business. But that's not why I came here.
"Miss?" I hear and turn to see a petite woman with short, dark hair standing in the open door. I never heard them unlock it after having been locked in here for hours again. She stands with some clothing in her hands and a towel, sporting a warm smile.
"What," I grumble, not in the mood for company. I'm under no illusion that I have freedom in this place. When Demin told me I'd be joining him for dinner, he wasn't requesting.
"I've brought you some better clothes, and a towel to shower." She steps closer, holding the things out, and I sigh.
I feel gross after having lain in my own urine for days, and a hot shower would feel amazing. So I turn in the wide bed where I've been curled up sulking and sit up. She is not my enemy, and she's a hell of a lot nicer than any of the men who've been in and out of here.
"Thank you," I mumble, reaching for the clothes. It appears to be a pair of black slacks and a white blouse—boring, but not horrible. And there is a pair of panties there too, just my size. They probably used the tags off my other clothes to know what size to get me.
"My name is Danya, sweetheart," she says in a thick German accent, but her English is impeccable. "If you need anything, you can ask any one of these men for me."
My body still aches in every nook and cranny, but the warmth of seeing how affectionate and compassionate this woman is comforts me. It's a very motherly way of speaking and smiling, adding a new twinge to the pain I feel. I've never had a mother.
"Thank you," I repeat, nodding at her as if I don't know what she's saying, but I'm not sure how to respond to this warmth in such a hostile environment. Solano didn't have kind maids or house servants. He had gruff, ugly men who made demands and used weapons to enforce them.
"Dinner will be ready in one hour."
She bows at the shoulders before backing out of the room and leaving me to it. So I struggle to the bathroom, grateful the IV is no longer necessary, and set the clothes on the counter by the sink while I turn on the water. The instant that hot flow washes over my skin, I start to relax.
It feels like years of pain have been crushed into my skin all the way to the bone.
My lips are still dry and cracked from such bad dehydration, but the headache is finally waning and the clicking behind my eyes is finally gone.
I wash up slowly, enjoying the heat, and when I'm clean I towel off and dress.
Without a bra, I feel exposed, but the material is at least as modest as what I was wearing before I came here.
Though, it's quite obvious where my nipples are without some padding to cover them.
Still, that's the least of my worries. Everything fits me fine, and I'm not going to get insecure because men can notice I'm not wearing a bra.
I brush my hair with a brush left on the bathroom counter then wash my teeth with water and my finger, and by the time the man named Mishka knocks to escort me to Demin's dining room, I'm ready.
This time as I follow him barefoot through the house, I'm more aware of my surroundings. The headache isn't blinding me anymore and the pain in my body has become a dull ache of background noise.
The house is immaculate, probably kept clean by that Danya lady.
And it's compact—narrow and long, like it's stacked on top of itself instead of sprawling out.
Mishka leads me to a long, narrow room with sliding pocket doors where Demin sits at the head of a table meant for at least eight people, one place setting to his left like that's where I'm supposed to go.
I'm not sure what to think of this arrangement.
I expect something cold and detached, maybe no decorations or very plain furnishings.
But when I enter, there are flowers on the table and candles, like this was set up to be romantic.
I swallow around a lump in my throat as I pad over and Mishka pulls the chair out for me to sit.
Demin doesn't stand as I enter, but his eyes sweep up and down my body greedily, assessing me like I'm attractive to him.
It makes blood rush to my cheeks and my stomach flip a little.
He's a very attractive man, but I'd be foolish to allow myself to read anything into that.
He's a criminal trying to use me for his criminal activities. Nothing more.
"Feeling better now?" he asks, picking up a bottle of wine from the ice bucket to his right and pouring a few fingers of it into a glass. It's a rich, dark red wine, swirling around the glass and tempting me.
"Better," I say curtly, but my mouth is already watering.
I'm not much of a wine drinker myself—I prefer tequila—but I can smell the scent of the food and I instantly know this wine will pair perfectly.
Or maybe it's because I had dry toast this morning I couldn’t choke down and my stomach is ravenous.
Three days with no food will do that to you.
Danya strolls in carrying a tray as Mishka vanishes, and she sets plates of food in front of each of us—roast chicken and mouth-watering vegetables soaked in butter, with rolls and fresh peaches. And the centerpiece of it all is a chocolate silk pie. I almost whimper.
"You're hungry?" Demin asks, picking up his fork, and I don't even bother responding.
Before Danya has even gone, I'm digging in. Mouthful after heaping mouthful of delicious savory flavors gets washed down by wine, which Demin generously refills more than once for me. I can't believe how hungry I am until I'm devouring every bite on my plate and ready to lick it clean.
"I hope that food helps you settle into a better mood," he says casually, as if it's not an insult.
But all that food does is remind me of how precious life is and why I came here.
I can't tell my father he's coming here to work for them, even if it is trading up.
They're still going to enslave him. I have to make this man see that I want freedom for my father.
"I appreciate your hospitality," I start, but he decides not to let me finish.
"Isabela, I need you to understand something very clearly." He picks up his wine glass by the stem and sips as I watch him carefully.
My wine has started to kick in a little, making my body warm and my head spin.
If I were a lesser woman, maybe I'd use my body to manipulate him.
Seduce him and offer myself in exchange for safe passage for my father and his freedom.
But I'm not one of Solano's whores—I made that clear long ago. And I won’t be one of Mr. Roshin's, either.
"What's that?" I eye my glass, full to the brim now after having downed three half-glasses. He must've decided that I can handle it, though I'm not used to having not eaten for three days and then downing that much. I'm feeling buzzed.
"You don't really have a choice here. You came to me so I can help get your father out, and that's what I'll do… For a price."
My cheeks burn and I tug my hands into my lap where they clench into fists.
When men like him say the words "for a price", it's always something you'll hate.
Like when Solano offered my father freedom in exchange for my body.
The asshole wanted me to carry his heir or some crazy shit. Obviously, Papa said no.
"I've laid this out for you. Your father will work for me, and his treatment will be much better than—"
"I told you no," I hiss, pushing back from the table. "You can wine me and dine me and throw fancy flowers at me. But that doesn't mean I'm going to agree with that."
He chuckles darkly while my insides writhe and twist. I know as well as anyone else how foolish I seem.
I want his help, which he's offering to give me, but I don't like the conditions.
The problem is I'm not the weepy, sad type of woman who will cry and plead for his understanding.
I'm the one who locked myself in a fucking crate and fought death to show up.
"Papa will not be your slave." My chest is heaving as I stand up, and I watch his eyes rake over me again. I know exactly what he's looking at as his eyes darken and he sits a little straighter, adjusting his crotch.
"You seem to think you get a choice in this matter, but you'd be wrong to assume that." He raises that dark gaze up to my face, then says, "If you want my help, those are the terms."
My insides are trembling now, knowing he's right.
I never thought of the fact that he could just refuse to help me altogether.
He could keep me locked up here for a million reasons for the rest of my life and never go get Papa out at all.
Or he could kill me and dispose of my body, and no one would ever hear from either of us again.
"You can't do that," I mutter, feeling myself want to slip into whining and pleading. Tears burn at my eyes, but my defiance forces them back.
"Who is to stop me, Isabela?" He rises from his seat, and I feel the swirl of alcohol and strangely, of attraction too, as he stands over me.
He's a head taller than me, chest so broad it blocks out the room as my eyes rise up toward his face.
And his cologne wraps around me sensuously too, luring me into his masculine charm.
"I own you, as far as the world is concerned… "
Then he clicks his tongue and lifts his hand to push some hair behind my ear. "Don’t touch me," I choke out, but his touch is electric, eliciting a hot flash that shoots through my body.
"Maybe after some rest, you'll see the wisdom in my offer." He raises a hand, and I flinch, thinking he may strike me the way Solano and his men would, but then he snaps his fingers and Mishka walks in.
"I just want Papa to be free. Please… Keep me, but get him here and let him go." I'm pleading now as Mishka stalks over to me, wrapping an arm around my waist to lift me off the ground.
"You don't cook, Milaya. You're of no use to me…" Demin says those words, but his eyes linger on me with a haze of lust over his face. I can see how useful I'd be, just not for what he wants.
"I thought you'd be different," I hiss, clawing at Mishka's arm. "I thought you'd have a fucking heart."
When he laughs, I shudder. "My heart is harder than stone, blacker than coal, and your pleas for help will never crack it." Then he looks to Miskha. "Lock her up. Give her some time to think now that she's had food."
The guard crates me out of the room kicking and screaming, and I swear I leave his arm a bloody mess. I'm going to have no choice but to give this fucker what he wants and pray there is a way we can escape from him more easily than we could Solano if I have any hope of seeing my father again.