Chapter 33 Lena
LENA
Sleep doesn't come. I lie in the unfamiliar bed at the safe house, staring at the ceiling while my mind races in circles like a trapped animal. Every creak of the house settling makes my heart jump. Every distant sound of traffic reminds me I'm not in my safe, cozy cabin anymore.
The man I fell in love with is gone, replaced by someone who wears expensive suits and gives orders like breathing. Someone who looks at me with those gold eyes and sees property instead of a person.
I must drift off eventually because pale morning light is filtering through the curtains when voices wake me. Male voices, low and urgent, coming from downstairs.
I slip out of bed and press my ear against the door. I can't make out words, just the rumble of conversation. Aleksandr's voice, deeper and more commanding than Sasha's ever was. Danil's rougher tone responding.
Planning. They're planning something.
I dress quickly in jeans and a sweater, then venture downstairs. They're in the kitchen, both men dressed in suits that probably cost more than my truck. Coffee steams from mugs on the counter, and they're bent over what looks like a map of the city.
They look up when I enter, and I catch the tail end of their conversation.
"Good, you're up," Aleksandr says. "It's time to leave."
He quickly folds the map and heads toward the door. Danil waits for me, saying nothing. I stare at him defiantly for a couple of minutes, then with a long-suffering sigh, stomp back to the bedroom and grab my purse.
When I return to the kitchen, he hands me a thermos filled with what I assume is coffee. "Won't be much longer until we get home," he says.
"Is that supposed to make me feel comfortable?"
He shrugs his massive shoulders. "At least you won't be stuck in a car with us."
Yeah, but where would I be 'kept' once we reach our destination? I don't say my thoughts out loud and follow Danil out to the car where Aleksandr is waiting.
"The men will have questions," Danil says about fifteen minutes after we get on the road. "A month is a long time to be gone without word."
"Then we give them a story they'll believe." Aleksandr's eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, and something flickers in their gold depths. "One that explains everything."
"What story?" I ask, keeping my voice steady.
"That I was with you. A romantic getaway." His tone leaves no room for argument.
"No," I say flatly.
"It wasn't a question." He doesn't even look back at me. "When we're around my men, you act like we're together. You look at me the right way. You play the part. That's the story."
"And if I refuse?"
"You won't." His voice is cold steel. "Because the alternative is everyone knowing you're here against your will. That makes you a liability I'd have to eliminate."
The threat settles over me like ice water. A Mob boss doesn't keep prisoners and let them advertise that fact to his organization. But would he really do that? Could the man I've spent the past weeks with actually kill me?
The fact that I'm unsure scares me even more.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth.
"Good." Aleksandr's eyes meet mine in the mirror again. "The moment we walk through those gates, you're mine. Act like it."
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence.
When we finally pull through the gates of his estate, I forget to breathe.
The house rises before us like something from a fever dream. Stone and glass, impossibly grand, sprawls across manicured grounds that stretch for what looks like miles. This is old money. Dangerous money. The kind of wealth that buys silence and loyalty in equal measure.
The car pulls to a stop at the entrance, and Aleksandr gets out first, then opens my door. His hand extends to help me up, and I take it, my legs unsteady as I step onto the marble drive.
"Welcome home," Aleksandr says, his hand finding the small of my back as we step inside.
The touch is possessive. Deliberate. Familiar. And it sends a jolt of sadness and remembrance through me.
The moment we cross the threshold, my eyes catch on the marble floors that stretch out in every direction, so polished, I can see my reflection in them.
Crystal chandeliers hang from ceilings that seem impossibly high, casting fractured light across walls lined with artwork that probably costs more than my family's entire net worth.
The foyer alone is bigger than my old apartment.
Men appear almost immediately, their faces registering shock when they see Aleksandr. He's alive. He's here. And he's not alone.
"Boss?" one of them says, his eyes round and wide, blinking as if doubting what he sees.
"Pakhan!" Another man pushes forward, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're alive. We thought… Christ, we thought you were dead."
More men flood into the foyer, their faces a mixture of relief and disbelief.
They dart curious looks at me, but their main focus is on Aleksandr. These aren't soft men.
They're soldiers, enforcers, men who've seen violence and dealt it without flinching.
But right now, they look like they've witnessed a resurrection.
"Boss, where the hell have you been?" A scarred man with a shaved head steps closer, his eyes scanning Aleksandr as if checking for injuries. "A month. No word. Nothing."
Aleksandr's hand tightens slightly on my back, a subtle reminder to play my part. His voice, when he speaks, carries the weight of absolute authority. "I've been exactly where I needed to be. And that's all you need to know."
The men fall silent, but their eyes shift to me. I can feel them assessing, calculating, trying to figure out who I am and why their Pakhan disappeared with me.
"Gentlemen," Aleksandr says, his tone warming just enough to sound charming without losing its edge. "This is Lena. My fiancée."
The word lands like a stone in still water.
Girlfriend. Not captive. Not a prisoner.
Girlfriend. My breath catches. No, wait.
He didn't say girlfriend, he said fiancée!
My eyes jerk to his face, but he just smiles down at me, looking for all the world that he's staring at the woman he loves.
But there's a faint gleam in his gaze, a warning to go along with his insane plan.
I force myself to smile, to lean slightly into Aleksandr's touch as if it's natural. As if I want to be here. His fingers spread wider against my back, and I feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of my shirt.
The men nod, accepting this explanation because they have no choice. Aleksandr is their Pakhan. His word is law.
As we move toward the grand staircase, I catch snippets of their whispered conversations. "She must be something special."
If only they knew.
We climb the stairs, and Aleksandr's hand never leaves my back. His touch is firm, guiding, possessive in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I hate that my body responds to him.
The hallway stretches before us, lined with closed doors and more expensive artwork. When we're far enough from the stairs that the voices below fade to murmurs, I hiss under my breath, "Fiancée?"
"Keep walking," he says quietly, his hand pressing more firmly against my back.
"You said girlfriend in the car. Now suddenly I'm your fiancée?"
"We'll discuss it in private."
"We'll discuss it now."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't stop moving. "Fine. Fiancée holds more weight."
"More weight?"
"With the families. With the authorities if it comes to that." His voice is low, meant only for my ears. "A girlfriend is temporary. A fiancée has legal standing. It gives me grounds to keep you close, to make decisions on your behalf if necessary."
"So it's strategic."
"Everything is strategic, Lena." He stops at a door three down from what I assume is his own room, based on the way he glanced at it as we passed. "This is yours."
The distance between our rooms feels deliberate. Close enough to maintain the illusion, far enough to… what? Give me space? Give him deniability?
He opens the door, and I step inside. The bedroom suite is obscene.
A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in silk.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the grounds, and there's a sitting area with a velvet sofa and matching chairs.
A door on the far wall leads to what I assume is a bathroom.
"It's beautiful," I say, then pause and smile sweetly at him. "For a cage."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in those gold eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or approval.
"A cage implies you're trying to escape," he says quietly. "Are you?"
"Would it matter if I were?"
"No." He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. "But I'd prefer you didn't try. It would complicate things."
I hear him leave, and the door locks behind him with a definitive click. I try the handle immediately. It's locked from the outside. My chest tightens. A prisoner, then. Not a guest.
Hours pass. I search the room methodically, unpacking my duffel bag into the empty closet. My few belongings look absurdly small against all that space. I'd brought what I could considering the time I had, so I'd packed just worn jeans, simple shirts, jackets, and underclothes.
A woman brings dinner on a silver tray. I don't touch it. It's the only defiance available to me, so I take it. No matter how stupid and childish this defiance is.
Near midnight, I hear footsteps in the hallway. They stop outside my door. The lock disengages with a soft click.
Aleksandr enters without knocking, and the air shifts.
His tie is loosened, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the hard lines of his chest. He holds a glass of vodka is in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light from the lamp on the nightstand.
He fills the doorway with broad shoulders, that dangerous grace and then closes the door quietly behind him.
"You didn't eat," he says. Not a question.
I stand from where I've been sitting on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of how small the room feels with him in it. "I wasn't hungry."
His gold eyes track down my body and back up to my face. "That's unfortunate."
He closes the door.