24. Marla
MARLA
The atmosphere in the cottage transforms the instant Sharon finishes speaking.
Nick's entire body goes rigid, his shoulders pulling back like he's been physically struck.
The warmth that existed moments ago evaporates completely, replaced by something cold and dangerous that makes the air feel heavier, harder to breathe.
I watch as all three men shift. It's subtle but unmistakable.
Russ's easy posture disappears, replaced by coiled tension.
Alex's expression becomes unreadable, his eyes calculating.
Nick's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
How is Nick feeling? Betrayed? Hurt? Pissed off?
If his own sister had something to do with what happened at the warehouse...
I can't even imagine what he must be going through.
They move closer together without seeming to realize it, forming a tight unit near the kitchen counter. Their voices drop to barely audible murmurs, heads bent together in conversation I can't quite hear. The words are too quiet, too controlled, but the intensity radiating from them is palpable.
Sharon stands frozen near the couch, her face pale and her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
She looks terrified, like she's just realized she's walked into something far more dangerous than she understood.
Her eyes dart between the three men and then to me, silently pleading for help or explanation or escape.
Standing quickly, I cross the living room and grab Sharon's hand. Her fingers are ice cold despite the warmth of the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "Come on," I say quietly. I pull her gently but firmly toward the hallway.
The men don't acknowledge us leaving. They're too focused on their quiet, intense discussion. The low rumble of their voices follows us down the short hallway like distant thunder, a warning of the storm brewing just beyond the thin walls.
My bedroom feels like a sanctuary when I close the door behind us, muffling the sound of their conversation.
Afternoon light filters through the sheer curtains covering the single window, casting soft shadows across the quilted comforter on my bed, which is a tangled mess from our earlier...
activities. The room smells faintly of lavender from the candle I burned last night, a stark contrast to the tension crackling through the rest of the cottage.
I refuse to acknowledge the smell of sex, and thankfully she doesn't say anything either.
Sharon stands in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her face is still pale, her blue eyes wide with fear and confusion.
"Marla." Sharon's voice comes out barely above a whisper. She swallows hard, her throat working visibly. "They're Russian mafia bosses. Actual Russian mafia bosses."
The words hang between us, heavy and undeniable. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. Through the closed door, I can still hear the muffled sound of male voices, too quiet to make out words but intense enough to feel.
"I know," I say quietly.
Sharon's face goes even paler, if that's possible. Her hands twist together in front of her, knuckles white. "Oh God, Marla. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry I encouraged you to sleep with them. This is all my fault."
"Sharon, stop." I reach out and grab her hands, pulling her down to sit beside me on the bed. Her fingers are trembling in mine. "You didn't know. How could you have known?"
"But I work there!" Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself and lowers it again.
"I should have paid more attention. I should have realized something was off.
The way people act around them. The security and the private meetings.
I just thought they were rich businessmen who owned the club. "
"That's what I thought too," I say, squeezing her hands. "You have nothing to apologize for."
She looks at me, her blue eyes searching my face. "Are you okay? I mean, really okay? They're keeping you here. They're not hurting you or threatening you or anything, right?"
The question makes my chest tighten. I'm not sure what to think.
True, they're not letting me leave here, but they haven't done anything to me.
It's for protection, they say, and I somewhat believe them.
I still think they're concerned I had some part in setting them up, which bothers me more than I'd like to admit.
Especially after all the sex we've had. But then, sex for men is usually different than for women. With a sigh, I look at Sharon.
"They're not hurting me," I say carefully.
Sharon's eyes narrow slightly. "But they're keeping you here. That's basically kidnapping."
"It's complicated." I release her hands and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The position makes me feel smaller, more protected. "They think I might be in danger. Or that I might be involved in whatever happened at that warehouse. I don't know which is worse."
"Jesus." Sharon shifts beside me, tucking one leg beneath her. The afternoon light catches in her blonde hair, making it shine almost white. "This is insane. A week ago, your biggest problem was writer's block."
"I know."
"And now you're trapped in your cottage with three Russian mob bosses who think you're either a spy or a target."
"I know."
Sharon is quiet for a moment, studying my face. Then she asks, "Are you scared of them?"
I open my mouth to say yes, because that's the logical answer. These are dangerous men who operate outside the law, who carry guns and have people beaten and probably worse. I should be terrified. But the truth is more complicated than that.
"Sometimes," I admit. "But Sharon, when I'm with them, I feel..."
"What?"
"Safe." The word comes out barely audible. "I feel safe."
Sharon stares at me for a long moment. Then her expression shifts, her eyes widening slightly. "Oh my God. You're sleeping with one of them still." She shakes her head. "I mean, I kind of suspected that when I saw you earlier, but then with all the drama going on, it completely slipped my mind."
Heat floods my cheeks. I look away, focusing on the pattern of the quilt beneath us. Tiny blue flowers stitched into cream fabric.
"Marla." Sharon's voice drops to an urgent whisper. "Which one?"
I hesitate, my heart pounding. Through the door, I can still hear the low rumble of male voices.
"All of them," I whisper.
For a moment, Sharon just stares at me. Then her mouth drops open, and a sound escapes that's half gasp, half squeal.
"All three?" she hisses, her voice rising. "At the same time?"
"Shh!" I grab a pillow from behind me and shove it toward her face. "They're going to hear you!"
Sharon clutches the pillow to her chest, but her eyes are sparkling now despite the worry still lingering there. The shock on her face shifts to something else. Fascination... or disbelief. And underneath it all, a hint of vicarious excitement.
"Marla Paddington," she whispers urgently. "Three Russian mafia bosses?"
"It's not like that."
"It's exactly like that." She leans closer, the pillow falling forgotten between us. "Are they good? Please tell me they're good."
Despite everything, despite the danger and the fear and the absolute insanity of the situation, I feel a smile tugging at my lips.
This is what I've been missing. This moment of normalcy, of being two friends gossiping about boys like we're back in college instead of trapped in a cottage surrounded by armed criminals.
"They're incredible," I admit quietly.
Sharon grins. "All three at once?"
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ." She fans herself with one hand. "Okay, but seriously, are you safe? Like, emotionally safe?"
Before I can answer, someone knocks on the door.
The door opens, and Alex stands in the doorway. He looks at me, then Sharon. "Sharon, we appreciate you bringing us this information. However, this just emphasizes the danger. Unfortunately, you have a choice: stay here in the cabin with Marla or be our spy at the Ivory Wolf.