Chapter 11
MARIYA
I've been pacing this room for hours, and with each step, my anger builds. The plush carpet beneath my feet does nothing to soften the fury that's been simmering inside me since this morning. Since he walked out of here like what happened between us meant nothing.
How dare he?
How dare Andrey Melnikov kidnap me, interrogate me, lock me in this gilded cage, and then have the audacity to fuck me like I'm some willing participant in whatever twisted game he's playing?
And then, then, he just walks out. No explanation.
No acknowledgment of what we did. Just gone, like I'm nothing more than a problem he's temporarily solved.
I stop at the window, gripping the bars until my knuckles turn white. The metal is cold and unyielding, a constant reminder that no matter how nice this room is, I'm still a prisoner. Still trapped. Still completely at his mercy.
The worst part? I can't stop thinking about it.
About him. He's sexy and gorgeous, no doubt about that.
I'd thought I could just have sex with him, for the greater good, of course, and continue my way toward escape.
But what we did seemed a little more than just sex—at least to me.
Probably because I don't make a habit of sleeping around. But the way he made me feel…
Ugh, I have to stop thinking about him!
I resume pacing, my thoughts spiraling. Maybe he does this all the time.
Maybe he has a rotation of women he keeps locked up in various rooms throughout this massive estate, visiting them whenever the mood strikes.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I can't shake it.
What do I really know about Andrey Melnikov?
Nothing except that he's dangerous, powerful, and apparently thinks he owns me.
The sound of a key in the lock makes me freeze. My heart slams against my ribs as the door swings open, and there he is.
Andrey steps into the room, his arms full of clothes.
My clothes, I realize with a jolt. He's wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest, and his dark hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it.
Those blue eyes find mine immediately, and butterflies swirl in my belly.
My reaction to seeing him makes me even more furious. I cross the room in three quick strides and punch him squarely in the nose.
The impact sends a shock of pain through my knuckles, but it's worth it. His head snaps back, and blood immediately gushes from his nose, streaming down over his lips and chin. The clothes in his arms tumble to the floor as his hands fly to his face.
"What the hell was that for?" he demands, his voice muffled behind his hands.
"For kidnapping me!" I shout, my voice shaking with rage. "For interrogating me like I'm some criminal. For locking me in this room. For treating me like I'm nothing more than a piece of property you can use however you want!"
He stares at me, blood seeping between his fingers, and I see genuine shock in his eyes. Like he can't believe I actually hit him. Like he didn't think I had it in me.
Well, fuck him. I have a lot more in me than he realizes.
"You had sex with me and then just walked out," I continue, my voice rising. "You didn't even have the decency to say anything. You just left me there like I'm some whore you picked up off the street!"
"Mariya—"
"Don't." I hold up a hand, cutting him off.
He doesn't respond, just stands there, blood dripping onto his shirt, staining the black fabric even darker. For a moment, I feel a flicker of guilt. I've now stabbed him and punched him in the face. But then my eyes land on what he dropped, and all the guilt evaporates.
My jewelry box. My mother's jewelry box. The one my father gave me the last time I saw him, filled with the only pieces of my old life I have left. My hands start to shake, and I have to clench them into fists to stop the trembling.
"Where did you get that?" I demand, pointing at the box lying among the scattered clothes. My voice comes out low and dangerous, barely controlled. "Did you go through my personal things? Did you break into my apartment?"
Andrey doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he bends down and starts gathering the clothes, including the jewelry box. He moves calmly, methodically, like I didn't just punch him in the face. Like blood isn't still streaming from his nose.
"Answer me!" I shout.
He straightens, holding the box in one hand, and walks past me to the desk. He sets everything down carefully, then turns and heads into the bathroom without a word. I hear the sound of running water, and a moment later, he emerges with a wad of tissue pressed to his nose.
"Yes," he says finally, his voice slightly nasal from the tissue. "I went to your apartment. I needed to see if there was anything there that could tell me where your father is or what happened to my family's heirlooms."
"You had no right!" The words explode out of me. "That's my home. My private space. You can't just break in and take whatever you want!"
"I can do whatever I want." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "You seem to keep forgetting your position here, Mariya. You're not a guest. You're collateral. And until your father returns what he stole from my family, everything you own belongs to me."
The casual way he says it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, makes me want to hit him again. But I force myself to stay where I am, my nails digging into my palms.
"I brought you your things because I thought it would make you more comfortable," he continues, pulling the tissue away to check whether the bleeding has stopped.
It hasn't. He presses it back to his nose.
"I thought you'd appreciate having your own clothes, your own belongings. Clearly, I was wrong."
"You violated my privacy," I say, my voice shaking. "You went through my things without permission. You took something that doesn't belong to you."
"Everything in that apartment belongs to me now." He tosses the bloody tissue in the trash and grabs a fresh one. "Including that jewelry box."
"No." The word comes out as a growl. "That box is mine. It was my mother's. It's all I have left of her."
Something flickers across his face. Sympathy? Understanding? But it's gone before I can identify it, replaced by that cold, calculating expression I'm starting to hate.
"Then you should have kept it somewhere safer," he says.
We stare at each other across the room, the tension so thick I can barely breathe.
I want to scream at him, to throw something, to make him understand how much he's taken from me.
But I know it won't do any good. Men like Andrey Melnikov don't care about feelings or personal boundaries. They only care about power and control.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know." He checks his nose again. The bleeding has finally slowed to a trickle. "But that doesn't change anything. You're staying here until I get what I need."
"I've told you everything I know. I don't have any information about your precious heirlooms or where my father is. What more do you want from me?"
"The truth." He walks toward me, and I force myself not to back away, not to show fear. "I think you know more than you're telling me. I think your father told you something, gave you something that you're keeping hidden."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He stops directly in front of me, so close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. So close, I can smell his cologne mixed with the metallic scent of blood.
He turns away, walking back to the desk where he left the box. His fingers trace the carved lid, and my stomach clenches. "But that's not the only reason I came here tonight."
"Oh?" I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look defiant instead of terrified. "What other delightful news do you have for me?"
He turns back to face me, and the expression on his face makes me pause. It's not anger or frustration. It's something worse. Something that looks almost like regret.
"Your cover is blown," he says quietly. "I'm not the only one who knows about you now."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stumble back a step, my hand reaching out to steady myself against the wall.
"What?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.
"There was someone at the library today. Bratva. He was asking questions about you, about whether I'd taken Yegor Pushkin's daughter." Andrey's jaw tightens. "I didn't confirm anything, but he knows. Which means others will know soon, too."
No. No, no, no. This can't be happening. I've been so careful. So cautious. I've followed every rule my father gave me, never let my guard down, never made connections that could be traced back to who I really am.
And now it's all for nothing.
"Who?" I manage to ask. "Who was it?"
"Does it matter?" Andrey's voice is gentler now, almost sympathetic. "The point is, even if I let you go right now, you wouldn't be safe. They'd find you within days. Maybe hours."
"So what?" I laugh, but it comes out bitter and broken. "You're saying I should be grateful to be your prisoner? That I should thank you for kidnapping me because at least you're keeping me safe from the other monsters out there?"
"I'm saying you might as well get comfortable." He moves closer again, and this time, I do back away. "Because you're not going anywhere. Not until this is resolved."
"And how, exactly, is this going to be resolved?" I demand. "You keep asking me questions I can't answer. You keep looking for information I don't have. So what's your endgame here, Andrey? Are you just going to keep me locked up forever?"
"If that's what it takes." His voice is hard now, all traces of sympathy gone.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. All the anger that's been fueling me for the past few hours drains away, leaving me hollow and empty. What's the point of fighting? What's the point of resisting when I'm completely powerless?
"I really don't know where he is," I say quietly, staring at my hands. "I haven't heard from him in nine years. For all I know, he's dead."
"He's not dead." Andrey's voice is certain. "If he were, someone would have found him by now. No, he's alive and hiding somewhere."
I don't respond. What is there to say? He's made up his mind about what happened, about what my father did, and nothing I say will change it.
Andrey walks back to the desk, his fingers drumming against the wood as he stares at the jewelry box. I watch him, my heart in my throat. I almost feel violated with him looking at the only thing I have left of my family.
"Now," Andrey says, turning to face me with an expression I can't read. "About this jewelry box…"