Chapter 10
ARIA
When I wake, I keep my eyes closed. I’m aware enough to know it’s wise to assess my situation before I make a move.
I’m in Mikhail Romanov’s residence. He’s taken me and I’m not sure what he’s planning on doing with me, since all he’s told me is “we’ll talk about the consequences for what you’ve done” and threatened to kill me.
I don't know what I'm going to find when I open them, but I can barely think beyond the pounding in my head. It hurts so badly I feel nauseous. My stomach rolls, and my mouth feels as if someone's stuffed it with a T-shirt.
I do a quick mental assessment. I can wiggle my toes and my legs. Good. I don't feel any pain, so I don't think I was hurt in any way, which I guess is a good thing. I try to remember what happened. I was definitely drugged so I’m not sure I can trust my memory.
I finally venture to open my eyes then quickly shut them. It's blindingly bright in here and it hurts my head.
I usually get up at the crack of dawn to go to school.
School.
They'll be looking for me. There was an attack at the school, because they were trying to find me. Dammit. Despite my definite dehydration, I feel tears prick my eyes. What has happened?
I open my eyes again, and this time the first thing I see is the gun he left on the bedside table. I try to sit up, but it's surprisingly difficult to do when your hands are secured together.
"You're awake."
My heartbeat spikes at the sound of his low, husky voice. He’s fully dressed, sitting on a desk chair a few feet away from me, leaning on his forearms. He likes to roll up his sleeves, I note, as I look over his corded, tattooed forearms.
My skin prickles in response. I swallow and nod, leaning into false bravado. “Obviously, yeah. Now do we want to talk about what the fuck happened last night?”
“No,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at me. “Use that tone of voice with me again and I’ll teach you to watch your mouth.”
He says it like he’s half hoping for a chance to school me. I stare at the challenge in his eyes, meeting him with a challenge of my own.
But now isn’t the time to push him, not when I’m at a disadvantage like this.
“You’re dying for a chance to show me, aren’t you?” My voice doesn’t sound as brave as I hoped.
His eyes narrow as his lips twitch. “You have no idea. You’ll see soon enough, little hacker.”
His voice is tinted with a Russian accent. A mild accent means he's been here a long time, because the older someone is when they immigrate, the stronger the accent. He came from Russia, then, and Russian mafia. It seems he’s the old-fashioned sort.
“I’m just trying to sort out what really happened and if my mind’s playing tricks on me. After the whole drug thing.”
My eyes fall to the gun on the bedside table, and I realize I probably didn't imagine much of what happened last night, if anything.
Clouds shift outside the windows, nearly blinding me.
"You hacked into my computers. You came to me for assistance.
You're on the run because you found out information that had nothing to do with you. Your life is worth nothing, because not only are you on the run from every major organization in this country, you also decided to pull one over on me. Your life belongs to me now. I could kill you, but that would be such a waste. I need more than your dead body.”
I open my mouth to speak, but I quickly shut it because I feel like I'm going to be sick.
"What is it?"
I shake my head and cover my mouth with my hands, which I hope is the universal sign for "I'm going to vomit.”
"Are you sick?"
I nod and try to sit up, but it's awkward covering my mouth with two bound hands, and my ankles are tied together, which he must have done after I fell asleep.
He unravels himself like a coiled snake, rising to his feet.
Damn. I forgot how big he is. How strong.
"We can’t have that. Not today. It's a special day. "
I watch him walk away.
A…special day. Why does that make me shiver with nerves again? What’s he planning to do with me?
A moment later he comes to me with a glass of water and three pills in the palm of his hand. I turn my head away. I don't want to be drugged again.
"Open your mouth and take these. They’re pain relievers. The small round one is anti-nausea.”
I shake my head again. “No more drugs.”
Leaning forward, he puts his mouth to my ear. I feel stubble against my cheek, the smell of pine and leather lingering in the air. “I warned you, little hacker. If you disobey me, I’ll punish you.”
I clamp my lips together.
He sits on the bed with ease and reaches for me after setting the pills and glass down, and I realize he's going to put me over his lap like he told me. I'm humiliated when I remember how he spanked me last night.
"Fine! Fine. I’ll take them! What are they again?” The thought of being treated like a child makes my cheeks burn.
“Pain meds and anti-nausea,” he snaps, but he doesn’t ease me off his lap. “I don’t trust you to obey. You have three seconds.”
I am absolutely going to end up over his knee. God.
I put the meds into my mouth and swig the water.
"Careful. If you're nauseous, too much water will make you sick.”
He says it like he cares. Liar.
I obediently take a small sip.
"Lie back down until those meds kick in." To emphasize his point, he lays me back down on the bed. This time, his advice makes sense, so I do what he says. This is definitely a “pick your battles” kind of situation.
"Are you hungry?"
I don’t really want to talk about things like food when I’m waiting to hear what he’s going to do to me. Again, I wonder…if he were going to rape me, wouldn’t he have already done it?
Or...no?
If he were going to hurt me, would he be giving me pain meds and offering me food?
I may be a prisoner, but this is a very civilized setting. I’m sure if he wanted to, he could easily put me behind bars or in a basement or handcuff me in a…cage or something.
I shiver.
I’ll need my energy for whatever the day brings, though, so I finally answer. “I’m starving."
"Here. Sit up." I don't understand why he's being so gentle with me. I wonder if he's trying to trick me, to lure me into some kind of Stockholm syndrome thing where the victim bonds with the captor because they’re the only one that fulfills the victim’s basic needs.
Stockholm syndrome is real, and this is exactly what happens. The human brain is naturally wired to attach to people who feed them when they're hungry. Even abused animals will turn to their abusers when they’re fed and their basic needs cared for.
When I shiver, he wordlessly lifts the fluffy blanket at the foot of the bed and spreads it over me. I wonder where he slept last night because I'm at his place. Is this his bed? I look around. This is either a guest room or he’s a minimalist.
I watch as he walks into another room and comes back with a plate of food on a tray. My mouth waters. Scrambled eggs. Thick slabs of buttered bread. French toast, pancakes. Berries with whipped cream, half a grapefruit with sugar, and a small bowl of creamy oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon.
"I didn't know what you liked, so I got you a little of everything.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have a private detective figure all that out.”
“I did, but all he came up with was a cereal bar for breakfast.”
My eyes go wide. “I was…joking.” I shrug and snort. “And yeah, it’s a cereal bar or donuts, so…yeah.”
“No protein? You need real food in you.”
Interesting that the man who kidnapped me cares about nutrition.
I gesture to my wrapped wrists. With a nod, he lifts a forkful of eggs and brings it to my mouth.
I open my mouth and eat them, my eyes riveted on his gaze.
This shouldn’t be…so intimate. My tastebuds explode with flavor.
I swallow the buttery, creamy eggs and eagerly take another bite when he offers.
Halfway through, his watch vibrates on his wrist. With a scowl, he shuts it off and continues to feed me. “Easy,” he says patiently. “Not too much, now.”
After the fifth vibrating text, he curses and unfastens my wrists, allowing me to feed myself while he steps away for a moment.
In his absence, I feel strangely…bereft.
I take a bite of the buttered toast, and some more of the eggs. The berries with whipped cream are delicious, and by now the meds are starting to kick in. I sigh in relief. I won’t admit it to him, but I’m feeling loads better.
When I lay the fork down, he returns.
“Good. Now we need to bathe you next.”
We?
Since when is there a “we” involved in bathing? I consider telling him I’m pretty capable of bathing myself, but then decide that’s probably not going to get me very far.
I look again at the gun on the bedside table. It hasn't moved, but it doesn't need to. It's there to remind me that I'm a prisoner. To remember why I'm here.
I fucked with the Russian Bratva, which is arguably worse than the situation I was in that led me there.
He lifts me, likely because my ankles are bound. Something white flashes in the corner of my vision, but I can’t make it out. Are we alone in this house? It’s the first time I’ve considered the fact that we may not be.
"Why haven't you killed me?"
"That's still an option."
I swallow and lick my lips. He tells me that, but I can tell that he doesn't actually want to kill me. What I don't understand is what he wants from me.
He brings me to the bathroom I used last night and slides me to the floor in front of him.
Holding me against him with one hard arm wrapped around my body, he starts the shower.
While the water heats, he bends and deftly unfastens the restraints on my ankles.
Though he doesn’t say anything, the look he gives me dares me to try anything stupid.
Bent down like this, he’s in a vulnerable position. I could kick him in the balls. Knee him.
And then what?
Even if I did somehow get away from whatever security measures he has here, where could I hide from the Russian Bratva when I'm already in hiding? It isn’t possible.