by Nicole Fox
My entire body shivers, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. He enjoys my fear.
After another second, he turns my face away, stands up, and stalks out of the room. The door slams shut, and I hear a thick bolt slide into place.
And then I’m alone again.
Chapter Two
Yuri
Despite my threats, the girl starts banging against the door an hour later. The sound ricochets through the vents. Every bang of her hand against the door is a blow to my control, my power. My father’s men glance at one another and wonder what I will do to control her. It is my job, after all.
I move calmly down the stairs and unlock her door. This time, she doesn’t stumble away and cower. She stands in the middle of the room, feet planted firmly beneath sensuous hips. The food and water seem to have bolstered her courage.
I can take care of that.
The door slams behind me, and I cross the distance between us in a single stride. Her blue eyes widen, but she doesn’t move. “Why do you have me here? I deserve to know why I’m being—”
I grab her arm and fling her back against the wall. She hits the concrete with a whoosh, the air in her lungs being forced out. Her head tips forward, long black hair falling over her heart-shaped face. I’m in front of her before she can catch her breath.
“You don’t deserve anything,” I growl. “Least of all from me.”
“But I—” The words are no more than a whisper, but if I was properly terrifying her, she wouldn’t even be able to manage that. If she isn’t scared enough to stay quiet, then I’ve failed in my duty.
“You have been warned to stay quiet,” I say, clawing a hand down her side, enjoying the way her waist flares out. I dig my fingers into her flesh. “You have been warned that you won’t like it if I have to force you.”
Her pink lips part in surprise before slamming shut. Her dark brows lower, and she glares at me with more hatred than I’ve ever seen before. “Beat me if you want. Hit me if that makes you feel like a big, tough man. I’m not afraid of you.”
I step forward until my hips are pressed against hers, until our bodies are flush. I can practically feel the thrum of her pulse against my zipper, the beat of her heart growing more and more wild. “Who says I want to hit you?”
My fingers brush against the back of her knee and move upward. Her skin is velvety smooth, and she gets warmer the further I move under her skirt. She tries to smooth down her skirt, but I use my other hand to pin hers above her head. For all her toughness, it’s clear she’s outmatched. I could overpower her with a single finger.
“There are other ways to break someone,” I whisper as my hand finds the waistband of her panties. They’re simple cotton, but they might as well be lace for the way my body reacts to the discovery. I’m only trying to frighten her, to let her understand what kind of consequences await further disobedience, but I want to know what she’s hiding under those undergarments. What treasure is waiting to be found.
Her blue eyes are a vibrant sky blue, but there’s an undeniable fire there. She burns bright, and it’s my job to douse the flames.
I dip my hand lower, running my fingers over her sex. She tries to stretch away from me, but I don’t let her. “I’m more than happy to do whatever it takes to turn you into a good girl.”
Suddenly, she leans forward and tips her head back. Instinctively, I mimic her movement, drawing my face close to hers. Her nose is a button, her chin pointed. She looks like a cartoon princess.
“What if I’m not a good girl?” she purrs.
Her seductive edge is unexpected. I rise to attention in more ways than once, and I’m shocked by the effect she’s having on me. But before I can say anything, she jerks her chin back and spits.
It catches me by surprise. I have to take a second to steel myself. Don’t react. Don’t give her that satisfaction. Take control of the situation – now.
I tighten my grip on her hands until she whimpers. One long, slow breath sliding down into my chest. I feel the sense of calm, of power, radiating through me once again. Looking at the girl, I can see her jaw is still clenched, lips still pressed tightly, but she’s uncertain. Nervous.
Good. My turn.
I dip my fingers inside her panties, expecting her to beg me to stop. To plead. She doesn’t, and I’m surprised until I feel the wetness between her legs. She’s turned on. And when I feel her excitement, my own begins to take over. Before I can stop myself, my fingers slide into her. Three. At once.
Her lips part, and I feel the exhale on my neck as I work my fingers in and out of her. She’s straining against my hold on her hands, but it isn’t to escape. She’s writhing with pleasure.
I bring my lips to her ear. “You aren’t a good girl, are you?”
Her body clenches and she snarls. “I hate you.”
I pull back and look down at her. The dress does little to hide her curves, and her breasts are practically busting out of the top. I can see her nipples pebbled beneath the fabric. “That may be true, but you love what I do to you.”
“No.” Her teeth are clenched. “I don’t.”
“Tell that to your body,” I whisper, pumping my fingers in and out of her. “You’re soaking wet.”
I curl a finger inside of her, and her entire body shivers. I let go of her hands, but they stay pinned to the wall as if she doesn’t even notice. “If you really want me to stop, why don’t you make me?”
She looks confused for a second, until I wave my free hand between us. As soon as she realizes I’ve let her go, she hauls back and slaps me. Her hand cracks across my face, but I barely feel it. All the sensation in my body appears to be focused on my three fingers. She pushes on my chest, and I allow her to shove me back.
My fingers miss the warmth of her, and as I back towards the door, I bring them to my mouth and lick them clean. She stills as she watches me, and her lips part. I want to push her up against the wall and finish the job. I want to leave only when she’s trembling and weak from the dirty things I’ve done to her body. But I can’t. Because that would be losing control, and I can’t let that happen. Not now, not ever. There’s too much at stake.
“That will only happen once,” I say, running a hand down my red cheek. “Do it again, and you’ll regret it.”
“What is happening? Why am I here?” She won’t make eye contact with me, and it feels like my job is almost done. She’s afraid.
“All in good time,” I say, even though I have no plans to explain any details to her. She’s a pawn. Nothing more. “But get comfortable. Your father hasn’t responded yet, so it may be a while.”
“My father?” She stands tall, hands fisted at her sides. “What the hell is going on here? Why did you grab me? Why are you doing this?”
I turn around and reach for the door, but before I can pull it open, something hits me in the back of the head. I spin around and see her high-heeled shoe bouncing across the floor. Her face is a mask of anger and rage, but there’s a crack in it. Regret, maybe? Doubt?
I don’t wait to figure it out. In a second, I’m across the room, and she’s pressed flat against the wall. My chest pins her in place, and I can feel her every gasping breath. She tries to turn her face away, but I roughly turn her towards me. I want her to look at me while I talk to her. I want her to see that her actions have consequences. Because if they don’t, my men—my father’s men—will think I’ve gone soft. My hard-won authority will crumble to nothing.
“This is your second warning, and I promise you, there will not be a third.” She squirms under the press of my body, but I don’t let up. I walk my fingers over her collarbone and around her neck, wrapping my hand around her throat. She swallows, and I feel every muscle required for the movement. “Your father is ignoring our requests, so we did something to grab his attention.”
Bella. That’s her name. And looking down at the curve of her cheekbones, her wide eyes, her full lips, it’s a fitting name. She’s beautiful.
&n
bsp; She’s also dangerous.
She opens her mouth to say something, and I want nothing more than to lean down and press my lips to hers. I want to silence her with my tongue and run my hands down her body until I tire of the feel of her against my skin.
Instead, I push away from her, knocking her to the side, where she falls in a heap on the floor. Then, before she can say anything else that will no doubt infuriate me and drive me wild, I lock the door and march up the stairs.
I cannot afford to lose control.
Chapter Three
Bella
I told the man I wasn’t afraid of him, but I lied. Of course I lied. He’s huge and strong and angry. And despite all of that, I wanted him. I wanted his fingers inside of me. I’m afraid of that most of all.
The way my body responded to his touch, to his nearness. It felt like some unevolved part of me was pushing me towards him, encouraging me to run my hands through his dark hair and wrap my legs around his waist.
When he leaves, I’m scared and cold and ... horny.
It’s an embarrassing truth to reckon with, but I wished he’d finished the job. My skin feels too small to contain me, and every brush of fabric, the floor, and even my own hand against my skin sends shivers down my body.
But I’ll be out of here soon enough. I cling to that. The man mentioned my father, and he would do anything to save me. I know he would. If he thinks for even a second I’m in trouble, he’ll turn the world upside down to get me back. I know that’s true.
It has to be true.
I doze on and off for the next couple hours, thoughts of the man’s fingers invading my dreams. When he opens the cell door, I’m half convinced it’s a dream. Which is why when he tips his head towards the door, asking me to follow him, I do it without question.
The hallway is long and dark, and as a pervasive chill sinks into my skin, I realize this is all too real. I’m being held captive. By people I don’t recognize. For reasons I don’t understand.
I’m smart and scrappy, but I can’t fight a villain I don’t know.
“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremble in my voice.
He doesn’t answer or act as though he has heard me.
“I’m Bella,” I say. “I’m sure you already know that, though. What’s your name?”
His head turns towards me almost imperceptibly. Just the vaguest acknowledgement that I’m walking behind him. Then, he stops suddenly, and I slam into his back.
When I right myself, he’s pointing to the door to his right. “Open it.”
I back away. “No.”
There could be anything behind there. Another cell—a worse cell. A pit of snakes. A man waiting to kill me. My father.
My heart catches at that thought.
My father could be behind that door, bruised and battered. Maybe this man wants to show me how serious he is. How far he’s willing to go to get what he wants. What does he want?
His square jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare. He looks like a lion seconds before it pounces. He looks wild. “It was not a suggestion.”
“I know,” I say, taking another step away from him.
I look over my shoulder and see the hallway is a dead-end. The only way out is to run straight for the stairs. Straight past him. Which I know immediately he won’t let happen. He held both my arms above my head with one of his own earlier. He could snap me in half if he wanted, and I suspect he would if I tried to run.
He lowers his voice like he’s afraid someone will overhear us. “Someone is waiting for you. Go.”
I shake my head. It’s my father. I know it. And once I see him, any hope I have of escape will wither, and I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to be hopeless. Hope is keeping me standing. Hope is the only thing keeping me from dissolving into a puddle of tears. If I lose hope, I lose everything.
The man sighs and wraps a hand around my neck, leading me forward like a disobedient dog. It feels like he might rub my nose in the carpet to teach me a lesson. I squeeze my eyes shut as he opens the door, but when I don’t hear any labored breathing or smell the metallic tang of blood, I open one eye and then the other.
I’m standing in an office. A nice office.
A large wooden desk sits in the middle of the room, two plush chairs sitting in front of it. Bookshelves line the room, filled with books and photographs and knickknacks that look like they belong in my father’s office. And best of all, there’s a long window set into the wall just below the ceiling. I can see grass growing around the edge of the frame and the trunk of a distant tree. It confirms my theory that I’m being held in a basement, and gives me hope that it hasn’t yet been a day since I was kidnapped. The sky is the dark blue of early evening.
Just like in a movie, the chair behind the desk spins around, and a dark-haired man is sitting in front of me, smiling. His teeth are intensely white, especially compared to his tan skin. Something about him seems familiar to me, but I don’t have time to figure it out before he starts speaking.
“Bella McNair.” He has a thick accent, and my name sounds like a magic enchantment being whispered over a cauldron. “So happy to have you with us.”
If I’d met him first, I might have been fooled by his smile and wide flung gestures, but as it is, I distrust his kindness immediately.
“I’m sure you have a lot of questions, and there will be time for those. But for now, I wanted to say hello. I like to introduce myself to all of our guests.”
“Guest?” I scoff. “I’m a prisoner.”
His smile fades into a mask of concern. “I’m sorry you have felt that way. Have you been following our rules?”
I don’t answer, and he shrugs helplessly. “We expect a certain level of respect from all of our guests. If it’s not shown to us, we do not return it. I cannot guarantee your treatment if you undermine the authority of your guards.”
“The exchange of respect was broken the moment I was drugged and taken against my will. Excuse me for not following your rules.”
His jaw clenches, and I see it. I turn to the man standing next to me. The one who grabbed me, who ... touched me. They have the same bone structure. I can’t believe I didn’t see it immediately.
When I turn back to the man sitting behind the desk, I see him as if for the first time. He is burly and squat with a thick mustache, but they have the same jaw. And the same eyes. And under the collar of his shirt, I see black ink tracing up towards his neck. They even have similar tattoos.
“You’re related,” I say, looking between them, my brain reeling as I try to solve this puzzle.
The man behind the desk folds his hands in front of him. “Has my son not introduced himself yet?”
The man next to me shifts from one foot to another, and I can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or nervous or both. Regardless, he doesn’t look at me.
“My name is Ivan Petrov,” the man says, pressing his fingers to his own chest.
Ivan Petrov. His accent is Eastern European. I can place it now. And the name ... the name is Russian.
My heart begins to race in my chest even before the man next to me turns to face me. Even before I look up into his warm brown eyes and remember what he did to me only hours ago. The way I felt about it. My pulse flutters in my throat like a hummingbird, and I feel like I could pass out.
These men are Russian. They’re related. They want my father. They’re using me to get to him. And suddenly, a piece of the puzzle clicks into place.
“And I,” the man says, leaning forward in a bow, a sarcastic smile smeared across his face, “am Yuri Petrov.”
They’re part of the Russian mob, and I’m their hostage.
Chapter Four
Yuri
My father is laying it on thick, grinning at Bella like he wants to eat her. Though, that might actually be part of it. He has always appreciated a pretty face, and Bella’s is prettier than most.
“Now that introductions are out of the way,” he says, clappi
ng his meaty hands together, “take a seat. Please. Get comfortable.”
Bella doesn’t move, and even though it has been a real obstacle for me, I admire her fight. Most people would cower in the presence of the head of a Russian mob family. I’d say she’s ignorant of his status, but I can tell by the way the blood drained out of her face during our introductions that she isn’t. Either she recognized our last name or she’s bright enough to put the pieces together.
My father looks at me, eyebrow raised, and I grab Bella by the arm and drag her to a chair. She casts a scathing look over her shoulder, but I ignore it.
“How much do you know?” he asks, before dismissing his own question with a wave. “It doesn’t matter. I’m the one who needs to know things right now. So, let’s focus on that. How is your relationship with your father?”
Bella crosses her arms and doesn’t respond, but I can see her fingers trembling where they rest against her arms. She isn’t as tough as she appears.
My father sighs. He’s not nearly as calm as he appears, either. If she thought I lost my cool before in her room, she’ll be surprised when my father finally snaps.
“I’ve made it clear to your father that we have you,” he says, leaning back in his chair. The buttons on his shirt strain against his stomach. “And I’ve made it incredibly clear to him that we’re willing to take you apart bit by bit if he does not cooperate.”
Bella tightens her grip on her arms.
“So, my question is,” my father says, leaning forward, the smile wiped from his face. “Why would your father not pay your ransom?”
She stays resolutely silent, and I want to kick her chair and tell her to speak. To say something. Anything. Even one of her quick-witted remarks would be enough to distract him from his anger. But saying nothing is the worst plan. It will make him feel powerless, and he will lash out. And for reasons I don’t at all understand, I have no desire to watch that.