by Jane Henry
“That’d be preferable to—“
I snort out laughter. “So cute. You thought I was serious.”
She’s repulsed by the idea of paying her debt off as a prostitute. Good. If she enjoyed this in any way, it wouldn’t be punishment.
“But you’re in luck, Calina. I like my women a certain way, and because of that, I typically pay top dollar. And when I’m feeling generous, I even tip.”
She doesn’t ask me what I mean, so I don’t offer details.
I’ll take her home, and when she’s there, she’ll see. My kinky, sadistic tastes are clear as day, but they do come at a price.
My cock rouses at the thought of her first shift.
Tonight.
Chapter 3
Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into? I’m alone with a man who’s both beautiful and terrifying, like an angel cast into hell.
I remember when we first arrived in Russia, one of the places my father took me and Calina was to the museum of Russian icons. He was fascinated, almost to the point of obsession, with the often intricate, vividly colored works of art. I remember walking through the halls of the museum, kept cool with regulated heating so as not to damage the artwork, the smell of varnished wood and polished floors still vivid in my mind. There was something about the paintings that both enthralled and terrified me. Their lifeless eyes and wooden motions, still lives caught in painted wooden plaques, commemorated some of the most terrible and monumental moments in church life.
The Transfiguration of Christ.
The Baptism on the Jordan.
The demons cast into hell. The fallen.
I can still recall one particularly detailed icon, the look of open-mouthed terror on the face of the demons cast into fiery damnation, their fingers grasping the edge of the pit they were cast into. Why my father thought it fascinating and artistic, I’ll never know. I found it fucking terrifying.
All of the icons were of religious figures—Jesus himself, his mother, the men who followed him. But one… one in particular always stood out from the rest, likely because the coloring was so different. Whereas the others were rusted orange and crimson, browns and blues, there was one in shades of brilliant white.
I can’t remember anything about that icon—who it was. What it was. All I remember are brilliant white wings, a sword held in hand, and the beautiful face of an angel.
An angel of God or an angel of death, I can’t remember, but for some reason it comes to mind when I look at the man who’s taken me as his. There’s power—both wicked and majestic—in his eyes. A fearless, brutal honesty I can’t help but admire in some small way.
Those eyes are like ice blue crystals. A fallen angel.
And he will have me as his own. I’m his prisoner, sentenced to pay off my sister’s debt like a cheap whore.
No. I can’t think of Calina.
There is no sister. There is no Larissa.
Larissa died.
I am Calina.
Though he spoke to me for the first leg of our journey, and even took a call, we drive in silence the rest of the way. I know so little of the language, I couldn’t understand his phone conversation, but the tone of the call was clear enough. I curse myself for my stubborn refusal to become fluent in Russian, as now I’m forced to read his body language and tone of voice.
He was angry. Impatient. Then curious and thoughtful. I wonder what it was about.
The inky blackness around us grows deeper as the wee hours of the morning approach. He has the heat on, but outside the window, freezing rain beats down in sheets. He curses under his breath and I wonder if it’s because he’s forced to slow down. I let my mind roam.
Where is Calina right now? She’s likely coming out of her sedation. She’ll wonder where she is, but she’ll be kept occupied. She can’t escape, though she’ll have the freedom to roam. I have no way of checking on her, and need to trust Glen will follow through.
Fifty thousand dollars, Calina.
God. How could she?
I take in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
I should have watched her. This is on me. If she didn’t have access to the internet, she never would have had the chance to do such a stupid thing.
So now I pay.
And a part of me wonders if this was always meant to be. That someday, I would pay for the sins my father committed. If someday, I would have to right his wrongs.
If there is a God… I hope he doesn’t look like the furious, bearded man in the icons. Wrathful and angry.
And if there is a God… I hope my sacrifice for Calina goes rewarded inasmuch as she’s well cared for. Because one look at my captor, and I know the debt I’m forced to pay will destroy me.
I say goodbye to the life I knew. And there, crouched beside the man who took me, before he’s even begun to extract payment, I let go of life as I knew it.
I will not try to escape. I will pay her debt if it kills me, and it very well might.
The rain clears outside the window as we drive, and his phone rings again. He answers it without looking at me, speaking in the harsh tongue of his people. I wonder how much I’ll understand when I’m with him. But when we pull up beside a huge, sprawling mansion, I no longer wonder. He addresses me in English.
“You’ll come with me to my apartment in the compound,” he says. “I live on the bottom floor, detached from the rest of the house and overseeing operations. In recent years, we’ve had renovations done so no one can access my apartment but me.” I’m not sure why he’s telling me this, but I suppose it matters. “I will introduce you to my brothers, so they know I’ve taken you. You will not speak to them. You will not make eye contact with them. If you do anything other than cast your eyes to the floor when I bring you in front of them, you’ll be whipped before I put you to bed.”
I shiver in fear and my mouth goes dry. I know he will do exactly as he says. I wondered how far he’d go physically, and now he’s laying his cards on the table. He’ll whip me… or have me whipped. Same difference. Hell, he’s likely looking for an excuse to do just that. I nod my head, but it isn’t good enough.
“‘Yes, sir’, is the correct response,” he spits out.
“Yes, sir,” I say obediently. I’ll do my best to play my part so I can pay off this debt.
But what will he do with me when I have?
I’ve got nothing to lose.
“You’ll do exactly as I say. You do not speak unless I allow it, and all will know you do not speak Russian. Understood?”
I nod, though I’m not really sure why he’s explaining this. “Yes, sir.”
“You’ll have a servant to take care of your needs, but there will be no other luxuries unless I grant them. You’re my prisoner and whore here, Calina. Make sure you understand that. Make no mistake. A gilded cage this might be, but you are caged.”
“I get it,” I say softly, looking away from him. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t push the boundaries. Do as you’re told.
We cruise to a stop and someone in a uniform comes to his door. He points for me to stay where I am, then gets out of the car and comes to my side, opens the door, and pulls me out. Without a word, he yanks my cuffed wrists.
I jump when his hand crashes on my ass. “Eyes to the floor,” he says. That’s twice now he’s spanked me and once he’s threatened to. Is he looking for an excuse to beat me? I won’t give him one.
I feel people around us, watching us, even though it’s late at night. He speaks to some in a curt, clipped tone of voice. People hustle to obey him, and as we walk, I can feel the attention of the room focus on him. Servants pay attention, everyone on guard for their master. They fear him, and it makes me uneasy.
I’m so tired after everything, the adrenaline’s long since worn off. I hope he lets me get some sleep. Or will he have me “service him” before I’ve gotten to rest? My stomach churns with nausea at what he’ll make me do. He’s going to use my body to sate his own needs. That much I’ve gathered.
With my head cast down, I can’t see where he’s leading me, though soon the hardwood floor gives way to carpet. He takes my arm in one hand while opening a door with his other hand, then he steps foot into the room before dragging me in.
“You may look at where we are and who is before us,” he says to me. “I want you taking note this time.”
Though surprised, I obey, snapping my head up and looking at the men standing around a fireplace. Their eyes are fixed on me, intent and angry, and I feel as if I’ve been led in front of a firing squad. One man is big and burly, with a heavy beard and dark black eyes. The other two look like they’re related, tall and muscular, with dark brown hair. And another, tall and lithe with a shock of auburn hair, so much younger than the others I wonder if he’s someone’s son or younger brother, stands apart from the others.
“I’ve found the little girl responsible for the theft,” he says in English, a note of derision in his voice.
“Demyan, did they know you’d come?” The dark-haired one with the beard asks.
He shakes his head. “I left no trace, but I want you to double-check the way they reported this in the morning. Be sure to tell me if her abduction is noted at all in the news. Understood?”
They converse, this time in Russian, before he turns back to me and speaks again in English. I’m assuming this is for my benefit above all, and I wonder at his methods.
“Calina will be my mistress and prisoner,” he begins. “She has a debt of 3.2 million rubles to pay off, and I mean to extract every penny from her service.”
One man snorts, but a swift, reproachful look silences him.
“Filip.” One of the men looks at him.
“Sir?”
“I want you to keep track of how much she owes me,” he says. “I will give you a daily tally of how much of her debt she’s paid off, and you keep a running tab. Understood?” The man’s eyes briefly widen, but he schools his features quickly and nods. “Consider it done.”
“Vladak.” The man who looks like Filip looks this way. “You find a maidservant for her. I want someone trustworthy and efficient. She’ll need to be fitted for her gown for Friday.” He scowls at my hand. “She’ll also need a manicure for those God-awful nails of hers, and whatever toiletry items she requests. She’ll be doing my bidding, so I want her properly groomed. Understood?” I hate how he mocks me, like I’m some sort of cardboard copy of a woman he wants prettied up and perfected. God. It’s mortifying.
The man he calls Vladak nods.
“It’s late,” Demyan says. “I’m taking her to my room. Is there anything else I need to know before I do?”
The men murmur and shake their heads, so he speaks to them in Russian and takes me by the wrists again. I realize then he’s had them wait up for him. My coming here matters, and he’s made it his job to be sure they know I’m here. I’m still cuffed, so he’s walking with me held to him. When we’ve left the presence of his brothers, he speaks again in English.
“The perimeter of our compound is protected by an electric fence and surveillance cameras,” he says, as if he’s giving me the tour of his estate and he’s just explained the ornate, handwoven Oriental rug he inherited. “I’ll know if you even think about leaving or escaping. Understood?”
I nod and remember my manners. I’m tired and wish to go to bed. “Yes, sir.”
“My men are armed and trained. There is no escape, Calina, so don’t entertain the thought.”
Even if I had been entertaining the fucking thought, I wonder what the point is. Even if I got away, where would I go?
My fingers twitch. I want to soothe my fraught nerves by biting my nails, but my hands are cuffed behind my back. A chill runs through me. He hates the nail-biting, but I don’t have anything else to fall back on. Unable to turn to my nervous habit, I feel my nerves begin to rise. I want these cuffs off, and I want them off now. I pull on my wrists, somehow needing to feel the pain of the metal cutting into my flesh to alleviate my nerves.
I eye the stairs, and find myself surprised when he leads me past them to an empty hallway. Down the length of the hallway, there’s a series of doors.
“Stop fidgeting,” he orders.
“That’s what I do,” I snap. “I fidget. It’s going to take a long time for me to stop fidgeting if you want me stock still. Take off the cuffs, and you’ll see I can maintain better composure.”
He fixes me with a scowl, then tugs me beside him in the hallway, so close to him our sides brush. He’s a big man, sturdy and muscular, and standing beside him like this, especially encumbered with the cuffs, I’m aware of how much stronger he is than I am. If he’s going to hurt me, I want to see what he’s capable of. I want to know how far I can push him, or how tightly he has me bound.
He’s stalking away from me at a rapid pace, to a doorway several paces down the hall from the elevator. There are double doors with gleaming metal locks, reminiscent of a door to a judge’s chambers.
I come to a screeching halt when he stops in front of a door and brushes his thumb to a slim panel on the wall. A green light flashes, and a soft click alerts me that the door’s now unlocked. He shoves it open and without a backward glance, stalks inside. He holds the door open for me.
When we enter, he produces a key ring from his waist, and slides it in the little slot on my handcuffs. An audible click, and my wrists swing free. I bring my hands to the front of my body and flex my fingers, cracking the knuckles. I rub the tips of my fingers with my thumbs, wanting to give into my nervous habit, but one look from him and I know I don’t want to push this.
“Let’s see it,” he says. “You told me you’d stop fidgeting if I removed the cuffs.”
I stand up straight and inhale, pulling my shoulders back, staring straight ahead. I can feel his eyes on me, combing over my body. A shiver slides down my spine, but I don’t look at him. We’re almost alone, and he’s promised to exact payment for “my”—Calina’s—crimes. I have to distance myself from this. Put up a wall between my thoughts and my emotions.
My body.
I need to become the prostitute he’ll have me be to survive this.
I know without even looking there is no escape from where I am, or he wouldn’t have allowed me to roam so freely, but apparently, I’m taking too long. A split second later, he reaches for me, grabs my shoulder, and yanks me toward him. I stifle a yelp at the roughness of his grasp on me and brace for something—a blow? But none comes. Once I’m in, he turns from me and walks to another room without a backward glance.
I’m standing near the threshold, shivering, when his phone rings. He growls something into the receiver, then whips the phone so hard across the room it hits a brick fireplace at the far end and shatters into pieces. I scream in surprise, but he ignores me. Stalking to a sideboard, he takes two stout shot glasses and sloshes amber liquid into both of them, as if whipping your phone and smashing it to pieces then following it up with a drink is everyday business.
“Drink,” he orders, handing me one.
My hands tremble when I take the glass. I sniff the contents and my eyes water.
“I hate whiskey,” I protest. He doesn’t even acknowledge my protest, but lifts the glass and empties it. I watch, holding my own glass up to my lips. The very smell makes nausea roll in my tummy, and it strikes me as a bit odd he wants me to drink. I’m also curious what he’ll actually do if I disobey him, but not so curious I want to test him. I lift the glass tentatively and lick the contents.
I shudder when the fire hits my tongue.
“Eww,” I say with disdain.
His eyes narrow. “Over the next couple of months, while you pay your debt, you’ll be forced to swallow things you do not like, kisa,” he grits out. “If you can’t swallow a shot of whiskey, how will you ever be able to swallow much bigger things?” His lips twist into a leer, and the allusion is not lost on me. “Now drink.”
Kisa… kitten… his pet name for me.
I do what he says. I lift
the glass, and drink. It burns and I sputter, my nose even tingles and my eyes water so badly my vision is blurred. But he makes a good point.
He takes my glass and to my horror, refills it.
“Again, kisa.”
The second shot goes down easier than the first, though I still cough and tears now run freely down my cheeks.
Taking the glass from my hand, he puts both of them on the sideboard, lining them up carefully side by side. He takes me by the elbow.
“You and I, with the exception of the servants allowed here with my permission, will be the only ones allowed in here. I take my meetings elsewhere, and no one but my cleaners and servants are allowed access to my private rooms.”
I nod. In the entryway, there’s a simple black side table with a small basket. He tosses his keys and wallet in the basket, kicks off his shoes, then wordlessly gestures for me to do the same.
I clumsily toe off my shoes and let them fall next to his. He frowns, bends, and line them up perfectly. I frown myself. Is he meticulous?
“Come,” he orders, half-dragging me through the main area. This is a bachelor pad if ever I saw one. A mammoth fireplace flanks one wall, the hardwood floor in front christened with a light brown bearskin rug. Recessed overhead lighting makes the room bright, everything gleaming in detail. The walls are a pale caramel color, sage green and ivory accents on the walls, wall art, and furniture. The entire floor is open, with a small kitchen, living area, and study, though his bedroom is off the main area.
Everything is impeccably clean, not a throw pillow out of place. Even the three huge picture windows are so clean, it looks as if there’s no glass there at all. I wonder randomly if birds ever fly into them, breaking their wings and crashing to their deaths.
He opens the door to his room and yanks me over the threshold. “My bedrooms,” he says. “Where you will spend the majority of your time.”