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Damn right I'm not safe here. God, the irony.
"I could take her home."
This isn't his home?
"Yeah. Since you're the only one who knows the location, it might be the safest place to go." He wanders into the library and his voice trails off as he goes.
Where is home?
Who's he talking to?
Does he not trust his other brothers?
I wish I could hear the rest of the conversation. I'm dying to use the damn bathroom, but I'm not eager for another spanking, so I wriggle on the bed and tap my feet while I wait. It sounds like today he's moving me away from the compound.
Why? Who came last night? If it were one of my father's men, why would he actually try to kill me?
My father doesn’t want me dead.
Or does he?
My skin grows clammy when the thought comes to me. If my father wants me dead... what hope is there for my survival? And why on earth would my father want me dead?
When Maksym comes back in the room, his face looks drawn and haggard, so much older than he did even two days ago.
"What is it?" I ask. "You look terrible."
Smirking, he lifts his brows to me, but doesn't reply, just walks to the bathroom and does his duty. He opens the door and beckons me in as he dries his hands on a little towel.
"Do what you need to," he says. "I won't look. But I'm not leaving you alone, even in here."
I don't even care about the lack of privacy, since I need to use the toilet so badly. Thankfully, he does turn away while I do what I need to as quickly as I can, turning away from him to pretend he isn't actually in there with me. After I wash my hands, he comes back over to me, takes me by the elbow, and leads me out of the room.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Other than sore over every inch of my body, humiliated, starving, and terrified you mean? Peachy." But my tone doesn't hold sarcasm. I'm being honest.
His jaw firms when we come back to the bedroom, but he asks no further questions. He grabs some clothing like he did the day before and dresses me in brooding silence.
"May I shower today?" I ask, choosing a more respectful tone on purpose.
"When we get to our destination," he says.
"Which is...?" my voice trails off when he doesn't supply an answer.
"You are an expert conversationalist," I say sarcastically as I step into a pair of dress shoes.
"Actually," he says, looking rather amused. "I can be when I want to be, shocking though it may be."
"Blow me over with a feather," I say before I can think. He actually smirks, but the humor quickly evaporates when he takes another phone call.
"Thank you," he says. "I'll let you know when we arrive."
"Are we going to eat before we go?" I ask him. "Apparently being punished and nearly killed gives a girl quite an appetite." God. I say things before I even think. This is no joking matter, and yet...
I like the way his eyes twinkle before he schools his features.
"We'll get something on the way," he says. He's set his mind to get us to wherever we're going, and he's not exactly up for a leisurely breakfast in the meantime. With one final glance around the room, his jaw set and lips turned down in a scowl, he goes to the little table beside the bed and removes a thick silver knife. He tucks it into his pocket, then slides a compact handgun into the waistband of his pants. I shiver, imagining how he'll use those things if he has to. Imagining how he probably already has.
He takes me by the hand and walks so quickly I need to jog to keep up with his large, loping stride. Pulling me to the exit, he says nothing. A man on a mission, and that mission is to get the hell out of here. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he takes it out as he pushes the door open. Four armed men stand outside the door, their features cut in stone like the Russian military that guards our politicians. They're big and burly, though none are quite as big as he is. They bear the same tattoos as he does, though. How many does he have in his ranks? How many are loyal to his brotherhood?
A sleek black car waits for us, but there's no driver. He opens the passenger seat, literally lifts me up in the air and plants me in the passenger seat, then leans over to grab the buckle. His raw, masculine scent invades my space, his arms caging me in. It's ridiculously over the top, the way he's tossing me around like I'm a rag doll, but I guess he has to do this. Maybe to show anyone watching that he's my literal fortress.
