She’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
The quickest way to break someone is through shock. Hot and cold works well for that. So does extreme pressure and then sudden release.
I’ve been all heat. All pressure. All dominance and violence.
Time for a new tactic.
I rise from the bed.
Confusion flickers across her wary expression. She stays tense, waiting for my next move.
I pat my stomach. “I’m hungry. How about you?”
Chapter 17
Nika
Hungry?
I’m famished. After spending part of the day and all night tied up, I could eat my shirt. Or maybe his balls, sautéed with garlic and herbs. On second thought, maybe not, but I’d certainly like to chop them off at this point.
But why offer me food? I fully expected him to starve me, weaken me, and then start torturing me. That’s what I’ve been anticipating.
What Dimitri said would happen if a Kozlov ever captured me.
“Time to eat.”
Max’s words snap me out of my internal conflict. When I glance up, I catch the glint of light off a blade.
Jerking my head away, I throw myself on my back. The knot I worked to loosen overnight becomes snug again.
The blade never comes near my head like I feared. Max cuts the stocking between the slats, my arms falling slack. He clamps handcuffs on my wrists, the metal freezing against my skin.
Bastard.
I’m free and captive again all at once, fuming as he tugs the rest of the stockings off my wrists. Before I can lash out, he’s out the door, the knife hidden somewhere in his clothes.
“Hurry up, or lunch will be cold.”
I want to tell him I’d rather go hungry, but my stomach clenches at the thought of food, gurgling desperately. I should keep up my strength while I can.
Using my legs, I push the blankets off and squirm to the edge of the bed. As my bare thighs come into view, I consider asking if I can put on leggings. Shorts. A skirt. Anything to cover up a bit.
I shove the idea aside. I will not beg him for anything. I will be comfortable and dignified in my own skin. And underwear.
He’s caused a bigger mess in the main room than I realized. Cushions are torn apart, white filling scattered across the floor. Every book lies on the concrete, pages bent, spines cracked, covers scuffed.
I’m going to kill him. Gouge out his eyes. Snip off his fingers. Cut his dick off and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.
As I follow the jerk into the kitchen, I resume planning my retribution.
His crazed search continued here.
I gawk at the open doors, the garbage scattered across the floor, and the coffee ring on the counter. If I considered this my home, I’d be pissed. But I’ve always considered this sanctuary more like my office than anything else. A house, but not a home.
Home doesn’t exist for someone like me. It died on the island with my mother.
The appliances hum. “What’s going on? I thought the power was out.”
