Page 27 of Cruel Submission

“We need to talk,” he says, and steps inside before I can respond.

I close the door behind him. The room suddenly feels smaller with him in it, his presence taking up more than physical space. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there watching me.

“You never told me where you were.” The words come out flat, controlled. “And don’t lie to me, Mirabel. I’ve been patient. Now you’re going to tell me the truth.”

My throat dries. He knows. Of course he knows. He probably knew before I even got back to the estate.

“I was with Diane,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t bullshit me about Diane. You disappeared.” His accent thickens, Russian consonants sharp as knives. “What happened?”

God, what’s the use in lying?

I’d almost told him at the library. Then I’d convinced myself I could keep it buried. That the men who grabbed me outside Dad’s house would stay a nightmare I didn’t have to share.

But standing here under his stare, I realize how stupid that was. You don’t hide things from Arkady Laurov. You just decide when you’re ready to bleed.

“I was kidnapped.” My voice comes out surprisingly steady, given the terror clawing at my insides. “Outside Dad’s house. Three men. They chloroformed me, threw me in a van.”

Something dangerous flashes across his face. His hands form fists at his sides.

“What?” There’s so much controlled violence in the word that it makes me flinch.

“I managed to escape. Kicked out the back doors while we were stopped in traffic and ran.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “One of them chased me. Kostya, they called him. But I got away. Made it to Diane’s place.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How long were you at Diane’s?” Each word measured, controlled. The calm before the violence I know he’s capable of.

“A day. Overnight.” I feel like I’m being interrogated. Which I am.

“And you didn’t think to tell me.” Not a question. An accusation.

“I knew you’d—” I stop, choose my words carefully. “I knew you’d react exactly like you’re reacting now.”

“Oh?” He steps closer. “And how am I reacting?”

“Like you’re about to lock me in this house and throw away the key.”

His jaw works. “You’re not leaving. Not until I deal with whoever came after you.”

“Arkady—”

“No.” The single word cuts through any argument I might have made. “You don’t get a say in this, zaychik. Not when your safety is at stake.”

Heat flares in my chest—anger mixing with fear mixing with something else I don’t quite understand. “You can’t just decide that.”

“Watch me.”

The absolute certainty in his voice makes my hands shake. I press them against my thighs, willing the tremor to stop.

“You’re not my keeper,” I say, hating how the words come out—not fierce, but pleading. “I have a life. Responsibilities. My father—”

“Your father is being taken care of. I’ll make sure of it.” He moves closer still, backing me toward the bed. Not threatening. Just inevitable. “But you? You stay here. Under my protection. No more running off. No more hiding. No more putting yourself in danger because you think you can handle everything alone.”

My spine hits the edge of the mattress. “I need to visit Dad. The hospital. I can’t just—”