Page 21 of Flames

I laugh at my own joke but the woman across from me purses her lips in annoyance.

“I like the decor,” she quips as her eyes narrow slightly. “I find it sophisticated.”

“It looks as if Pamela Anderson tried her hand at interior decorating,” I scoff as I take another sip of warm coffee.

“I can assure you,” the woman says, her tone icy cold and full of venom. “That Pamela Anderson and I have very little in common, plennik.”

The woman’s accent is all wrong, as if she’s been taught Russian but never actually been there. It would probably be what I sounded like if I tried to speak a Slavic language. Something about it sets my body on edge. I carefully place my cup down, but not the thick silver knife I’ve been given to cut my food, that remains firmly in my hand.

“You decorated this room?” I ask hesitantly. “What, are you Mikhael’s decorator and hostage concierge?”

The woman stands slowly, although, honestly, she’s so short that her standing is not much higher than my sitting height. She glares down at me with her hands on her hips and it might be mildly intimidating if she wasn’t the height of an oversized American Girl doll.

“I’m his wife,” she quips at me. “I’m Felicity Zmeev, and you’re a guest in my home, Miss Senka.”

“His wife?” I say as my mind reels, trying to process what’s happening. “But you’re so small and he’s so big. There’s no way he could even fuck you without breaking you.”

I instantly regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I wince as her giant blue eyes flare with annoyance.

“Don’t mistake the situation you’re in, Marisa.” The way she says my name is laced with unkind female venom. I fucking hate a mean girl. Could this captivity get any worse? “Mikhael might be the muscle, but I’m the brains of this operation. You’re here and alive because I require your skills. The minute you stop being of use to me, is the minute you die.”

My fingers wrap tightly around the thick handle of the knife that’s laid across my lap. Sure, it’s just a butter knife, but if I shove it through her throat, it’ll still do some damage.

Felicity chuckles, the sound is like a tiny bell blowing in the breeze. Seriously, where did Mikhael even find this tiny psycho of a woman? She drains her coffee before slamming the china down against the table and leveling me with a heated glare.

“Finish eating and get yourself cleaned up. You smell like a wet fucking dog.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust.

She turns on her tiny little high heels and walks back towards the door. Throwing open the heavy wood, she turns back and calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in twenty minutes to give you a tour. Try to look presentable.”

Felicity Zmeev apparently has the decorating skills of an outdated wanna-be celebrity and the fashion sense of a wanna-be hooker. The closet was filled with items that are both uncomfortable and unfashionable. The dress I’ve chosen is tight and short and will absolutely be a pain in the ass should I need to run away during my captive situation, but at least it’s black.

“Wow, you almost look presentable,” Felicity sneers as I enter the hallway and close the door behind me.

I will not snap her neck. I will not snap her neck. I will not snap her neck.

“Where are we headed?” I ask her between gritted teeth.

Felicity has changed into some type of velour sweatsuit. It’s pink and fuzzy with bedazzling on it and looks utterly ridiculous with her blonde hair. This fucking bitch and her obsession with the early 2000s. I swear to whatever holy deity is out there that if her next words are that she’s not like a regular Bratva wife, she’s a cool Bratva wife, I will find a window to hurl myself out of.

“Well, you’re allowed to remain on this wing of this floor,” she informs me.

This wing? How big is this fucking place? Probably not going to casually stumble across the front door then.

“There are several other guest bedrooms on this floor,” she says as she begins walking down the ornately decorated hallway. Behind us, I notice several large men in suits. I don’t miss the way she says guest… This is clearly where they store their captives until they’re needed. Better than a cold dungeon at least. “As well as a smaller theater room and a library.”

“Library,” I tell her immediately, and I swear her eyes roll so high I’m surprised they’re able to come back down.

“Fine,” she groans and stomps down the hallway.

Listen, I have zero interest in reading a bedtime story with the tiny little psycho whose husband kidnapped me, but movie theaters don’t have windows. The library is my better opportunity for escape, or at least to assess my situation.

We make our way down a twisting hallway to a set of carved oak double doors. She swings them open, and immediately, natural light washes over me. I sigh in relief, stepping into the cavernous space with a far wall made entirely of floor to ceiling, multi-story glass windows. And then my heart sinks.

Outside are trees. Just trees. Lots and lots of fucking trees. We’re definitely not in the city anymore, and honestly, even if I did manage to get out of here, I’d have no idea where to run.

“Ta-da, a room full of fucking books,” Felicity says as she motions to the walls piled high with rows and rows of shelves on either side of us. “Have a ball. I’ll be back in a few hours to collect you.”

Without waiting for a response, she spins and leaves. Before she closes the doors behind her, I notice a pair of very large and very muscled guards posted outside the doors with guns strapped to their hips.