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“I understand now. You have the bastard whipped.” He fishes the rag from the tub, but when he brings it to my skin, I slap his hand away. When he tries a second time, I swipe at his arm, knocking the rag from his grip. A low, ragged inhale is my warning of his annoyance.
But pain is the only antidote to fear.
“I said don’t touch me.”
“Then wash your fucking self!” He snatches the rag and throws it at me.
I flinch as it slaps against my hip, but then I grab it and dip it into the water myself.
“While you’re at it, get yourself back into fucking bed as well.”
“I will.” Crawling to my room seems impossible—at least until I look him in the eye. I’ll do it. Even if I have to use my fucking teeth for leverage. “I’d rather break every damn bone in my body than rely on you for anything.”
His mouth quirks again and my stomach clenches in response. “Do it,” he goads. “I’ll even bring you a fucking hammer. Then you’ll just remain my captive forever.”
“Captive?” A nasty, broken sound rips from me and I barely recognize it. A laugh? I try smothering it beneath my palm, but it’s too late. I force my trembling fingers to my side and meet his gaze head-on. “I thought you said I wasn’t? Or is liar a term I should add to the list of differences between you and Robert?”
When he says nothing, I gamble my little bit of pride on two snarled words: “Get out!”
He shouldn’t leave so easily. Not without putting up a fight or biting out one final insult. Regardless, the door slams behind him and I’m alone.
Which would be a welcome fact in any other context but this. Mischa fits the dog comparison well; he only retreats in order to plan an even more vicious assault.
Still, I swallow hard and pick up the rag, washing myself as best as I can. He left clean bandages for my chest, which I don’t have a hope of tightening, as well as a fresh, plain cotton nightgown. After cleaning myself as much as possible, I pull the nightgown on.
And now what?
I eye the door and brace my trembling fingers over the marble flooring. I’ll crawl. I will. Determined, I start to shift my weight, pushing off with my palms, moving toward the door inch by inch.
It flies open when I’ve barely made it a foot away from the tub.
“Here.” Mischa shoves something into the room that clatters over the floor.
I cringe as it comes close, only to blink as my brain struggles to register the bulky shape. It’s black and small, rolling with its own weight. A wheelchair?
“So you say you don’t want to be a captive?” Mischa echoes. He grabs me by my waist and hauls me into the wheelchair. “Then come. And earn your fucking right to call yourself anything else.”
My heart pounds as I watch him leave for the umpteenth time. I want to ignore him. Ram myself into him. Scream. Shout.
Anything but follow. As a compromise, I delay the inevitable by sinking back into the chair. With both hands, I ease my casted foot into the closer leg rest and gingerly maneuver the other the same way. My fingers drift to the wheels on either side, testing them. With moderate effort, I maneuver myself from the bathroom and into the hall.
Mischa’s there waiting. Without a glance in my direction, he starts down the hall. To his office. I recognize the wide study beyond the doorway.
“You want to talk business, Robert’s wife?” He’s behind me in an instant and quickly wheeling me toward the desk.
Alarmed, I throw my hands out to brace myself against the wood, but he pulls me to a stop at a safe distance.
It feels so strange to be out of bed. Despite knowing that he has yet another game in store, I can’t smother a sigh of relief. His office is a new dungeon at least. A new battlefield.
“So talk to me, partner,” Mischa says mockingly. “Tell me something amusing. Maybe…” He taps his chin as if he’s thinking, but there’s something on his mind. The reason behind his hostility maybe?
I’m caught off guard by how desperately a part of me wants that to be the case. At least we can finally get it out into the goddamn open.
Then he says, “Maybe you can tell me why Sergei Vasilev stopped asking for you?”
“What?” It takes everything I have to school my face into a blank mask. “What are you talking about?” At least the confusion in my voice sounds genuine. The last time I saw the wizened rival to my captor, he gave me a necklace. One still around my throat now, though I don’t dare reach for it.
“Don’t play dumb.” Mischa circles to the opposite end of the desk and leans against it, bracing his palms flat over the surface. “The old man is planning something and you are in the center of it, I bet. I noticed his sudden change of heartbeforeyour little accident.”
