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“You will. It’s just going to take some time.”
Because he doesn’t look like the head of the bratva but a man who actually has a beating heart in his chest, I dare to plead, “Please, let me go.”
Slowly he shakes his head, the compassion vanishes, and he pulls away from me. “Stop asking. I’ll only give you your freedom when you’re twenty-one.”
My shoulders slump, and turning around, I walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
“You have ten minutes,” he calls out.
Inhaling deeply, I turn on the faucets and watch as the water sprays against the tiles.
I’m so tired. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally.
I won’t be able to fight for three years. But giving in is not an option.
Maybe I’ll be able to talk to Viktor’s mother. Or, with a little luck, I’ll get to meet Isabella. Maybe one of the women will be willing to help me.
The thought is the only thing giving me the strength to shower. When I step back into the bedroom, I’m relieved to see Viktor’s not waiting. I quickly dress in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. I braid my wet strands, then leave the bedroom.
When I walk down the stairs, Viktor’s eyes sweep over me. “Much better.” He holds his hand out to me, but I ignore it and walk past him.
I don’t take in the beautiful garden but search the perimeter walls for a way to escape. There are guards stationed everywhere, quickly snuffing out the hope of ever escaping this prison.
“The mansion on the left,” Viktor mutters when I reach a fork in the path.
That means Isabella’s house must be the one on the right. If she’s not joining us for lunch, I’ll go to her and ask for help.
When I reach a set of open French doors, Viktor places his hand on my lower back and nudges me inside. I pull away, shooting a scowl up at him. “Don’t touch me.”
He holds his hands up in a surrendering gesture, then tips his head toward the door on our right.
When I walk into a dining room, my feet instantly come to a faltering stop as all eyes turn to me. Five people are seated at a long rectangular table. Three women and two men.
Viktor walks past me and pulls out a chair. “Come sit.”
My eyes flit between the two older women, trying to figure out which one is Isabella, as I take a seat.
Viktor sits down at the head of the table, then gestures at each person. “Alexei, Isabella, and Mariya Koslov. And these are my parents, Demitri and Ariana Vetrov.”
My eyes are glued to Isabella, who’s staring at my neck. Her voice is low with anger when she asks, “Why are there marks on her neck?”
“Rosalie put up a fight. I never intended to hurt her,” Viktor explains. “I had to subdue her because she was having a panic attack after seeing her uncle being killed.”
Mariya reaches for my hand, and it quickly has me pulling both of mine beneath the table, not wanting anyone to touch me.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmurs.
My loss? I’ve suffered more than just a mere loss, and now I’m expected to have lunch with the enemy and smile and thank them for taking me in?
Shaking my head, I let out a bitter chuckle. “This is insane.” I keep shaking my head as I rise to my feet. “I’m not doing this.”
I dart past Viktor and out of the dining room. I find my way to the French doors and sprint as fast as I can toward the boundary wall.
Before I can reach it, four guards move in front of me.
I come to a faltering stop, wildly looking for another way to escape. When I glance behind me, it’s to see Viktor standing by the path, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me.
“My men have work to do, Rosalie. They’re not going to chase you around the property all day long,” Viktor calls out.
