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“I’m surprised you didn’t have a private detective figure all that out.”
“I did, but all he came up with was a cereal bar for breakfast.”
My eyes go wide. “I was…joking.” I shrug and snort. “And yeah, it’s a cereal bar or donuts, so…yeah.”
“No protein? You need real food in you.”
Interesting that the man who kidnapped me cares about nutrition.
I gesture to my wrapped wrists. With a nod, he lifts a forkful of eggs and brings it to my mouth. I open my mouth and eat them, my eyes riveted on his gaze. This shouldn’t be…so intimate. Mytastebuds explode with flavor. I swallow the buttery, creamy eggs and eagerly take another bite when he offers.
Halfway through, his watch vibrates on his wrist. With a scowl, he shuts it off and continues to feed me. “Easy,” he says patiently. “Not too much, now.”
After the fifth vibrating text, he curses and unfastens my wrists, allowing me to feed myself while he steps away for a moment.
In his absence, I feel strangely…bereft.
I take a bite of the buttered toast, and some more of the eggs. The berries with whipped cream are delicious, and by now the meds are starting to kick in. I sigh in relief. I won’t admit it to him, but I’m feeling loads better.
When I lay the fork down, he returns.
“Good. Now we need to bathe you next.”
We?
Since when is there a “we” involved in bathing? I consider telling him I’m pretty capable of bathing myself, but then decide that’s probably not going to get me very far.
I look again at the gun on the bedside table. It hasn't moved, but it doesn't need to. It's there to remind me that I'm a prisoner. To remember why I'm here.
I fucked with the Russian Bratva, which is arguably worse than the situation I was in that led me there.
He lifts me, likely because my ankles are bound. Something white flashes in the corner of my vision, but I can’t make it out. Are we alone in this house? It’s the first time I’ve considered the fact that we may not be.
"Why haven't you killed me?"
"That's still an option."
I swallow and lick my lips. He tells me that, but I can tell that he doesn't actually want to kill me. What I don't understand is what he wants from me.
He brings me to the bathroom I used last night and slides me to the floor in front of him. Holding me against him with one hard arm wrapped around my body, he starts the shower. While the water heats, he bends and deftly unfastens the restraints on my ankles. Though he doesn’t say anything, the look he gives me dares me to try anything stupid.
Bent down like this, he’s in a vulnerable position. I could kick him in the balls. Knee him.
And then what?
Even if I did somehow get away from whatever security measures he has here, where could I hide from the Russian Bratva when I'malreadyin hiding? It isn’t possible.
Even if I escaped, I’d be right back in the same predicament I was in that drove me to him, only this time I’d have a larger target on my back. I wouldn’t last twenty-four hours.
But why hasn't he killed me?
“Good. I like that you’re behaving yourself.”
I swallow and look away. I don’t want him to know that I…like his praise. I have to remember to hate him.
I watch as he reaches one of his thick, inked fingers to test the temperature of the shower. When he seems satisfied with the temperature, he begins to strip.
Strip.
