“If you stay, what am I going to do to you?” he says, reading me better than I can read him, clearly.
I nod, words failing me now.
I find I’ve wrapped my arms around myself and that I’m biting my lip as nerves dance through me sharply.
That same near smirk glides across his mouth as he steps back.
“Just make yourself comfortable,” he says. “We’ll discuss all of that … later. I’d do it now.”
Do what now?
“But tonight has not been good for business. There is a man, Emilio, and he … Anyway, I’ll see you soon, Anna, very soon.”
He turns and stalks out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I stare.
I can’t believe it.
I can leave.
He’s not going to hurt me.
What the heck just happened?
Chapter Three
Anna
It takes me almost a full day to summon up the courage to approach a guard and ask to leave. I spend the morning mostly in my bedroom, taking a long shower, letting the waterfall shower surge hot over my body.
I wrap myself in the plush silk bathrobe and sit at the French windows, looking over the grounds as the early-September sun rises over them.
I was right about the fountain. It’s a huge thing, the sort of fountain you’d expect to see at a Russian duke’s palace, and further back the grounds stretch on for what seems like miles.
I spot tennis courts, what looks like an outdoor sauna, a running track.
I have to keep reminding myself that luxuries don’t make up for the fact that I was kidnapped – not by Artem, but still – and sold.
He bought me, for fuck’s sake, and that’s just something that reasonable, civilized people don’t do.
And yet as I go to the closet and look for something comfortable to wear for the day, I feel warmth moving through me.
It doesn’t help that last night, I dreamt of Artem.
In the blurry surreal shades of the dream, I imagined Artem grabbing me and shoving me back onto the bed last night. I saw the muscular Bratva boss strip off his shirt and his jacket, revealing his muscular flesh, revealing his pectorals that press against his skin trying to break free.
I saw him lean over me, his breath painting me warmly, and then felt the tickling sensation of his hand sliding up my thigh, further, deeper, wetter …
And then I woke with a gasp, cursing myself for the dream, and also cursing myself for having to wake up and ruin it.
Confusion dances through me, making it difficult to think clearly.
But the guard.
I finally get up the courage around dinnertime, my belly rumbling with lack of food, my body screaming at me to use the well-appointed kitchen I passed on my way out to the front of the house.
I keep expecting somebody to stop me as I walk the grounds, but the guards don’t pay me any attention.
They just let me wander.
Eventually, I walk into the path of a patrolling man in a black suit, an ear piece dangling from his ear.
He is tall and wide, but standing next to Artem he’d look wiry and scared.
Which is bad.
Not that he’d look small compared to Artem. Most people would. No, it’s bad that I’m already at the stage where I’m automatically comparing the men I meet with Artem.
He. Bought. Me.
Why can’t I get that into my head and make it mean something? Why can’t I care?
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to make my voice sound sure and strong.
The man turns, eyebrow cocked, but says nothing.
“I’d like to …”
I lick my lips.
“I’d like to go home now, please.”
He nods. “Sure. Do you have an address?”
I think about giving him the address to the orphanage, watching him for any sign that this is a trick, that any second the rug is going to be pulled out from underneath me and I’ll discover I’ve been standing over a nest of vipers this entire time.
What are his orders?
I imagine Artem sitting by candlelight, his face severe as he tells his men, “If she says she wants to go, ask for an address. Make her believe that we’re really going to let her go. And then drive her into the middle of nowhere and kill her. Do what you want with her before that, but kill her, and bury her deep. Make sure nobody ever finds her.”
But why? Why even give me hope in that case?
“Ma’am?” he says. “Your address?”
I lick my too dry lips, thinking about giving him the address of the orphanage, but I’m not sure I can really call that my home. I never fit in there.
I never fit it anywhere, that’s the truth.
“Would you really take me home?” I ask.
The man frowns. “Yes,” he says. “Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what Mr. Elgort has ordered and – well – I shouldn’t say this, but he’s not …”
He shakes his head.