“How long?” I choke out.
He stares at me and I have the distinct feeling he’s making this up as he goes along. There is no plan. It’s both heartening and frightening at once. On the bright side, it means he’s flexible. Changeable. I can influence him.
Maybe change my future.
“Until I grow tired of you,” he says and drops his hand away. Steps back so I can pass.
As I walk in front of him, I’m acutely aware of every step. The wetness between my legs. The fact that his gaze is probably glued to my ass. I walk to the bank of chairs in front of my bed and sit down in the one by the window.
Vlad hangs back, gripping the bottle of wine in one hand and his glass in the other as he trails behind, watching me with hooded eyes.
I nudge the chair beside me. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
I failed to get myself free before we left for Russia. Now my best shot is Vlad. Make nice. Endear myself to him. Beg for my freedom.
He’s already conceded that I’ll get it eventually.
It’s my job to make sure that happens sooner than later.
Vlad
She’s dangerous.
I know what she’s up to. She’s trying to wrap me around that pretty little finger of hers.
It’s what she excels at.
I know this trap. It’s the one all women work. They use their beauty, their sex appeal. They weave a web to ensnare you and then your balls are in a vise.
That’s how Mika’s mother got herself to America. How my mother ingratiated herself to Victor. How Sabina nearly got me killed.
And yet it’s impossible for me to refuse. I’m already addicted to being near her, and all the more if she’s playing nice.
I sit beside her and watch her drain her seltzer. I could’ve sworn she wanted wine, but maybe she can’t with the diabetes. I go and get the seltzer bottle and refill her glass and she murmurs her thanks and takes one more sip.
I watch her, fascinated as always by her beauty. Her poise.
She looks out the window, although there’s nothing to see but inky blackness. “Where are we going again? Volgograd?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. It entertains me to watch her work.
“Is it a big city?”
“Small city. One million people. Good place to live.”
“Tell me about it.”
There it is. A simple command. One I should resist, just to shut her down, but I can’t. Not when she fixes those big brown eyes on me and leans slightly forward, lips parted, waiting.
I sip my wine. “Volgograd was formerly Stalingrad. Before that, Tsaritsyn. It’s in southwest Russia on the banks of the Volga river. It’s beautiful in summer. You will like it.” It’s stupid. I don’t know why I think I have to sell it to her, but I find I want very much for her to like my city.
She looks away, the reminder that it will be her home probably stings.
“You have room for Mika there?”
There she goes with her concern for Mika again. If she’s asking, she must think I have a small place, like the one in Vegas. It amuses me to think she might be surprised by my estate.
“Yes, Alessia,” I say mildly. “There is plenty of room.”
Her lips form a shape, like she’s going to speak, then changes her mind. She tries again. “What...will I do there?”
I consider. “What did you do in Chicago?”
The light is dim, but I think she blushes. “My ma had surgery a few months ago, so I’ve been helping her out since I graduated in December.”
I can’t stop the smile. “You don’t have to make an excuse to me for not working. I knew you were a kept princess. It will be no different in my house. Your brothers will supply the money to keep you in the style you’ve grown accustomed to.”
Pain flickers over her face, but she hides it quickly. Looks away.
It shouldn’t bother me. When you take a woman as tribute, you can’t expect her to kneel at your feet and thank you for it.
When she turns back, her jaw is set, eyes challenging. “I need the Rosetta Stone for Russian.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “You wish to learn Russian?”
She nods, determination emanating from her.
It’s a wise choice. If she can speak the language, she will not be so helpless in Russia. It would be easier for her to escape or get help. But it’s clearly a long game, and not an easy one. I admire the hell out of her for even considering it.
“Of course you can have it. You will have everything you need, zaika.”
“Everything but my freedom?”
“Da.”
Her chin wobbles slightly, but she recovers, stares out the black windows.
“What did you study in college, Alessia?” Now I’m the one making conversation.
She turns back to me. “Early childhood education.”
I arch my brows, surprised. I expected something inane like art history, or English literature. Some liberal arts degree with little application.