My core clenches. That shouldn’t be exciting, but my body didn’t get the memo. Apparently being hand-fed by a Russian mobster is a turn-on. Or maybe it was knowing I’m at his mercy. The order to be sweet.
Either way, a prickle of awareness runs over my skin, tightening my nipples as I take a bite of the proffered vegetable. The Russian stands over me, watching. I swear his gaze is hungry.
The carrot is delicious, or maybe I’m just starving. I swallow the bite and lift my lips for more.
The hardened lines of his face soften as he feeds me the other half of the carrot, then pulls out another. “You know nothingk, so I will tell you. Junior shot and killed six of my men in a restaurant called Caffe Milano in February.”
I stop eating, my appetite suddenly gone.
“You know it?” he asks in a fake conversational tone.
“And who shot my brother?” I demand. February was when Gio got shot. When Junior refused to take him to a hospital and instead brought in a nurse to care for him at home.
The nurse he just married today.
Fresh tears sting my eyes thinking of how their wedding must’ve been ruined by my kidnapping. How worried they all must be over me.
“If you think my brothers won’t kill you for this, you’re mad.”
He shrugs. “Oh I’m sure they’ll want me dead. But they won’t do it.”
I dread the answer to my next question. “Why not?”
The feral smile plays over his lips. He feeds me another carrot. “Because, zaika. I’m not giving you back. And they won’t want you harmed, see? Plus, it will be very hard to find us in Russia.”
Russia.
Not giving me back.
Full-on panic blooms in my belly, floods my body with adrenaline. I attempt to surge up from my chair, which only succeeds in rocking it forward and throwing my chest into the table.
Apparently unimpressed, he tips me back with a nudge to my shoulder.
“I’m not going to Russia with you,” I tell him. Like saying it firmly enough will make it so.
“You are. You will be my bride, zaika. And you will learn to obey your husband. Be a good girl, and you may eventually earn your freedom.”
My heart thunders in my chest. “No.”
“Izvinyayus.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means sorry. Your fate has been sealed, printsessa. You’re mine. Your brothers will pay me to keep you.”
My stomach twists in a tight knot.
“Don’t worry, I will keep you well.” He holds out another carrot, but I turn my head sharply away.
He catches my chin and turns my face up to his. The touch is gentle but his eyes blaze with potent command. “You will eat. Do not test me.”
I glare at him, but to my horror, his handsome, cruel face goes blurry when my eyes swim with tears.
He strokes my cheek with his thumb, nothing changing in his expression.
Once more, I feel that squeeze in my core. Like my body loves the idea of being this man’s prisoner, even as my mind rebels.
A tear escapes my right eye and falls onto his fingers.
He holds my gaze as he lifts his knuckles to his mouth and sucks it off. He cocks his head to the side. “Maybe I’ll let you go,” he says, like he’s discussing where he wants to eat, not my entire future. “After a year or two. We’ll see.”
“Vlad, you can’t…”
“Ah, but I can, zaika.” He taps the table where the bag of carrots sits. “Enough arguing. Show me you’ll be a good girl and eat.” He holds another up to my lips.
I shake my head, planning to refuse. We lock gazes, his blue eyes boring into mine, and I open my mouth and eat, just like he commanded.
Damn him.
In silence, we maintain our staring contest—Vlad towering over me, hand feeding me the carrots, then the sardines. Me, accepting every bite, glaring up at him with all the defiance I dare give. All the while, my traitorous body responds to his nearness. His stark masculinity—the power behind the bulging muscles, the force of his presence.
“Good girl,” he says when I finish. The oven timer goes off. He pulls out the pizza and tosses it on the cardboard box it came in. “Mika. Come.”
The boy swings his legs around on the back of the couch and jumps down. He might be younger than I initially thought.
When he comes into the kitchen, I ask him. “Mika, how old are you?”
The boy shoots a look at Vlad, who shrugs. “You can answer.”
“Twelve,” he mutters. He wears an angry glare, but it’s not directed at me, it’s toward the table.
Vlad hands him a slice of pizza on a plate and places an orange beside it. “Here you go. Get a glass of milk to go with it.”
The boy obeys and I’m slightly reassured. Vlad is at least taking care of his basic food needs. But still, this boy should be in school.