You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

I take another delicious sip of champagne, lie back and close my eyes.

How the fuck am I going to survive one month of this? Will I really go to him again in an hour and be treated as a complete sex object? I should be disgusted, but the contrary is true. Even the thought of going to him merely to slake his lust makes me feel all hot and tingly. It seems totally crazy that I could feel addicted to his body when he deliberately treats me like a prostitute, but I am.

I take another strawberry and wash it down with champagne. I wish Stella was here with me. What a laugh it would be. She’d be reaching for the caviar for sure. I down the glass and pour myself another. No point wasting good champagne. Besides, I love champagne.

Four, oh all right, maybe five glasses of champagne later I gingerly climb out and get dressed. My movements are quite sloppy. The zip won’t go all the way up on my dress. I have to conclude that I am slightly tipsy. I sit on the floor to put on my shoes and my head swims. Jesus, I am more pissed than I thought. A giggle escapes. It was fun though.

He said one hour, but it can’t have been more than half an hour. I could get myself some coffee. Sober up before I go to him. I’ll lose the next battle too if I go like this. Besides it’s bad form. I push myself upright and, swaying on my feet, head towards the door.

‘Whoa, this floor is a proper tragedy,’ I say. My voice is worryingly slurred and very loud in the empty space.

I push open the doors and contemplate the curving stairs. They seem to go on forever. I grasp the cool banister and, holding on to it, take the first step. I lift my other foot and put it on the next step. Derived from patience. I shall triumph.

‘The prisoner shall be free,’ I mutter to myself as I ascend to the surface of the earth.

As my feet touch the ground floor a woman dressed in a white skirt and black blouse crosses my path.

‘Hello,’ I greet brightly. She may be another captive sexual slave. I giggle to myself.

She nods and runs off like a frightened rabbit. I watch her disappear down the corridor and I wonder how many people are held in the house. I sway towards the kitchen. As I get closer I can hear people talking. I push open the door. Noah is sitting at the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee, and the matronly woman I had seen earlier is preparing food.

‘Hey,’ I say very carefully. I don’t want them to know I am a bit high.

‘Come in and meet Olga. She is the chef,’ Noah says.

‘Hello, Olga,’ I enunciate clearly.

Olga smiles, but doesn’t offer any greeting.

Noah looks at his watch. ‘Boss wants you in the study in twenty minutes.’

‘I’d rather die than submit,’ I declare grandly.

Noah’s eyes narrow and Olga’s widen with surprise. I might have crossed a line back there, but damn, I hate the idea that every person in this house knows I am here just to service Zane’s sexual needs. ‘Can I please have a cup of coffee?’ I ask gloomily.

Noah stands up and goes to the machine. ‘Cappuccino, espresso, latte, American?’ His tone is an interesting paradox. At once respectful and disapproving.

‘Give me an American.’ A little slur happens on American, but fortunately no one notices … I don’t think.

He brings me a cup. ‘After you have been to the study I will show you around the house and take you to your room. You will then be free until dinner is served at seven. Boss has a dinner engagement so you will eat alone tonight.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say slowly. I feel even more wasted now than I did while I was walking up the stairs.

I reach for the teaspoon sticking out of the sugar bowl and miss. I watch it fly out of the bowl into the air and sugar grains scatter on the immaculate surface.

‘Ooops,’ I say apologetically.

‘Are you drunk?’ Noah asks suspiciously.

I grin at him and both he and the cook exchange glances.

‘You’ve fifteen minutes to sober up,’ Noah says worriedly.

‘Why? What’s he going to do to me if he finds me hammered, hmmm? Kill me?’ I find the thought very funny. Laughing, I lean forward. ‘I mean, he does kill people, doesn’t he?’

Noah says something in a foreign language, Russian presumably, and the cook moves towards a covered tray. She puts it in front of me and uncovers it.

‘Eat,’ Noah instructs.

‘Ooo … little buns?’ I exclaim looking at the golden mounds covered in caraway seeds.

‘Piroshki,’ Olga corrects automatically.

‘Not that it makes a blind bit of difference but, OK,’ I say loudly. ‘Piroshki.’ My pronunciation is not bad and I feel pleased with myself. I repeat the word. ‘Piroshki.’