“You didn’t sleep well, did you?” I inject fake concern into my voice. “Do you think it’s your conscience?”
“You going to keep talking?” His voice is a raspy growl.
I give him a brilliant, brittle smile, all teeth and defiance. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”
His calculating gaze lingers on my face. The assessment strips me bare, like he’s tunneled through my forced cheer to find the fear churning beneath. But I don’t shy away or let my smile slip. I refuse to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing how much he still terrifies me.
His expression morphs into some complex mixture of approval and irritation. Like I’m a puzzle he didn’t expect to be interesting. Or a toy that suddenly started talking back.
The smile stays plastered on my face, though my muscles ache with the effort. I’m not his puzzle or his toy. Just his temporary prisoner. I won’t let him witness me breaking again. And I sure as hell won’t let him see past this armor of annoying chatter I’ve constructed.
If silence is his weapon, then words are mine. And I have plenty more.
Chapter 22
Alexei
Her words hang in the air between us, as sharp and bright as broken window frames.“Oh, I’m just getting started.”
The defiance in her voice and the challenge in her eyes should infuriate me. I should gag her, tie her up, and lock her in the bathroom until she learns her place. I have all the tools. All the power. But instead, there’s an unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Relief.
She’s back. The woman from the alley with flames in her eyes. The woman who climbed down a fire escape rather than wait for what she thought was her execution. The woman who hurled a lamp at my head when I mentioned her sister. Not the hollow shell who paced my home in silence or the shattered thing who drank from cupped hands in lieu of accepting anything I offered.
I study this woman who refuses to be cowed. Her borrowed clothes hang loose on her frame, my t-shirt swallowing her torso, the drawstring of my sweatpants pulled taut around her waist. Her hair is tangled, and her feet are bare.
She looks small. Vulnerable. And yet, she stands before me with her chin tilted up, deliberately chewing with her mouth open so she can spray crumbs all over the floor.
I could silence her. Order her to shut up. Use force if necessary.
Old Alexei would.
The man I was before prison, before MJ’s death, would have crushed her spirit just because he could. Because weakness was meant to be exploited, not protected.
But I find I don’t want to silence her or extinguish her recently rekindled light. For some crazy fucking reason I can’t explain, I welcome her defiance. I’d rather have that than the empty shell who haunted my loft like a ghost yesterday. At least this version of her is alive and fights back.
“If you’re just getting started, you’re going to need energy.” I gesture toward the spread of food I had delivered. A feast fit for royalty, not a prisoner. Not that I’d call her that out loud. “Toast won’t cut it.”
She takes another deliberate bite, eyes never leaving mine as she chews. A small act of rebellion. A declaration of war.
The muscles around my mouth twitch with an unfamiliar impulse.
When was the last time I actually smiled? Arealsmile. A genuine expression of amusement. Pleasure.
I can’t remember.
I open my mouth, ready to threaten and bait. To argue. Whatever it takes to keep that fire aimed at me. But the words hover on the tip of my tongue.
The harsh industrial buzz of my intercom cuts through the charged silence between us. My head snaps toward the security monitor mounted beside my workstation. The sight that greets me ices my veins.
Fuck.
In a dark tailored suit, Nikolai Ilyin—Kolya to most of us—looms with his hands clasped behind his back, his face expressionless, and light gleaming from his shaved head. One of Roman’s most loyal enforcers, the perpetually still and imposing Kolya is a force to be reckoned with. Beside him, Vitaly shifts his weight while running a hand through his curly brown hair.
In the lead position, Roman Kozlov surveys my door with the arrogance of a man who can buy anything. My uncle’s short dark brown hair is streaked with gray at the temples. Though he’s younger than my father by several years, I couldn’t imagine my father being Pakhan in his place.
“What is it?” Aurora’s voice is small. The defiance drains from her face as she registers my reaction along with the rapid shift in the atmosphere.
