"And what will you do with that information?" I asked.
"Nothing."
I laughed. It came out harsh, bitter. "You bid two million dollars for nothing?"
"I bid two million dollars to keep you out of Anton Belyaev's hands." His grey eyes held mine. "There's a difference."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care if you believe me." He leaned back in the chair, relaxed, controlled. "It doesn’t matter in the slightest. Whether you believe me or not, here's what's going to happen, Sophie. You're staying here until the Belyaev situation is resolved. You'll have this room. You can lock it from your side if that makes you feel safer. You'll eat three meals a day. You'll tell me if you need anything. But you're not leaving."
"So I'm still property," I whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes. Might have been anger. Might have been hurt. It was gone too fast to identify.
"No," he said firmly. "You're under my protection. Whether you want it or not."
He stood. Moved toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back.
The morning light through the windows caught his profile. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. The kind of face that belonged in old photographs of Russian aristocracy, back when bloodlines and power were the same thing.
"The breakfast is blini with fresh berries and Georgian tea," he said. "You should eat. We'll talk more later."
The lock clicked behind him. Softer this time. Almost gentle.
I stared at the closed door. At the breakfast tray on the dresser. Blini—thin Russian pancakes—arranged carefully on a cream-colored plate. Fresh strawberries and blueberries. Tea in a delicate porcelain cup, the same blue-flower pattern as the set I'd seen in the photos of what must have been his grandmother's kitchen.
He'd made me breakfast. Or had someone make it. Either way, it was thoughtful. Considerate. The kind of thing someone did when they cared.
The kind of thing that made it harder to remember he'd locked me in.
I moved to the dresser. Picked up the teacup. It was warm in my hands, the porcelain thin enough to be translucent. The tea smelled like earth and tannins and something almost smoky.
I took a sip. Bitter. Complex. Exactly right.
My chest went tight.
Sergei used to make me tea. Not this kind—he preferred English breakfast—but the ritual was the same. The care in preparation. The attention to temperature and timing. The way he'd hand me the cup and watch to make sure I drank it, making sure I took care of myself even when I forgot to.
I set the cup down too hard. Tea sloshed over the rim onto the dresser.
Couldn't think about Sergei. Couldn't compare Nikolai to him. Couldn't let myself want the care and attention and structure that had gotten Sergei killed.
I was alone. I would stay alone.
The breakfast tray sat there, waiting. The blini were probably still warm. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since—when? Before the auction. More than twelve hours ago.
I picked up a strawberry. Bit into it. Sweet and tart and fresh, the kind of quality you paid for.
Everything here was quality. Everything was chosen. Everything was designed to make me comfortable, safe, cared for.
Everything was a trap.
Hecamebackanhour later. I'd eaten half the breakfast—the blini were good, I hated that they were good—and was standing at the window, counting cars, when the lock clicked again.
I turned. Nikolai entered without the tray this time, just himself and that controlled presence that filled the space without trying. He moved to the leather chair, pulled it out slightly, and sat. Giving me distance. Giving me space. Everything deliberate.
The care in his movements made me more nervous, not less. Like he knew exactly how to approach someone who might bolt or bite. Like he'd done this before.
