I squint at him, trying to make sense of the words. I can’t really understand what he’s saying, something about hot shits…fuck, that doesn’t make sense, why would he say that?
My mouth moves slowly, my thoughts lagging behind my words.
“When they tried to feed you, you bit a chunk of the guy’s hand off. So the doc gave you something to calm you down.”
I feel the memory hit—the rush of fury, the sick satisfaction of seeing him recoil, the taste of blood, the sting of the chains, the drugs shooting through my veins afterward. Vengeance. Proof that I would not sit quietly while they tried to control me.
I rasp out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. “Ah, yes… it’s coming back to me now.”
He smirks, entertained by my defiance despite the fog clouding my mind.
“Lucky you didn’t get shot,” he says casually.
I close my eyes, but I hear him shuffling in his chains, pulling my attention back.
He’s standing with a cup in his hands when he gently grabs my face, searching for my eyes, which keep trying to find the glass.
Then, before I can, moisture rushes to my tongue. I tilt back, trying to get as much water as I can.
It’s incredible, the best water I’ve ever tasted. After finishing his glass, I look up at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, you little psycho.”
I give a fake smile.
“For the record, I find it very hard to believe that owing a couple thousand dollars was reason enough for you to endup chained in a Bratva basement cage.” My voice scratches out rough as I get it back.
He smiles. “I like that you’re not dumb. It makes you more interesting.”
“So, why are you an Orlov prisoner?”
He shrugs. “I think we should work up to that level of honesty, Ace.” He takes a couple of steps back and sits, looking up, almost admiring me. “You look very uncomfortable.”
I thrust my arm, testing the strength of the cuff on my wrist. But of course it doesn’t budge.
I look at him for a moment, judging just how I can play him to my advantage. He seems to like me, to think I’m pretty—or at least, was—before I started looking like a drug addict. But I don’t see how seduction could help me here. Could I get some more information? Possibly. Could it save my life? Doubtful. I try a different approach, something a bit more honest, a bit more…nice.
I glare at him now, feeling fully conscious. “Can you tell me about them?”
He keeps my gaze and runs his finger across his lips, but quickly retorts, “I’d rather not get my balls chopped off, so no.”
“Aw, you’re scared for your balls. That’s cute.” It came out with a bit more bite than I expected, not exactly keeping to my plan, but I’ve been quite easily irritated since being kidnapped.
Shocker.
He smiles. “Well, I’m glad that water seemed to snap you back into your unpleasant self.”
I give a sarcastic smile and tilt my head, trying to restart that honest, nice approach I had planned. But he’s already on his feet, walking away from me.
I don’t know if it was designed to be this way, but it seems as though we have designated spaces. His chains are rooted in the corner of our small room, but because of the distance, he canstill get enough slack to meet me at the lovely posts they have me chained to.
He twists his head to look back at me. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Well, maybe I can make this nice thing work after all.
My mind flashes to Elijah, his body, his eyes, and then him thrusting into some blonde on my kitchen counter, and the response couldn’t come quick enough, “No, I don’t,” and before he can respond I continue, “but I have countless men who would rip your micro balls off and feed them to my dog if they found out you hurt me.”
This charade is harder than expected.It’s become impossible to control my irritation.
