"It's not poisoned.”
I look up at him, unsure if I should believe that. Then again, it doesn’t make sense to poison me after fixing my foot.
I eye the glass then decide I’m too thirsty to resist. I take a sip. The water’s cold and tasteless, unlike the water from the brothel which always had a metallic tang to it. It hurts going down my damaged throat, but it's the best thing I've tasted in years.
I quickly drain the glass. Roman takes it, his expression betraying nothing, no surprise at how fast I drank the water, refills it and hands it back.
I drink that too. I can't stop myself. I had to deal with so many years of having to ration water, right now this feels like paradise in comparison.
"When did you last eat?”
"Yesterday.” I pause to cough, then add, “morning.”
He looks me over, taking his time to scan my appearance, then turns and walks away. I don’t want to think about how awful I must look. I push that away and twist slightly on the couch, watching him disappear into thekitchen. I whip my head around, afraid of being caught staring.
From the living room, I hear a pot being placed on the stove. I frown, fighting the urge to look back into the kitchen. Instead, I try to wrestle with everything that’s happened. Hours ago, I was trapped in a cold basement, choking on smoke and certain I was about to die. Now I’m sitting on a couch in a warm apartment with Roman, who just might be cooking something for me to eat.
There’s a reason. I’m not that stupid. I just don’t know what. What could he possibly want from me? I don’t think he knows about my gift. His father wouldn’t have told him, so why is he locking me in here? Does he think the Pakhan might pay ransom for me?
A few minutes later, I turn to see him setting a bowl with steam rising from it, on the table that separates the kitchen from the living room. It smells good, like actual food and not gooey slop.
“Eat,” he orders, catching me staring.
I limp over, sitting in the chair he pulled out for me. He nods once, like I’m doing what he expected, then takes the chair across from me. He relaxes back, simply watching me. It’s awkward. He, too, knows it’s awkward. I can tell from the way his jaw bunches that he’s doing this one hundred percent on purpose.
Still… he made me soup.
Ignoring his gaze, I take a spoonful of it. The soup is hot and delicious and even better than the water. I eat slowly, partly because my stomach is weak, unused to digesting anything other than porridge a few times a week.
Roman doesn’t look away. His eyes track every movement I make. I feel like he’s assessing me, trying to figure out what he’s dealing with.
"You… knew," I whisper, my voice cracking. “Basement?”
"Yes."
"How?"
"Talk. Research."
"The fire?"
"I needed to get you out."
I study him, Roman Ivanov, so calm he’s almost scary. He looks like he belongs on television, but I know that’s not true. He belongs in a prison along with his father and all the other Bratva men. His dark-blond hair is pushed back and slightly disheveled. He should be exhausted but doesn’t act like he is. He acts like he has all the time in the world, sitting there dissecting me. I wish he’d just tell me what he wants from me.
"What..." I stop. A cough shakes my body. "What do you want?"
He leans forward, his eyes gleaming with intent like the predator he is.
"My father kept you down there since you were a kid. He used you for something. I want to know what that something is."
My heartbeat races, my hand on the spoon stills. I drop my eyes to the soup, my appetite fading.
"No.” His voice is lethal. “You don’t do that when I’m talking.”
I force myself to look up, trying to control my breathing before I end up dry heaving.
“Good.” He eases back, shoulders relaxing. “This is how it works. You can tell me the truth now or we can do this later” His eyes harden. "But you will tell me."
