Roman nods once. “Now finish your soup.”
I eat the rest even though it’s gone cold. When I'm done, he leads me down the hall and opens a door. “This is your room.”
I enter, looking around at this room, my bedroom. There’s a bed, beside it is a lamp on a nightstand and a dresser against the wall. An extra blanket folded neatly lays at the foot of the bed.
"There’s clothes in there,” he says pointing to the dresser. “That’s your bathroom through that door. It should have everything you need. If it doesn’t, let me know.”
I stare at the bed, fascinated that it’s an actual bed with a headboard and frame. Not a mattress on the floor.
"The windows don't open,” he adds, a hint of warning in his tone. “The blinds stay down. Don’t touch them.”
I nod, because I have no other choice other than agreeing with everything he says.
He tilts his head to the side, searching my eyes, checking to see if I understand. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he turns to leave.
“Roman,” I say hesitantly.
He stops and turns.
Despite everything, knowing what he expects from me, being here in this apartment, seems ten times better than being in the basement, cold, starving and on the verge of vomiting from fear at the thought of seeing Grigori every week.
"Thank you,” I push past the rawness of my throat. “For…getting me out.”
He looks at me for a long moment, nods and leaves. He closes the door behind him, locking it.
I move to the bed, sigh, close my eyes, shutting it all out. Tonight, for the first time in seven years, I fall asleep above ground. With a new captor I hope won’t be as cruel as the last.
CHAPTER 6
ROMAN
I slide my SIG across the table, just far enough that my fingers can reach it in the dark.
Nala’s in her room and probably fast asleep right now. I’m not. I can’t allow myself to sleep this soon after.
Belova isn’t stupid. She may have panicked during the fire, forgetting about the girl the way I intended, but by now she has to know Nala’s gone. Once Belova knows, it’s only a matter of minutes before my father does too. A girl doesn't mysteriously vanish from a locked basement, not even during a fire. He’ll know someone took her. The only question is how long before he figures out it was me.
I replay everything, every step, every detail in my mind. No one saw me during the panic. Pyotr did his part to perfection, making the fire look like an electrical fault. I know he won't talk. He has no reason to. He’s a nobody in the eyes of the Bratva and Volchya doesn’t waste time on nobodies. A nobody, no cameras and no proof.
I check my phone to see if word has already spread. There’s nothing. I scrub a hand along my jaw. It’s been overtwo hours since the fire, more than enough time for someone to move her out of Moscow, widen my father’s search radius. The longer it takes him to realize she’s missing, the better.
I set the phone down and stare into the pitch-black hallway, still in disbelief I pulled it off. Now I have her. Nala Spencer.
It’s messed up, thinking my father kept her in that cold ass, damp basement since she was a kid. I’m not much better than him, but fuck, even I wouldn’t go that far, using a kid like that.
She looks almost exactly like the whores described her. Thin, not sickly thin, but enough to see that no one gave a fuck about her down there. Her brown eyes looked scared and huge in her small face when I told her how things were going to be.
On some level, I sympathize with the girl. She’s young and had her childhood stolen. She probably wants normal things, to be a regular teenage girl. I get it. I really do.
But…
I can’t pretend she’s like other girls. She’s not. She can’t be, because I won’t let her.
Nala will always be Bratva owned.
My property.
I check my phone again. It’s after five in the morning and still nothing. No urgent calls or messages. I pick up my gun and head to my room. My head hits the pillow and the next thing I know I’m waking up to seven missed calls and a bunch of texts.
