“So this is a hostage situation, after all,” I counter.
I know I’m a fool for not doing everything I can to escape. It’s not as if he bothered to confiscate my phone. I could call for a rideshare if I really wanted to. I mean, if I really felt the need, I could even call the police.
Yet, here I am, doing none of the smart things I know I should do. Instead, I let a man I’m pretty sure is part of the Russian mob bring me and my baby girl to his fortress of a mansion for the night. If this were a horror movie, now would be the time my airhead self got killed. Nothing about Feliks’ treatment of us makes me worried about our safety, though.
Worried for my patience and my ability to keep a lock on my temper, for sure. But safety? Nah. If he wanted to eliminate witnesses, he and the other guy would have already done so. And honestly, they didn’t need to come riding to the rescue to begin with. That realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and now, I have all the excuse I need to rationalize why I haven’t scheduled an Uber home. There’s a reason these mobbed up strangers decided to protect Petal, Dru and me. And suddenly, I need to know why.
Chapter
Seven
Feliks
Neither of my girls left the room last night. I would have known because every door and window in this place has a motion sensor that feeds directly to my phone. The bags I left outside the door, the ones Alevtina delivered with all the stuff Hollis had on her list, are gone, though. Progress, I guess?
“Hollis, are you awake in there?” My knock is soft in case the little one is still asleep. By the time we got here last night, it seemed pretty late for a kid to be up.
No answer. I knock again, a little louder. I’m fully aware I could pop the lock and open the door with virtually no effort, but I don’t need to start the day on the wrong note. As it is, I know it’ll be a tough battle getting Hollis to accept she’s mine now. No need to piss her off before breakfast. Especially not when I have a plan to convince her she should want to be here.
“Mommy’s in the bathroom. You gotta wait, mister.” The door is too thick to hear more than the barest whisper of thelittle girl’s voice. I’m already enamored by her bold personality and the fearlessness she’s shown, despite the scary situation last night.
Seeing her mama in action, I know she comes by it naturally. Though I’ve never really given much thought to it, part of the reason I never seriously planned to claim a woman or become a father is because there aren’t many women who can endure this life. So much of my time and loyalty belongs to Anatoly and the Vor. I never expected to find a woman that could put up with unexpected absences, secrecy, and the threat of violence constantly shimmering on the horizon.
Hollis McCrae came out of nowhere and shot that worry to shit. Not only was she fearless, despite being outnumbered and caught off guard last night, she’s made it beyond clear she’s unafraid of me. That alone is enough to harden my dick. I give myself a solid thump as a reminder to behave. There’ll be a time, real soon, when I won’t have to be a gentleman, but for right now, I have to at least put on a mask of civility.
“Can you tell your mama it’s time for breakfast and to bring you downstairs to the dining room to eat?” I ask.
“She’s gonna say no. She already said swear words about you, mister. I don’t think she likes you,” she trills, the lisp I noticed last night less prominent after a night’s rest.
“Well, I’ve got waffles and bacon to share if she changes her mind,” I say.
Is it morally wrong to bribe a small child in order to spend time with their mother? I’m sure it is.
Have I given a shit about morals a single time in my life? For damn sure I have not. In this world, my world, saints are slain.
“Crispy bacon?” the little voice asks.
“Is there any other way to make it?” I’m only half playing. I’m a hundred percent certain the only way I can make it iscrispy. Something always happens to get in my way when I try cooking it chewier.
The door flies open, and there’s Hollis, hand on her hip and a scowl on her face. Her hair’s twisted up in a towel in that way only women seem able to master and there’s not a lick of makeup on her face. Seeing her this way, fresh faced from the shower, she’s every bit as gorgeous as fully made up the way she was last night. Still, I can’t deny the way last night’s vivid red lips gave me fantasies of seeing them wrapped around my cock.
I remind myself there’ll be time for that later. First things first, get her to accept my house will be theirs from now on. I take her in from the dip of her collarbone where my shirt slips off the curve of her shoulder to the tips of her toes. Each perfect, tiny toenail shines the same vivid red her lips had been last night. Noticing my stare, Hollis stomps her little foot and huffs.
“I need clothes, dude. My clothes. Not yours and not shit a rando you’ve had here left behind,” she demands, and for a moment, I’m confused. Rando? Does she think the clothes I brought for her belong to another woman?
“Don’t be illogical. How do you expect I’d have clothes on hand to fit both you and your daughter? And that they’d all be new with tags on them?” I know my kneejerk response is wrong before the words are fully out of my mouth.
“Illogical? Seriously? Feel free to point out where the logical fallacy is, instead of just stereotyping me as a hysterical female.” The hand not already on her hip lands there now, and she glares at me with both fists propped on her hips.
This is exactly why I’ve never bothered with relationships. There’s just something in me that continuously says the worst possible thing when I talk to people. Not just women, either. Even the men who work for me and those I have considered family for decades get irritated by my word vomit.
It’s never a problem when I’m working. Numbers don’t rattle my brains and shake stupid shit out of my mouth. For the first time in more years than I can recall, my inability to smooth talk actually rankles. No one’s opinion has ever mattered to me the way this woman’s does. I want her to like me. I need it so she’ll agree to stay here and let me keep her.
“That’s not what I meant,” I start.
“I think that’s exactly what you meant. I know your type, Feliks Rykov. You’re a fuckboy who thinks women are only good for one thing,” she challenges.
“Mommy, that’s a swear,” her daughter pipes up, stepping between us and propping her tiny fists on her hips like a mini version of her mother.
