“You sleep where?” she asks.
“End of the hall.”
She nods once.
“You need anything else?”
She hesitates, just slightly. “Hot water,” she says. “For tea.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
She watches me for a second longer before stepping fully into the room, setting her bag on the chair by the wall like she’s claiming a small piece of it.
I head back toward the kitchen, giving her a minute alone, but I don’t go far. I stay within earshot, listening to the house settle around us, listening for the sound of her moving, reminding myself that she’s here now.
The bathroom door clicks shut and I give her space, staying in the kitchen but not pacing like I want to. I fill the kettle and set it on the stove, then lean my hands on the counter and listen to the quiet of the house. Water runs. Pipes shift. A cabinet opens and closes. Nothing frantic. Nothing panicked. Just controlled movement.
When the water boils, I shut it off and pour it over a tea bag in one of the heavier mugs, the ones that don’t tip easy. I set it on the table and pull out a chair without thinking about it.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later. She steps out, hands damp from washing, sleeves pushed back just enough to keep them dry. Her face looks cleaner somehow, not physically, just steadier. She walks into the kitchen and pauses when she sees the mug waiting for her.
“You did not have to,” she says.
“I know.”
She sits. Wraps both hands around the mug. Lifts it carefully and takes a small sip, testing the heat. Her eyes close for half a second before she swallows.
“Spasibo,” she says quietly.Thank you.The word lands softer than anything else she’s said tonight.
“Pozhaluysta,” I answer without thinking.You’re welcome.
Her gaze lifts at that. Not surprised this time. She takes another sip, then sets the mug down in front of her. Her fingers stay curled around it like she needs the warmth.
I pull out the chair across from her and sit. “Tell me what happened. How you wound up chained to a wall in a warehouse.”
“I went out with friends,” she begins. “There was a new nightclub in Moscow that we wanted to see. My father insists on security, but I told them to remain outside. I wanted one evening where I was not watched.” She lifts her gaze briefly. “I believed I could manage that.”
I don’t interrupt, but if I were her father, I’d be furious. Hell, I’m furious now that she put herself in that position.
“When I stepped outside for air, there was a van waiting. They moved quickly.” Her fingers tighten slightly against each other, though her voice stays even. “They forced me inside and drove to a private airfield. He had a jet ready.”
I lean back slightly, letting that sink in. “He brought you here from Moscow?”
She nods. “Yes.”
I lean forward, forearms braced on the table, my fingers curling against the edge. “When did he take you?”
“Eighteen days ago. He kept me in a warehouse near the port,” she continues. “I was chained to the wall. He wanted information about my father’s business dealings. Shipping routes. Names of associates. He believed I would speak if he applied enough pressure.”
My jaw tightens. “What kind of pressure?”
She doesn’t look away.
“You seem to know what kind of man Volkov was,” she says quietly.
I let out a slow breath and lean back in my chair, jaw tight. “Yeah. I’ve dealt with his type before.”
She watches me carefully. “Then use your imagination.”
