He's going to kiss me. I can feel it in the tension of his muscles, in the way his hand tightens in my hair.
And God help me, part of me wants him to.
But the other part knows exactly what that would mean. It would mean surrender. It would mean giving in. It would mean letting him win.
So before his lips can touch mine, before I can lose myself in whatever dark thing is building between us, I pull my hand back and slap him as hard as I can.
The crack of my palm against his cheek echoes through the apartment. He goes very still.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, both breathing hard. His cheek is red where I hit him, and there's something in his eyes I can't read.
Then I wrench myself out of his grip and run, using his shock to my advantage.
I don't go for the window this time, or even the front door. I know I’m not going to escape with him here. I go for the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries. I press my back against the door and slide down to the floor, my heart pounding so hard I think it might burst out of my chest.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck is wrong with me?
He was describing ways to torture me—because that's what it would be, no matter how he dressed it up—and my body responded. I got wet. I wanted it. I wantedhim.
I press my hands to my face, trying to breathe, trying to think past the chaos in my head.
He doesn’t come after me. I can hear him moving around in the living room, but he doesn't try the door or demand I come out. Maybe the slap actually got through to him.
Or maybe he's just biding his time.
I sit there long enough for my breathing to slow, for the heat in my body to fade into something more manageable. Long enough to start thinking clearly again. And when I do, a memory surfaces. Sharp and clear.
Back at the cabin, when I was still trying to figure out how to survive, I'd used his desire against him. I'd seen the way he looked at me, the way he responded when I got close, and I'd used it. I'd made him think I was softening, that I was starting to trust him. Made him lower his guard just enough that I thought I could escape.
It hadn't worked then. But that was different. We were in the middle of nowhere, and he was watching me constantly. Here, in the city, with his business pulling him away, with a thousand distractions and demands on his time—here, it might actually work.
I just have to make him believe it. I just have to make him think I'm giving in.
The thought makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to consider it. He wants me. That much is obvious. He wants me in his bed, in his life, carrying his child and playing house like we're some kind of normal couple.
He wants me to want him back. So what if I let him think I do? What if I stop fighting so hard? Stop trying to run every time his back is turned? What if I soften, just a little? Just enough to make him think he's winning?
He might relax. He might stop watching me so closely and start to believe that I'm actually staying because I want to, not because he's forcing me.
And then, when he's comfortable, when his guard is finally down?—
Then I run.
The plan takes shape in my mind, cold and clear. I'll be sweet. Compliant. I'll eat the food he brings me and wear the clothes he buys and let him think he's taking care of me. I'll stop throwing his guilt in his face and stop reminding him of what he's done. I'll let him get close. Maybe not as close as he wants—I know better than to think that sleeping with him again wouldn’t backfire on me—but close enough to make him think it's only a matter of time.
Right now, I just have to survive. I have to play the game long enough to get out. And if that means lying to him, manipulating him, using his own desire against him—well, he deserves it.
He kidnapped me. He's keeping me here against my will. He let me leave without protection, and I ended up in a Russian cell. Now he wants to be my savior, but it’s too little, too late.
I don’t believe he’s being genuine, that he’s really sorry. I think he wants me, that he feels like my child is his, and that he’s no better than any other man.
Strawberries and cream aside, he’s a Bratva enforcer. A brutal villain.
And since he decided to make this a war, I’m going to make sure I’m the one who wins.
20
KAZIMIR
