And there’s no going back from what I feel for her. Not for me.
Not ever.
21
SVETLANA
The knock on the door makes me freeze, my hand halfway to the coffee mug I've been nursing for the past hour. My heart slams against my ribs, and I'm already calculating how fast I can get to the bedroom, how I could barricade myself in if I needed to.
Stupid.I'm so fucking stupid. Of course, someone would come eventually. Of course, Kazimir's luck would run out, and Ilya would find me here, or worse, my father's men, or the Russians who?—
"It's okay." Kazimir's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. He's standing in the doorway to the bedroom, pulling a shirt over his head, and I hate how my eyes catch on the flex of his muscles, the dark ink that covers his skin. "I'm expecting someone."
I stare at him. "You'rewhat?"
He doesn't answer, just moves past me to the door, and I'm torn between the urge to run and the need to know what the hell is happening. The door opens, and a woman steps inside—petite, dark-haired, carrying what looks like a small suitcase and several bags.
"Mr. Orlov," she says, in a thick Russian accent. She glances at me, and her expression softens. "And you must be Svetlana."
I look between her and Kazimir, my confusion mounting. "What is this?"
"Irina is here to help you," Kazimir says, and there's something careful in his tone, like he's trying not to spook me. "Hair, nails, whatever you need or want. A prenatal massage, if you’d like that. I know you can't leave right now, so I brought her here."
I blink at him. Then at Irina, who's already setting her bags down on the kitchen counter, unpacking what looks like an entire salon's worth of supplies.
"You brought a—" I can't even finish the sentence. My throat feels tight, and I don't know if I want to laugh or scream or cry. "You brought a beautician to your apartment."
"Da," Irina says cheerfully, pulling out bottles of nail polish and setting them in a neat row. "Mr. Orlov said you might need some pampering. It's been a difficult time, yes?"
A difficult time.That's one way to put being trafficked, tortured, and knocked up by either one of my torturers or my rescuer.
I turn to Kazimir, and he's watching me with that same careful expression, like he's waiting to see if I'm going to bolt or throw something at his head. Maybe both.
"I don't need this," I say, but my voice comes out weaker than I want it to. "I don't need?—"
"You do," he interrupts, and there's a firmness in his tone that makes my spine stiffen. “You can’t go anywhere right now, but you do need something to make you feel better. More like yourself. And I can do this for you.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him to fuck off, that I don't need his pity or his attempts to make me feel better about the fact that he's keeping me prisoner here. But Irina is already gesturing tothe couch, her smile warm and genuine, and something in me cracks.
When was the last time someone did something like this for me? When was the last time I felt anything remotely like the woman I was before all of this?
"Come, come," Irina says, patting the couch cushion. "We start with your nails, yes? Then maybe a facial, and I brought some hair treatments that will make you feel like a new woman."
I glance at Kazimir one more time, and he nods, just once. Then he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door. "I'll be back in a few hours," he says. "Irina has my number if you need anything, and Artem is keeping watch."
And then he's gone, and I'm left standing in the middle of his apartment with a woman I've never met.
"Sit, sit," Irina says again, and this time I do, sinking onto the couch and letting her take my hand.
Her touch is gentle, professional, and as she starts filing my nails, I feel something loosen in my chest. Something I didn't even realize was wound so tight.
"You are very beautiful," Irina says after a moment, her voice soft. "Mr. Orlov is a lucky man."
I almost laugh at that. "He's not—" I start, then stop. What am I supposed to say? That he kidnapped me? That I'm only here because he won't let me leave? That I don't even know if the baby I'm carrying is his or belongs to one of the men who?—
I swallow hard, pushing the thought away.
"He cares for you very much," Irina continues, oblivious to my internal spiral. "I can see it. The way he looks at you, the way he talks about you. He is a good man, I think."
