Page 62 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

She swallows hard, her throat working visibly. Her gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet any of our eyes. Beside her, Marla leans forward slightly, sensing her friend is holding back something crucial.

"Sharon," Marla says softly. "Please."

The silence stretches for several seconds. Alex hasn't moved from his position near the doorway, but I can feel the intensity radiating from him. Russ shifts his weight, his jaw tight with barely controlled impatience.

Sharon's voice cracks when she finally speaks, directing her worried gaze at me. "One of the bartenders said he saw your sister there Saturday night."

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

"What?" The word comes out flat, dangerous.

Sharon flinches but continues, the words tumbling out faster now. "He said she was at the club late Saturday night. Right before closing. She was arguing with some men he didn't recognize. He thought it was weird because she looked really angry, and then a few hours later everyone heard about the warehouse attack and..." She trails off, her meaning devastatingly clear.

Russ goes completely still beside me. Alex's expression turns to stone.

Arina was at the Ivory Wolf Saturday night, arguing with unknown men just hours before my warehouse was hit.

24

MARLA

The atmosphere in the cottage transforms the instant Sharon finishes speaking. Nick's entire body goes rigid, his shoulders pulling back like he's been physically struck. The warmth that existed moments ago evaporates completely, replaced by something cold and dangerous that makes the air feel heavier, harder to breathe.

I watch as all three men shift. It's subtle but unmistakable. Russ's easy posture disappears, replaced by coiled tension. Alex's expression becomes unreadable, his eyes calculating. Nick's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. How is Nick feeling? Betrayed? Hurt? Pissed off? If his own sister had something to do with what happened at the warehouse... I can't even imagine what he must be going through.

They move closer together without seeming to realize it, forming a tight unit near the kitchen counter. Their voices drop to barely audible murmurs, heads bent together in conversation I can't quite hear. The words are too quiet, too controlled, but the intensity radiating from them is palpable.

Sharon stands frozen near the couch, her face pale and her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She looks terrified, like she's just realized she's walked into something far more dangerous than she understood. Her eyes dart between the three men and then to me, silently pleading for help or explanation or escape.

Standing quickly, I cross the living room and grab Sharon's hand. Her fingers are ice cold despite the warmth of the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "Come on," I say quietly. I pull her gently but firmly toward the hallway.

The men don't acknowledge us leaving. They're too focused on their quiet, intense discussion. The low rumble of their voices follows us down the short hallway like distant thunder, a warning of the storm brewing just beyond the thin walls.

My bedroom feels like a sanctuary when I close the door behind us, muffling the sound of their conversation. Afternoon light filters through the sheer curtains covering the single window, casting soft shadows across the quilted comforter on my bed, which is a tangled mess from our earlier... activities. The room smells faintly of lavender from the candle I burned last night, a stark contrast to the tension crackling through the rest of the cottage. I refuse to acknowledge the smell of sex, and thankfully she doesn't say anything either.

Sharon stands in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her face is still pale, her blue eyes wide with fear and confusion.

"Marla." Sharon's voice comes out barely above a whisper. She swallows hard, her throat working visibly. "They're Russian mafia bosses. Actual Russian mafia bosses."

The words hang between us, heavy and undeniable. I sink onto the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping beneath my weight. Through the closed door, I can still hear the muffled sound of male voices, too quiet to make out words but intense enough to feel.

"I know," I say quietly.

Sharon's face goes even paler, if that's possible. Her hands twist together in front of her, knuckles white. "Oh God, Marla. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry I encouraged you to sleep with them. This is all my fault."

"Sharon, stop." I reach out and grab her hands, pulling her down to sit beside me on the bed. Her fingers are trembling in mine. "You didn't know. How could you have known?"

"But I work there!" Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself and lowers it again. "I should have paid more attention. I should have realized something was off. The way people act around them. The security and the private meetings. I just thought they were rich businessmen who owned the club."

"That's what I thought too," I say, squeezing her hands. "You have nothing to apologize for."

She looks at me, her blue eyes searching my face. "Are you okay? I mean, really okay? They're keeping you here. They're not hurting you or threatening you or anything, right?"

The question makes my chest tighten. I'm not sure what to think. True, they're not letting me leave here, but they haven't done anything to me. It's for protection, they say, and I somewhat believe them. I still think they're concerned I had some part in setting them up, which bothers me more than I'd like to admit. Especially after all the sex we've had. But then, sex for men is usually different than for women. With a sigh, I look at Sharon.

"They're not hurting me," I say carefully.

Sharon's eyes narrow slightly. "But they're keeping you here. That's basically kidnapping."