He said I would serve the consequences, but it’s been two days and I’m in the clear. He avoids me like the plague, and for that I don’t blame him. He lowered his guard with me, and it bit him in the ass.
I can’t lie . . . I’m not even upset with Mikhail for getting in the middle of my rescue. I still have a job to finish, and I know I’m getting somewhere with him because he showed mercy to the man who came here.
Being here isn’t much different from the yacht. This house is fucking magical. I would expect a man like Mikhail to have a dark, gloomy mansion. Instead, he has a white brick beach house with a large pool and tennis court. Mikhail has too much money. He probably wipes his ass with hundred-dollar bills.
Still, I can’t believe I let it get that far. I can’t believe he let it get that far. What the fuck was I thinking?
The warm breeze spins around my body while I hold up the tennis racket and hit the ball against the stone wall.
“You’ve got a good arm,” a voice says behind me.
Turning my head, I see Max standing beside the net in a pair of baggy blue jeans and an oversize green T-shirt. He doesn’t wear what everyone else does, and he looks good this way. Max has the kind of face that makes people stop in their tracks to get a second glance. His smile could be famous. He’s a handsome man.
“Thanks,” I say on a worn-out breath of air.
“I’m sure you’d play better with a partner.”
I laugh. “I’m sure I could.”
He crosses his large arms as he steps closer to me. “Mm-hmm,” he hums, grabbing onto my arm. I stumble back from his touch, ready to question him. That is until he takes my insulin pen from his pocket and holds it in front of my face. “What is this?” he asks in a deep voice.
“You went through my shit?” I ask, anger crawling over my skin.
“Bingo,” he says with a snap of his fingers.
I pick at the skin that surrounds my fingernails as I grow nervous. I’ve never had anyone go through my things. This feels like an invasion of my privacy. Max will tell Mikhail—I don’t doubt that.
He stands in front of me, becoming impatient for an answer. “Get on with it,” he persists.
“It’s just insulin,” I mutter.
“Just insulin,” he spits at me. “Sloane, this is dangerous. Are you even taking it correctly?” He speaks to me as if he’s upset, but there’s care in his words.
I shake my head. I know I’m not taking it accurately, but it’s better than Mikhail knowing about it.
“Why?”
“Oh, please,” I grit. “You and I both know how Mikhail is.”
He’s quick to shake his head and run his hands down his face in frustration. “Who gives a shit? This is your health we’re talking about. Don’t you dare let yourself run out. You come to me before that happens.”
I stand there with my lips pressed together and the racket hanging in my hand. “Sure thing,” I say, extending my hand out for my pen.
He gives me a glare before he passes it to me. “Do you think we could keep this between us?” I ask, hesitantly.
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”
“Please?” I push the question.
He shakes his head and leaves me alone on the tennis court. I don’t bother chasing after him because Max isn’t the kind of man to change his mind, obviously.
With annoyance running in my mind on an endless track, I walk past the pool. There’s a pathway that leads to the beach. The sand is a gentle hue of gold with a comforting warmth. The water that crashes onto the shore creates white noise like a lullaby. The marram grass sways with the wind, speaking to my soul. How can something sound so calming without even whispering a word?
I sit in the sand for the next hour before heading back inside. When Dimitri brought my things to the house, he also brought the books. I can tell he understands how I am because his wife has the same interests as me.
Looking at the stack of books, I feel defeated because I’ve already read all of them before. Sighing, I roll over on the bed. I guess there’s still the notebook I could read. It feels a little personal going through someone’s writing, but I can’t help but feel intrigued.
The band that holds the book together is made of dark brown leather. It smells old and looks aged beyond repair. The pages are stained and wrinkled.
Expecting to see pages upon pages of someone’s thoughts, I find the exact opposite. I turn the first page and find a list.
One water bottle—one fingernail.
Clean up living room—bruised face and a cracked rib.
Protect Kirill—three back lashes.
Come home late—broken finger.
Run away—a back lashing for the number of hours I’ve been gone.
Talk back—hot knife to the skin.
I shut the book and shove it away from me as if it holds dark magic. What the fuck is this? Was this from someone else held hostage by Mikhail? Did he actually do this to people? That is fucking sick. I knew Mikhail was messed up, but this is beyond what I thought he was capable of. I don’t think his threats are empty, but if I stay here, there’s a chance I could meet the same fate.
Oh my God.
I can’t believe I let Mikhail touch me the way he did.
My stomach turns and I feel bile rising in my throat. Mikhail hasn’t given any sign he’d do any of this to me, but I know he’s capable of it. I won’t endure any more time here. I need to get the fuck out of this house.
So much for enjoying my time here—how naïve I was.
I reach under my pillow and take my pen. Rushing over to the closet, I grab a jacket off the hanger and walk to the door. This isn’t something I want to do, but I’d rather die trying to get out of here than suffer at the hands of Mikhail.
I take a deep breath and walk out of my room with a light foot. There isn’t a single person in sight, which isn’t unusual. Everyone here sneaks up on me all the time. I can only hope it doesn’t happen in the next five minutes.
Food. I need to get some kind of food before I leave.
I make my way to the kitchen and grab a loaf of bread and a bunch of bananas. Grabbing a bag, I put everything I have into it. Then, looking around me to make sure no one is nearby, I step down the narrow stairs to the garage. In the corner farthest from the stairs, there’s a door.
Four cars are parked in a row, and I sneak past each.
Just as I’m about to reach for the doorknob, the garage door opens, and I throw myself down by the nearest car. I crouch to the floor and hide behind the tire of a G-Class. The hair on the back of my neck rises when I hold my hands over my mouth.
My hands shake against my lips, and I slam my eyes shut as if that will help my situation.
Car doors open and slam shut. Dimitri’s voice floods the room, and I hear Mikhail laugh at his words. They joke with one another before walking into the house.
The lights shut off, but I don’t dare move. I can still feel the fear in my throat, leaving me incapable of walking out the door.
But I have to.
Throwing the bag of food over my shoulder, I take in a deep breath and ignore what my thoughts are telling me. This is right. This is what I need to do.
Anxiety washes over me when I open the door, but I’m yanked back by a hand on the back of my neck.
“Stop!” I screech at the top of my lungs.
I get pushed down to the ground and see Mikhail close the door and lock it. His eyes darken every second he stares at me.
One of his hands moves to my hair and the other lifts me up by my leg. His grip on my hair gives the painful sensation of needles being stabbed into my scalp. I pound on his back and kick my legs, but it’s useless.
He carries me to the living room and throws me onto the ground. My bag spills open, revealing everything I took to survive on. I lift myself off the ground, but he steps on my toes, keeping me from standing up completely.
“How far did you think you’d be able to get?” He makes a tsk sound with his tongue and shakes his head.
I keep my mouth shut, pressing my lips together firmly.
“If the bread and bananas kept you alive long enough, the lack of water would have gotten to you soon enough.”
I clench my teeth in frustration. “So what, do I get a back lashing?”
Something inside him flips. Anger washes over his face like I’ve never seen before. He lifts me off the ground by my shirt and continues to drag me further into the living room, where he takes a chair and pulls it into the center of the room so it’s facing the kitchen.
“Mikhail,” I start.
He throws me onto the chair, and I struggle to catch my breath. He walks past me with purpose and takes the rope that holds the curtains together. Standing in front of me, he stares at me as if looks could kill—and it feels like his is about to. My heart races and my lungs feel tight. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. Mikhail ties my arms to the chair and does the same with my legs. I try to move my hands even a little, but it’s useless.
“Where’d you find it?” he demands while placing his hands on the arm of the chair.
He hovers above me with darkness clouding his judgment. I shake my head, frightened to say anything.
“Where the fuck did you find it?” he screams at me.
I shudder at his harsh voice. I wish I could hide from his anger, but I can’t. I’m the one who caused it. I shake my head again.
“Okay, you can humiliate me all you want, Koldunya.” He nods slowly. “Now it’s your turn.”
I can humiliate him? That doesn’t make any sense. How does mentioning his torture tactics embarrass him?
My mouth drops when I realize.
That book wasn’t written by someone who was held hostage here . . .
It was his book.
I try to form the words of an apology, but they leave my mind when he takes a knife from his belt. “Mikhail, please!” I shout with tears filling my eyes. Worry snakes around my heart, tightening every second that passes.
“So she does have manners,” he whispers to me.
He brings the knife to my chest. I stare at him, wondering if he’ll actually hurt me. Instead, he tears through the thin shirt I’m wearing until my chest is bare in front of him. I want to slam my eyes shut, but I can’t. If he wants to hurt me, I want him to watch. I want him to feel my eyes boring into his while he hurts me. If I’m going to feel nothing but pain, he will watch me struggle. Maybe then I’ll see a shred of remorse.
I’ve never felt so exposed in my life. All Mikhail does is threaten and embarrass me.
“I have been kind to you, Sloane,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “I’ve given you my trust. I’ve done a lot for you that I’d never do for anyone else.” He lights the gas stove. From this distance, I can see him bringing the knife to the flame.
I crumble under the weight of my panic and try to gulp down my fear. I try to control my breathing, but it only comes out unsteady.
He’s going to kill me.
“I’m not here for games, Sloane. I told you how it was going to be, and you chose to defy me. I’m not a man of useless words.” He approaches me with a dark look. In a weak attempt to prepare myself for the endless pain I’m about to suffer, I clench my teeth together with a pressure so strong my teeth could shatter.
As I grip the arms of the chair, I feel the heat of the blade near my skin. “You won’t do it,” I mutter.
A wicked smile crosses his face. “You’re making weak assumptions, little one.”
“Am I though? If that was your notebook, you wouldn’t hurt someone the same way you were hurt.”
Something inside him flips. A look crosses his face, and I can’t tell what it is. Guilt? Anger? Dread?
“Stop while you’re ahead. Watch your fucking mouth.”
“Or what? Hurt me. Do it!” I scream at him.
His anger wears off on me. It’s toxic. I want to challenge him. I want to see if he’s capable of following through on his word. I know if he were to hurt me, I’d never forgive him. It’s hard enough to look at him now.
He brushes my hair out of my face with a calm look. “Yell at me again, Sloane,” he says with a calm voice. My eyes search his. His anger is gone. Does yelling at him make him back off?
My face relaxes at his touch, and I fucking hate it. He’s torturing me, and I’m welcoming it. What the fuck?
“You’re sick,” I tell him.
“What else am I?” His fingers trail down my thigh as he tugs at the bottom of my shorts.
“You’re a psychopath.”
“Hmm. That’s quite the diagnosis, Sloane.”
The blade is only an inch away from my skin. I feel the pain before he inflicts it on me.
“Mikhail!” A man’s angry voice floods the room.
I take my eyes off him and look at the steps.
Max.
Mikhail turns to him with annoyance written all over his face. He argues something in Russian under his breath and shakes his head.
Max wears a black hoodie and a dark pair of pants. He doesn’t seem to have a gun on him, or any weapon for that matter. He steps closer to me, looking me up and down, before he reaches his arms behind him and pulls the hoodie off his back. He walks up to Mikhail and takes the knife from him. His eyes fall with disappointment when he cuts me out of the ropes.
“You are being fucking ridiculous,” he mutters. “You are better than this.” He takes his attention off me and gives Mikhail a dirty look.
Mikhail keeps his eyes on mine. His hand brushes over his mouth, and his jaw hardens. He doesn’t say a single thing to me, and I don’t blame him. I don’t want to say anything either.
Once I’m out of the ropes, Max lifts me up by my elbows. “Arms up, Sloane.”
I do as he says, and he puts his hoodie on me. It falls to my knees.
Mikhail stands there dumbfounded, and I cross my arms.
Max leaves my side and walks over to Mikhail, grabbing him by the arm to take him away from me, but I can still hear them.
“I understand you. I do. Believe me. But if you want her to help you, this will get you nowhere.”
“Max,” he says with a saddened voice. A voice that sounds foreign to me.
“Don’t you fucking dare ‘Max’ me. You disappoint me.”
“I’m sorry.”
I tilt my head and widen my eyes. Right in front of me is someone who’s able to put him in his place. Not only did he do it, but he also did it as easily as if he just had to snap his fingers.
“Shit,” I mutter.
He looks at me up and down while I stand by the couch with my arms crossed.
“Sloane,” he says with a half-smile. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
I look at Mikhail, and he throws his head back and runs both his hands down his face in frustration.
“Max,” he starts, but he quickly shuts him up.
“No, Mikhail! God, what has gotten into you, man? He wouldn’t want this. Neither of them would, and you know that. You will be kind to her. You will show her the little grace and decency you have left in your heart. You will have nothing if you don’t. You’ll lose yourself the same way Kirill did.”
Kirill.
When Max says the name, Mikhail’s eyes drill anger into his as if Max has no right to even speak about him. I watch them converse as if it’s a movie playing right in front of me. Their dynamic is hard to understand, but I kind of love it.
Max saved me, and I love watching Mikhail get torn down.
