HOME.
He can say that all day long, but it doesn’t mean anything and won’t. Call a cow a fish, and it’s still a damn cow.
His home will be my prison.
I stare out the window, fervently wishing that the trip will be short. At first, it’s hard to see where we’re going in the dark. After a little while I notice streetlights illuminate large road signs with an arrow pointing toward The Cove.
My heart beats a little faster. For the first time, I feel the faintest glimmer of hope, but hardly dare to think I could’ve hit a stroke of luck. Are we heading toward The Cove? This could work to my advantage.
I swallow hard and lick my lips, feigning nonchalance so he doesn’t know how much hangs in the balance of his answer. “Where do you live?”
“Did they tell you nothing?” he snaps, sitting so close to me our knees practically knock. I sit up straighter because I’d rather not touch him until that isn’t a choice anymore.
My belly dips. There will come a time when that isn’t a choice anymore.
And when he finds out I’m not who he thinks I am…
“If they’d told me where you lived, do you think I’d bother asking you?”
The air between us chills as he narrows his eyes at me. His voice is tinged with a Russian accent when he responds. “We’re heading to The Cove. The Romanov family owns most of the property there. We have a residence in Moscow as well, but The Cove is our American residence.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. He opens his mouth as if to say more but closes it instead and turns away.
I pretend my heart doesn’t leap in my chest at his answer.
The Cove. We’re heading for The Cove.
I had no idea the Romanovs owned the large, sprawling “Little Russia” situated between Coney Island and Manhattan.
In The Cove, the shopkeepers speak Russian. There are restaurants, grocery stores, cultural centers, and an Orthodox Church. There’s a beach and a boardwalk, popular in the summer. Less crowded in the winter. If his family owns The Cove…
I can’t get my hopes up too high, though.
It might not be the reprieve I’m hoping for. Will I be able to do what I need to under the watchful eyes of the Romanovs? If they own The Cove, they will have eyes everywhere.
The Cove.
I need more information. I decide to chat with him, get him talking. Maybe I’ll learn something useful, like if he has any sisters. There’s an unwritten law between women — most of us, anyway — that we have each other’s backs. I could sneak away, I could lie… or I could find someone who’s sympathetic and plead my case.
“And we’re getting married in two days?”
“Unless you decide to pull another move on me.”
I turn to face him, taken aback by the fire that burns in the blue of his eyes. How can eyes do that?
“And if I do?” I ask with a thrust of my chin before I can censor my words. Before I can stop myself from talking back to him. I know I’m flirting with fire, but he seems to know how to push every one of my buttons.
Our knees knock together when he reaches for me. I don’t have time to prepare myself before strong, rough fingers grip my chin and dig into my skin, searing me. I’m frozen in place, captured in his gaze and the latent threat.
“Then we marry tonight.”
My mind reels. Tonight? I wasn’t expecting that. I wanted him to know I won’t cow under any type of abuse, and I’ve experienced every damn type. I wanted him to tell me what he’d do so I could brave it, because I want to prove to myself that I’ll survive marriage to this man.
“And if you do decide to defy me, when I get you alone, I show you exactly what happens to a naughty little wife who decides to disobey her husband.” He releases my chin.
There it is. There we go.
There’s no denying that I’m afraid, but by now I’ve learned to school the telltale signs so thoroughly, I barely note the shift in my breathing, the increase in my heartbeat, or how my palms grow sweaty.
I lick my lips. “The old-fashioned type, then.”
A glint of something like malice but not quite flickers in his gaze. “You have no idea.”
That should scare me. I’m not quite sure if it does.
He’ll see that I’m not beaten down with words. I’ve learned to let them glide over me, mere smoke in the wind. I’m impervious to threats and insults, thanks to the generosity of my fucked-up family.
Thinks she’s better than everyone.
You disgrace our family name.
Miss High and Mighty.
Filthy piece of trash.
Fucking whore.
Dishonor.
Slut.
I stifle a flinch at the endless barrage of insults that spin in a loop in my brain.
As we drive on in silence, my mind races, a storm of conflict and confusion brewing. His presence, only a hair away from me, unnerves me. The cold stab of his glare sends a shiver down my spine — an indecipherable blend of fear and excitement.
I chide myself for allowing even the slightest hint of unwanted attraction between us.
We stare at each other, something untold hanging in the air between us. The front of the car dips when we hit a rough patch of road, but the car effortlessly glides as if we’re riding on a magic carpet, until we hit a bump and lurch forward. Wordlessly, he holds my forearms to steady me. I use the opportunity to do more questioning.
“So you live in The Cove. Like…alone? Or with people?”
His voice, laced with an unmistakable Russian accent, is commanding yet somehow sexy. “I have a staff of seven.”
Staff. He has a staff of seven. I’m curious. We’ve already entered into rare territory.
Seven is a good number, though. At least one might be persuaded to be on my side…
“Why do you need a staff? Can’t clean your own toilets?”
A smirk shows a flash of a dimple. “Now you know why I had to get a wife.”
I feel my jaw unhinge as a satisfying smirk spreads across his face.
No. He. Did. Not.
“Just make sure you don’t ask me to make you a sammich,” I say with scorn, shifting back in my seat.
The low sound of his dark chuckle is a bit unnerving, if I’m honest. I know how to handle a backhand or a derisive comment, a shove into a closet or worse. I know what it’s like to be treated like an object, ignored, and discarded.
But cold laughter that makes you shiver is another thing. Deceiving in its simplicity, masked to hide the danger he wears like a shroud.
I imagine the look of horror that would be on my mother’s face if she were here right now. She’d hiss at me in that shrill voice that drove me mad. Harper Lee Bianchi!
She can fuck all the way off. Harper Lee Bianchi’s just had her ass dragged out of her home and shoved into a luxury car with a man who has danger leaking out of his pores. I’m not given permission to sweat, much less fight, on a good day, never mind when my entire universe has spun on its axis. I need a minute.
Disgrace.
Disgust.
Whore.
I grit my teeth and look out the window, surprised to find the view a bit blurry. I’m not a crier. Why now?
For a while, he doesn’t talk at all. He’s on his phone, casually scrolling through with a look of intense concentration. I left my own phone behind, but a part of me’s actually relieved I did. There’s no more expectation of keeping up the appearance of perfection with every selfie and post if I don’t have my phone.
When my mother discovered that social media could be profitable, she made up her mind. They needed money, and I had a pretty face. She researched everything she could, and the next thing I knew, I was a social media sensation.
I hate it. So I’m glad to leave that part of my life behind.
Phones are disposable, like so many other things. Clothes. Feelings. Daughters, apparently.
Do you have any other daughters?
It would actually get under my skin if I didn’t guess that’s exactly why he said it.
“We’re almost home,” he says, still holding his phone. “Come here.”
The sound of his voice is like the shimmering surface of a lake I swam in as a child. Placid and calm, but beneath the surface, the frigid depths of the water pulled with a current that could sweep you off your feet and drag you under.
I will not be pulled under.
“Come here? We’re in the back of a car. How much closer do you want me to come?”
A dangerous glint in his gaze tells me he’s not amused. “Do I need to show you exactly how much closer I expect you to come?” Leaning toward me, his voice drops to a low register. “And I will expect you to come, Princess.”
Oh, God.
I know this game. I know these maneuvers. He wants to rattle me so he can make his move.
I’m not easy to manipulate regardless of what he thinks. I have years of experience.
Holding my gaze, he slowly pats his knee, a silent beckoning. “Hands here, please.”
He wants my … hands… on his lap? What kind of weird kink is that?
Bemused, I obey, my fingers pressed against his pants. The muscles of his sturdy thigh are hard beneath my hands as I arch my back.
There’s a click of metal and something cold on my wrists. I look down to see he handcuffed me. Just pulled out a pair of handcuffs like a magician.
“That’s how much closer you’ll come,” he says with an air of cold finality. He yanks me by the wrists so my whole body slams against his chest. “Just like that.”
The car has come to a stop and the door opens. A flash of moonlight shows he wasn’t lying — the glint of silver and light show the Manhattan skyline on full display against the inky sky, as far as the eye can see.
He gets out first then reaches for me. I’m awkward, stumbling with my wrists cuffed, but he has too tight a grip on me for me to fall. The harsh sound of Russian fills the night as his men speak in low voices to one another, a show of deference when they talk to him.
I wonder where he ranks. I only know my family’s hierarchy but I’m almost completely unfamiliar with the Russians’.
“Welcome home, sir.” The rest all speak in Russian, so I assume the change is for my benefit. I’ve lifted my head to see where we are, to see where I might plan my escape, when silky fabric goes over my face and my world is plunged into darkness. He blindfolded me.
I stumble when I can’t see where I’m going. My belly dips and I gasp, trying to brace myself for a fall, but my hands are restrained. Then strong arms wrap around me, and I’m hoisted in the air.
“Watch your step,” he snaps, as my belly hits what must be his shoulder. I can’t see, of course, but it feels like I’m high in the air and this is extremely uncomfortable.
“With a blindfold on? Sure, that makes total sense. Maybe next time you’ll ask me to sing with a gag in, or—”
I gasp when his palm slaps against my ass, hard. I press my lips together. So he just did that, and I have a feeling that won’t be the last time.
“I told you to watch your mouth.”
I scissor my legs because it’s the only movement I can make, and I want to make this harder for him. “Five-star double standards in this house. Well done.”
I expect that will earn me another smack, but he doesn’t respond. Our pace quickens, though. I can feel the rush of cold air as he walks faster, barking out orders in harsh Russian.
While we move, though, something has me uneasy. I can only guess he’s blindfolding me because he doesn’t want me to see where we are, so I won’t know how to leave. He’s done his research about my history of running.
God, I have to, though. But if he finds out…
Doors close. Footsteps click. Sounds begin to fade, except for his footsteps which quickly become muffled. Carpet, then? Observing while blindfolded is not my strong suit. How big is this place? It feels like we’ve been walking for fifteen minutes, but maybe everything seems to go in slow motion when your heart is beating a million times a minute.
Finally, his steps slow. My body shifts as he adjusts me over his shoulder. There’s the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking open, but no sound of a key, so I’m guessing the lock was digital or something. A door opens. I lay still over his shoulder, hoping that if I behave myself and we have come to the end here, now’s the time I can get off his damn shoulder and take a look around.
“I told you not to run, Harper. And you decided to defy me right out of the gate. You aren’t my wife yet, but you’re in my possession, so it’s time you learn there are consequences for your actions.”
My cheeks feel flushed. My heart’s beating so fast I feel sick. Was that first smack to the ass the prelude to —
I scream when I’m suddenly falling, flailing — my body lands softly on a bed. I reach out, grasping for purchase, when his strong, rough fingers grab my cuffed wrists. Panic sweeps through me like a tidal wave, knocking all sense of reason and logic aside. “What are you—unngh.” Soft fabric glides against my mouth and chin.
“I liked your suggestion of the gag. You’re here in my home and eventually, after I feel you’ve learned your lesson, I’ll let you have some freedom. But after today’s stunt we’ll start nice and slow. Nod if you understand.”
My pulse races so quickly I feel nauseous, but I nod, nonetheless.
“Good. I’ll be back soon. You’re safe and comfortable enough for now. Behave until I get back. I have to make arrangements.”
Arrangements. When did my wedding become a funeral?
The room feels suddenly colder. The door shuts with a final click and the number pad outside it beeps.
He’s left me alone in here. Bound like a captive so I don’t run.
How long will he hold me prisoner? If we’re getting married this weekend, there’s no way he’ll leave me bound and gagged while the minister drags me through the I do’s, right? I mean, I need to be able to verbally agree.
But after that… after we’ve said our vows… he’ll consider me his property. He hasn’t even bothered to hide that.
Then what? When there’s no one to stop him from hurting me?
