Hi everyone! This chapter is way longer than normal. It's essentially two chapters in one but it's a very suspenseful chapter and I didn't want to interrupt the drama by splitting them in two. I hope you enjoy!
▪️◼️Chapter Twenty Two◼️▪️
The long corded muscles of his back tighten as he looks over his shoulder at me. His gaze finds mine across the small room.
The dim lighting causes shadows to fall sharply across his cheekbones while the light dances in his pupils.
The emerald and gold colors of his eyes are so deep they have me feeling like I'm drowning—in the painful, suffocating sort of way. I can't handle looking into them for long.
Quickly, I drop my eyes back down to the complicated designs that seem to weave their way in and out of the hills and valleys of tight muscle and bronzed skin.
He's just about to tug on a dress shirt but pauses mid sleeve.
"I do." He answers before turning around to face me fully, revealing a chest full of similar patterns.
Oh wow.
The designs are an eclectic mix of black and grey ink made from both bold and delicate strokes. In the middle of his chest is a sword that's wrapped in Celtic knots made from the scales of a snake. There are thorny roses and intricate patterns woven in between symbols that may be Hebrew or Latin. I'm not sure, I'm not familiar with either but I can tell it's a language.
My feet shuffle closer on their own accord as he slips his arms into his shirt and shrugs it over his shoulders. "You have so many." I breathe out into the stillness. "They're so intricate."
His fingers hesitate on the bottom button. He glances up at me with a peculiar expression.
"Is there something you need from me, Alina? Or..." He drags his eyes from mine down the robe I'm wearing and back up again. "Are you just looking?"
I blush. His mouth flickers with amusement.
I have so many things plaguing my mind. So many questions I want to ask him but now that I'm standing here so close to him like this with his chest bare and the beautiful artwork on full display. I can't remember a single thing.
I'm too curious about his tattoos.
How had I not seen them before now? Not even a hint of ink?
The ones on his chest stop at the crest of his collarbones but sweep up his shoulders and wrap all the way down each arm to just above his wrists.
Woah.
"What do they mean? The designs?"
He continues to button his shirt without looking at me again. "That's none of your business." He grunts, shaking out each arm and pulling on the cuff of each sleeve, making sure the material is sitting perfectly. The motion causes the shirt to pull tightly across his broad chest revealing his muscular build yet his tattoos remain completely hidden from the world.
"So they do mean something then?" I say, too curious to let it go.
He drops his arms to his sides before shooting me with a glare. He turns around and grabs a belt from its hanger.
I watch him as he gets fully dressed lacing the belt through its loops and tucking his dress shirt into his onyx slacks.
I frown at him.
"Do you always wear suits? Even to bed?" I ask confused. It's evening shouldn't he be dressing down into loungewear?
"We have plans." He informs me.
My heart stutters. My skin jolts with what feels like an electric shock hitting my nerves.
"What do you mean we have plans? We just got back."
A dark shadow overtakes me as he takes a step to where I'm standing in the doorway. His large frame smothers half the light in the room. He tilts his head down to mine.
"I have ordered us room service. Come sit. We have much to talk about and not a lot of time."
He brushes past me clipping my shoulder on his way out.
I turn around slowly feeling anxious. I watch him as he walks away. I don't like the sound of this. My heart is pounding rigorously as I step out of the closet and into the living area of the suite. "I'm not dressed."
My kidnapper has crossed the room and is now standing behind one of the chairs of the table. His bulky fingers are perched on top, gripping the leather seat-back tightly as he scowls at me expectantly.
"You can dress after. Sit." He commands nodding his head across the table to the vacant chair on the other side.
I can hear my blood as it rushes into my heart and back out again causing a painful thrumming sound to fill my ears. It's as if my ears are ringing but at a deeper frequency.
My eyes don't leave his, not even for a second. I don't trust him in this moment. I know the second I sit my life is going to get flipped upside down. Again.
I can sense it.
I sit slowly, my eyes trained on him. He watches my every movement, mirroring the tense stiffness to my posture as he pulls out his chair and takes a seat himself.
When he doesn't speak the moment he's seated, I break. I can't stand the mounting silent-tension any longer.
"What's the cigar for?" I ask, finding the small rectangular box sitting in the middle of the table.
"It's a gift."
He's being purposefully obtuse. My eyes narrow.
"For whom?" I ask.
"Mayor Borkov."
My face pales with dread. "Why?" I grit the question out through clinched teeth knowing the answer before he gives it.
A knock at the door saves him from answering me. He looks toward the entryway, before turning back to me. He pushes himself up from his seat and heads toward the door, retrieving dinner.
He comes back into the room with a cart stacked full of plates and glasses. Wordlessly he sets my food in front of me along with cutlery and a glass of water before sitting back down in his seat.
He begins to eat. He keeps his eyes down and doesn't say anything else.
"I thought we had lots to discuss." I lift my brows in question.
He sighs setting his fork down and readjusts himself in his seat so that his back is rigid and resting against the back of his chair.
"Yes, we do and we don't have much time." He says repeating his words from moments ago.
"Okay..."
"Eat," he demands, nodding toward my full plate of untouched pasta. He watches me as I lift my fork, swirl noodles around its tines, and take a bite. Mmm. It's so good. Pesto and cream sauce.
Seemingly satisfied he picks up his fork again and takes a large bite. He swallows and takes a drink of his water before speaking.
"Mayor Borkov is running for President." He announces. My shoulders fall. I keep my eyes on my plate, swirling more pasta around on my fork. Over and over. Around and around. I wasn't sure what he wanted to discuss but I should have known it would involve Mayor Borkov.
The news is a shock, but not surprising. It's a bold political move on Borkov's part but one the people of Russia could see coming a kilometer away. "I have been hired to stop that from happening."
I pause twirling my fork and look up at him.
"By doing what exactly?"
He doesn't answer me but he gives me this look. I inhale sharply.
I know that look.
"Oh my god you're going to kill him, aren't you?"
"Yes." He nods.
I gasp horrified as the answers to my questions begin to fall into place . "A-and you need me in order to do that?"
"Yes. You will be going to Mayor Borkov's home. You will gift him this cigar." He uses two long fingers to prop open the lid of the box revealing an ordinary looking cigar being held in place by a crimson silk interior. "It's vital that he smokes it Alina, do you understand? Do everything you must to make sure he puts it in his mouth and lights it." He flips the lid shut making me jump at the loud snapping sound. "No matter what, do not put it to your lips or smoke it for any reason do you understand?"
I shake my head feeling disoriented and nauseous. I won't do it. I can't.
"Absolutely not." I tell him.
He frowns, pausing his eating. "You don't understand?"
"Oh, I understand what you said perfectly." I snap, crossing my arms across my chest knowing this is about to be a fight.
"Then what are you in disagreement about?"
I give him a crazy look, he can't be that dull, can he?
"All of it! I'm in disagreement with every single damn thing!" I screech. "Being kidnapped," I say lifting one hand and counting on my fingers. "Being held against my will, having a gun shoved in my face, and being told I'm to help aid in assassinating a politician!"
I grab my fork angrily and begin to stab my food with vigor as I continue to rant, imagining it's my captor's eyes I'm gouging out.
"You're insane you know that?" The question's rhetorical but it needs to be said. I stab an asparagus and shove it into my mouth. "Certifiable." I manage between chews before stabbing more food with my fork. "You should get your head checked if you actually think I'm going to entertain Borkov for you so you can kill him." I angrily chew some more. "Actually, so I can kill him!" I shriek. My chewed up food nearly flies from my mouth and you know what? I don't give a damn. I hope some of my spit landed in his food.
He fixes me a with long intense stare.
"You're going." He says.
I stare back.
When he doesn't budge I snap at him. My irritation evident in my tone.
"Why don't you do it?" It's ridiculous I even have to ask. I shouldn't be involved in this in the first place. "Why do you even need me? You're the killer, right? You're the one planning to assassinate him. So why are you making me do it for you?"
"Believe it or not Alina, Borkov will only allow a select few people to get close to him and you, mia cara, are one of those people." He says pointing his fork at me.
I go through a complex mix of emotions all at once. First I'm confused. Then taken back. And then I'm just plain bewildered. I shake my head back and forth in disbelief. He's mistaken. He must be confusing me with someone else.
My voice is hoarse when I try to speak. "How.." I start but have to stop and compose myself. "How can that be? He doesn't even know me. We've never even officially met apart from spilling my wine on him yesterday evening."
He shrugs. "It just is."
I deflate, loosing all the air in my lungs when I remember back to the way Borkov looked at me last night. The way he was practically salivating as his slimy gaze raked over my body.
My captor digs into more of his meal as I slowly lose my appetite. His square jaw flexes into sharp angular points with each bite. Could what he's telling me be true? That I'm one of the only people Borkov will let get close, and that's why my kidnapper needs me?
"What if-" I choke on my words. My throat is suddenly dry and aching. I grab my glass of ice water and take a large, painful gulp before trying again. "What if he tries to hurt me?"
I watch as he reaches out and taps the top of the box. "Give him this gift first thing, make sure he smokes it, and he will not lay a finger on you." He pushes the box across the table towards me. The sound of it sliding against the mahogany table echoes in my mind. "Once the job is complete I will come in and extract you from the premises. You have my word."
His word?
His word is shit.
I cross my arms over my chest angry again.
"Why?"
"I already told you-"
"No." I cut him off with a harsh exhale and a hand—with my fingers splayed—up between us.
"I mean, why me?"
"I have my reasons."
"That's not good enough!" I exclaim, out of patience. "I need answers! Jesus—" I run a hand through my damp hair brushing it from my face. "I need to know why you chose me of all people. There are other ways for you to- to.." my voice drops as I struggle to get the words out, "kill him." I whisper. "So don't tell me I'm one of the only people he'll let get close to him. You could do this job another way and you know it. So why me? Why are you doing this to me!" I shout, patting my heaving chest with my hand. I grab the collar of my robe with desperate fingers trying to breathe. My lungs are begging for air and my eyes are stinging as I fight to keep my anger and alarm at bay.
His jaw ticks with annoyance as he leans across the table toward me. He's lost all patience for me, I can see it in the way his eyes narrow. He jams his index finger onto the table between us. "What I'm doing is saving you." He growls.
I scuff at him leaning back in my seat. I push my plate away, my appetite is gone and this meal is ruined. "Saving me?" I ask sarcastically. "Putting a gun to my head? Binding my wrists and shoving me into your car? Forcing me to dress up in lingerie for you. This is all your idea of saving me?!"
I jump in my seat, startled as he slams his hand against the table causing everything to rattle and our drinks to slosh over the edge. "That's enough, Alina!" He booms. I can feel the fury rolling off of him and into the air all around us.
My mouth snaps shut. Ive pushed him too far.
I glance at him terrified of what he might do to me if I don't keep my mouth shut.
"Fuck." He scrubs his face with both hands.
He leans back in his seat just as I am sitting, his voice is calmer but still on edge. "Tell me something..." he begins. "What would Vladimir be doing to you right now if he were still alive? Hmm? Would you be sitting at a table eating dinner?" He gestures toward my half empty plate. My eyes follow before finding his again. "Would you have been allowed to shower alone or sleep through the night, untouched?"
My mouth falls open just to close and open again like a blubbering fish out of water. "I.."
I can't answer that.
He's right. I may not have been saved in the way I used to pray for but between him and Vladimir he's the lesser of the two evils.
My eyes fall away from his feeling defeated and torn. Everything he's said is true yet it doesn't make up for what he's making me do. He simply stole me from the hands of one monster just to gift me into the hands of another.
He's not saving me, he's using me.
"We have one hour before we need to leave for Borkov's."
I watch in disbelief as he stands taking our plates, he puts them on the cart and pushes it outside the door into the hallway.
I stand from the table straightening my robe.
He's giving me an hour?
I step away from my chair and follow him to the door. "You want me to go to Borkov's tonight?"
He turns around to face me. "Yes." He brushes past me and walks back toward the closet. I follow him there too. "Your wardrobe for this evening is waiting for you in the closet." He points to a matte black box wrapped in a bright yellow ribbon with a large bow on top, the color of the boutique.
He turns to look at me from over his shoulder. My eyes bounce between him and the ominous box.
I can't move. I can't speak. My anxiety is beginning to take over and I know at any moment it will become a full-fledge panic attack.
I can't breathe.
"Alina."
My head swivels away from the box, towards his voice.
"I can't do it."
"You can and you will." He reprimands.
My eyes widen as I take him in. I shake my head no, silently begging him to not make me do this.
He steps up to me but I stumble back away from him toward the wall of the dinning area.
"There has to be another way." I beg. "Please."
He takes another step in my direction. His voice is quiet. "This is the only way."
"Please... god-" I shutter. "Please don't make me," I beg clasping my hands in front of me in a form of a prayer. My body aches with a sob that doesn't free itself. Instead of crying, I'm trembling all over. I'm mentally freaking out and it's beginning to manifest physically. My fingers are shaking in front of me.
His face hardens into his signature scowl.
"You're going." He snaps. He has that tone about him that says you're doing what I say or else. As if his words are final the moment he speaks them and there's no discussing it.
Fury rises within me, overtaking the alarm. My voice erupts between us. "You son of a bitch!" I hiss. "You can't make me! I won't do it!"
I lift a hand to slap him with gusto but he's too quick. He snatches my wrist out of the air, my flat palm is centimeters away from making contact with his stubbled cheek, stopping me.
His eyes ignite with a fiery rage.
He uses my wrist to twist me around and shove me face-first up against the wall that separates the living space from the closet. I hit the wall with a muted thump, expelling my next breath. Deftly, he grabs my other hand and pulls it behind my back also.
"Fighting me wont save you." He snarls, forcefully into my ear. "Doing what I fucking tell you to do, will. If you want to stay alive you'll walk into that closet, put on the clothes I bought you and do what I fucking say."
I huff out a humorless laugh.
His words make me feel crazed and defiant. There comes a point when your fear is so great, and you know there is nothing you can do to protect yourself any longer, that you become reckless.
He's pushed me to that point.
"You think I'm afraid of you?" I sneer at him. He has my body pushed flush against the cool wall. My right cheek is smashed so tightly it's pressing up and obscuring my vision in that eye. Adrenaline is racing through my veins as the words rush to my mouth. "Threaten me all you want but there's nothing you can do to me that Vladimir has not already done. The sick fuck got off on every. single. thing. Torture, starvation. He did it all." I rasp. My accent is heavy with my emotions. I find his eyes from over my shoulder, "you are not the monster... You are the one who slayed him."
His nostrils flare hearing this, I've hit a nerve. "Don't paint me as an angel, mi amor, I'm the villain in this scenario." He growls tightening his grip on my wrists as he presses me into the wall harder. I cry out from the sharp pain.
"You're no villain." I huff defiantly. It's hard to breathe with the heavy pressure against my chest. My next breath is painful as I steal it from the air and force it into my compressed lungs. "You haven't forced yourself on me the way he would. You haven't beat me or starved me. Your fingers haven't even graced my body in ways that Vladimir's have." I tell him. "You may be a killer of a man who deserved it, but you are no monster."
He grabs my chin and squeezes the bones of my jaw with his strong fingers as he brings his face in closer. It's as if he's trying to prove me wrong, prove through his touch that I should fear him. But the truth is, he doesn't scare me the way Vladimir did or the way Borkov does.
"Is that what it's going to take for you to fucking listen to me? Huh?" He seethes.
His hot breath smells of Italian herbs and whiskey.
His fingertips drag down the front of my neck slowly, stretching themselves out like a necklace of bones and skin. He squeezes when they get to the middle of my throat, tipping my head back against him. He presses his hips into my backside garnering a grunt to escape me from the weight of his body pressing mine into the wall.
He releases my throat just to drag his calloused touch down to the top of my breasts. His caresses become as light as a feather as he slips his hand inside my robe.
My breaths hitch.
The warmth of his touch stings as he drags his fingers, centimeter by centimeter, down the delicate skin of my chest until he's cupping my breast fully with his large hand. I can see his lips lift into a smirk out of the corner of my eye just before he pinches my nipple.
"Ahh!" I cry out from the intense feeling.
He massages my small but full breast with his fingertips, soothing the pain. "What do you think? Should I force myself on you to get you to do as I fucking say?" He pushes himself against me, again, his sizable cock digs into my backside. Is he hard? I groan. He's definitely hard. "That's how Vladimir did it, so that's how I should do it too, is that it?" He asks menacingly. All talk of Vladimir seems to anger him. And he's really fucking angry right now.
He runs his hand down my stomach until it reaches the apex between my legs. He grabs my inner thigh, where the fresh bruises linger. "Is that what you want, Alina?" He asks rubbing my thigh gently, massaging the bruises.
Yes.
Wait, no! God—what the hell is wrong with me? I whimper, overwhelmed and unable to think clearly. His fingers are dangerously close to my bare heat but he never actually touches me there. He's just so damn close. It's enough to send me over the edge.
I shake my head no, but truth be told I've never been so unsure. I've never felt so conflicted, as if I'm betraying my own self. I'm going against everything I've ever thought about men like him.
I hate him.
I absolutely fucking despise him.
But I can't help but to hunger for more of his touch.
It's purely physiological. My body is craving these touches because they are not accompanied with pain the way being touched by Vladimir has happened in the past. That's the only explanation that makes sense.
Because enjoying my kidnappers touch doesn't make any sense.
He nuzzles his nose into my ear before whispering. "Brava ragazza." His grip on my body loosens. "Now get dressed." He says as he shoves away from me roughly.
I am still up against the wall, face plastered against it.
I lift my head to glare at him from over my shoulder. I watch him casually walk away unperturbed by what he just did to me. He's using me. Every part of me, even going as far as toying with my emotions.
It's not right.
Fuming, I push myself off from the wall and straighten out my robe before turning around slowly and following after him.
"You won't get away with this." I say to his back. The words leave my quivering lips like a hiss. He stops and takes a palpable breath before turning around to face me. I pull my shoulders back and straighten my spine. I lift my chin before meeting his eyes. "Eventually Vladimir's death will be discovered and when they come looking for you they will find me." I tell him before brushing past him to the closet.
Just as I'm passing him, he grabs my wrist, stopping me. He yanks on my arm, tugging me around to face him.
I glare up at his big green eyes and the small scar that mars one side.
With his free hand he caresses my cheek with the back of his index finger. I snatch my face away.
"Actually," he smirks dropping his hand back to his side. His voice is as cold as ice, sending chills down my spine. "I will get away with this Alina." He says my name in three parts, dragging out the I. "For all intents and purposes there is no Vladimir Agafonov and there never was."
What? How?
My eyes flick between his own trying to decipher his words. How can that be? Did he get rid of him somehow? Clean up the mess and dispose of the body? But how? I've been with him the entire time. Was it those men from the warehouses? Are they helping him?
"H-He has men working for him, they have to know something happened to him! They'll figure out he's dead eventually."
He tilts his head at me. Bopping me on the nose with one finger. "And who do you think they'll blame for his murder? Hmm? You were the last one to be seen with him. Your ID and phone spilled out on to his floor the night he died."
Oh my god... he set me up! That bastard!
"How could you!" I all but scream.
I snatch my hand from his grasp and lift them to shove at his chest. I've never been a violent person, never becoming so enraged I resort to physical violence but he's gone too far. He's pushed me over the edge yet again.
With an animal like screech I attack him. I punch and scratch and push and shove at his chest and face. I've become feral in my attacks. Hissing and squealing with every meager assault against his body. He manages to disarm me fairly quickly. By the time he gets his arms locked around me—my back to his chest, his arms crossed over mine, trapping me—my hair is a tangled mess around my face and I'm wheezing for air against his hold.
His breathing is ragged and our throbbing chests are clashing against one another as we work to settle ourselves down. His large muscular arms trap me against him.
When I've finally stopped squirming and go limp, he leans into my ear.
"You will do as I say, or else. Capiscimi?"
I close my eyes and nod my head yes, in defeat. There's no way out of this.
I am trapped with this monster, forced to do his bidding.
"Good girl. Now get some fucking clothes on." He releases me, pushing me away from him. I stumble out of his grasp nearly falling to the floor.
I stand and right myself turning around to glare at him.
"I hate you!" I hiss at him as I put my robe back into place.
His face hardens into an impassive, emotionless void.
"Good. It will make tonight easier."