Inked Adonis: Chapter 13

I wake up with a bang.

Literally.

As in, I sit up so fast that I tumble out of bed and whack my head on the nightstand.

Except it isn’t my nightstand. There’s no cracked veneer from where I squeezed it through the narrow doorways of my ancient apartment building. It’s also missing my vital selection of half-filled water glasses, ranging from a few hours old to origin unknown.

This strange nightstand is glossy, dark wood, topped only with a sleek, digital alarm clock. The harsh red numbers flash useless zeroes at me. Given the dark sky I can see through floor-to-ceiling windows to my left, I know two things for certain.

One: it’s late.

Two: what happened this afternoon wasn’t a midnight-snack-cake-fueled nightmare.

I look around for clues, because I’d really like to know more than two things for certain. The room is criminally sparse, but that seems to be the look the designer was going for. Everything is low, horizontal lines and minimalism. It must be the room Myles offered to show me to.

Not that I remember being shown anywhere.

Apparently, I skipped the hyperventilating and throwing up and went straight to passing out.

Great. Just great.

Using the edge of the bed to lift myself to shaky legs, I check my body over for obvious signs of microchipping or a missing liver.

But there’s nothing. Nothing yet, I should say. I don’t know what these freaks are into.

The plush white carpet muffles my footsteps as I creep toward the door, though I doubt anything in this penthouse happens without Samuil knowing about it. The man probably has cameras in the air vents and motion sensors in the baseboards.

I expect to find my door locked—surrounded by booby traps or barbed wire or whatever rich psychopaths use for home security these days.

But it opens with suspicious ease. No resistance. No alarms.

I’m not stupid enough to think that means freedom, though.

This is just another one of his games.

I ease down a hallway until I hear the rumble of voices. One of them belongs to the devil himself—deep and commanding, familiar in a way that makes me want to shrivel up with shame.

“… the fuck does that mean?” Samuil’s growl sends an unwanted shiver down my spine.

“It means what I said: I get it now.” That’s Myles, his right-hand man with the all-American smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Which means I also get why it might be tough to keep her here. We have alternatives.”

I press myself against the wall, willing my breathing to stay quiet. My heart pounds so hard I’m worried they’ll hear it echoing off these pristine walls.

I’m both eager and horrified to hear what my “alternatives” might be. Based on what I’ve seen, anything from a dank, drippy dungeon to an all-inclusive resort are on the table. Samuil seems to deal in harsh juxtapositions.

“You think I should let her go?”

I slap a hand over my mouth before my desperate hope can squeak out of me. Freedom wasn’t even on my mental list of possibilities, filed somewhere between “unlikely” and “when hell freezes over.”

“It might be the best way to discover what she’s really up to,” Myles suggests. “We can put a twenty-four-hour surveillance team on her, tap all her devices, monitor her movements. She won’t be able to make a grilled cheese without us knowing about it.”

I frown. Gilded cage or invisible leash? Neither is particularly appealing, but one comes with my own bed and the possibility of seeing Grams again.

“It might be the fastest way to determine if she’s working for the Andropovs.”

The Andro-who’s? I’m being accused of things I can’t even pronounce.

“No,” Samuil decides. “I want her here, where I can keep an eye on her.”

His words slither down my spine, a mix of threat and promise that makes my skin prickle. Nothing about that should affect me. Nothing about him should affect me anymore.

But it does.

A heavy silence fills the air before Myles speaks again. “You sure there are no ulterior motives?”

“I don’t trust her.”

I bite back a snort. Yeah, right. Out of the two of us, I’m the one who is untrustworthy? Says Mr. Let-Me-Seduce-You-Then-Kidnap-You himself in there.

If anyone should have trust issues here, it’s me.

“I don’t trust her, either,” Myles says. “But you can continue not trusting her from a distance, while she’s under surveillance. What you can’t do quite as easily from a distance is fuck her. Is this because you have in fact fucked her?”

Heat floods my face. Was that even real? Or was he trying to—quite literally—pump me for information? I feel like I need a shower. A long, hot shower—and then some time alone to think through every single detail of our interaction so I can examine it all from new, interesting angles.

Not the time for that, Miss Libido.

I press my ear closer to the wall, desperate to hear his answer.

“No.”

One word. Two letters. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

“Okay, fine. Is it because you want to continue fucking her?”

My fingernails dig into my palms. Whatever his answer is, I don’t care. He kidnapped me. Whether or not the rich, gorgeous psychopath wants to do the no-pants dance again is immaterial. I don’t sleep with kidnappers. Hard line in the sand for me personally.

Still, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for his answer.

“No.” His voice is ice. “It’s because I saw her with my lying, cheating ex-wife. And my lying, cheating ex-wife likes to use women like Nova to do her dirty work.”

Women like Nova? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Suave, sophisticated smokeshows?

Then my brain finally processes the slightly more important part of that sentence.

Ex-wife.

Katerina Alekseeva, Rufus’s owner, one of Hope’s fussiest clients, and the Gossip Girl-style Queen Bee of Chicago…

… is Samuil Litvinov’s ex-wife.

Maybe if I hadn’t been obsessively searching for pictures of Samuil on the beach, I would’ve found a few more shots of him with his fucking wife. As it was, I only saw the one. I couldn’t see her face, but the blonde hair, the willowy frame…

It checks out.

I feel sick.

“Just say the word and Katerina’s gone,” Myles offers casually, like he’s suggesting where to order lunch. “I can make it look like an accident, too.”

The silence that follows stretches long enough to make my skin crawl. He’s actually considering it. The man I let touch me, kiss me, fuck me, is contemplating murder over morning coffee.

“No,” Samuil finally says, but his tone makes it clear he’s not opposed to the idea—just the timing. What in The Godfather is going on in there? “If we take her out now, it would start a premature war with the Andropovs. No, we’ll wait.”

He isn’t saying “no” to the murder of his ex-wife. Just “not yet.” How demure of him.

The conversation suddenly shifts into… Russian? Definitely Russian. The two men go back and forth, voices rising in volume until Samuil finally growls in English, “Fine. Shoot that fucker, Yakov, in the head and be done with it. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes.”

This isn’t some late-night movie marathon with Hope anymore. This isn’t us sprawled on her couch, drinking wine and swooning over fictional bad boys.

This is real.

And I’m so far out of my depth, I can’t even see the surface.

My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying me away from the voices that just casually ordered a man’s execution. The thick carpet muffles my retreat, but my heartbeat is so loud I’m sure they can hear it anyway.

I slip back into my room—my cell—and lock the door. As if a simple lock could stop men who discuss murder like normal people discuss the weather. I slide down the wall, wrapping my arms around trembling knees.

“I’m still alive,” I whisper to myself.

But for how long?

If Samuil decides I know too much or I’m more trouble than I’m worth, I’ll be as dead as this Yakov—whoever the hell he is. RIP Yakov. Better luck in the next life, friend.

My options are pathetically limited. Grams can barely walk to the bathroom by herself after her surgery. I won’t drag Hope into this nightmare—she’s too good, too pure for this darkness. Which leaves only one name on my sad little list of potential saviors.

Sergeant Tom Pierce.

The trouble is, even if I could get my hands on a phone, I can’t imagine ever calling him for help.

I look down at the faded scar—the barely discernible teeth marks that form a bracelet of bad memories around my wrist.

Even now, with death breathing down my neck, the thought of calling him makes me physically ill.

No, I can’t do it. If it comes down to a choice between my father and Samuil Litvinov…

I’ll take my chances with the devil I don’t know.

At least this devil is honest about what he is.

Grimacing, I slink off to the bathroom. Time stands still while you’re showering, or at least that’s how I’ve always felt, and I wouldn’t mind a few moments of purgatory to get my thoughts together.

The shower is tiled in obsidian, straight out of a supervillain’s design handbook. I try to pretend I don’t like how rich it makes me feel. Eyes closed, I just stand under the spray until my skin burns. Then I lather up with the body wash waiting in classy glass containers and scrub, hoping to wash away the smell of fear before it can sink into my pores.

I’m toweling off, wreathed in post-shower steam and actually starting to feel somewhat quasi-human again, when his voice slices through my temporary peace.

“Nova.”

I freeze, gripping my towel like armor. All I can see through the fog are his hands. The same hands that ordered executions. The same hands that have mapped every inch of my skin. His voice, when it purrs again, only reminds me that it’s the same one he uses both to banter about murder and whisper filth against the curve of my throat.

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

I tuck the towel tight and stand as tall and defiant as I can. “About what? The weather? Your murder schedule for the week?”

There’s a soft thud as he leans against the door. The steam clears enough for me to see his eyes. Half his face. The cruel twist of his mouth. “You’re smart enough to know why you’re here. And why you can’t leave.”

“Because the law doesn’t apply to men like you?”

“Because the law won’t protect you from what’s coming.”

His certainty makes my skin crawl. Men like him, men like my father… They’re all so fucking sure they know what’s best.

“Your phone is here,” he says, setting something down on the marble sink counter. “Call whoever you need to. But I must warn you: if you breathe a word about your situation, they’ll join you here. Permanently.”

The threat wraps around my throat like a garrote. “You’re threatening my friends?” I squeak out.

He sighs, a sound like ocean water churning beneath icebergs. “I’m doing what must be done. If you’re telling me the truth about everything, then in two weeks, you’ll have nothing to worry about, and all your loved ones will be safe. If you aren’t… well, some things are beyond even my power.”

“Thanks for the rundown of your shady, shitty operating manual,” I snap. “Where’d you learn your intimidation techniques from? Better Call Saul?”

Samuil merely chuckles. “You sound hungry. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. I’ll see you there.”

Without waiting for me to reply, he turns and leaves.

I stay in place until he’s gone. My heartbeat thumps in my throat. Only when his footsteps fade do I retrieve my phone with trembling fingers. His cologne lingers in the air—dark and expensive and dangerous.

I ignore the smell as I swipe open my home screen. I have three missed calls from Hope.

Two from my grandmother.

And one from my father.

And I can’t call any of them for help—because if I do, the devil in designer who waves death around like a baton will come for them just like he’s come for me.

He thinks he can just drop that bomb and then dangle food in my face and I’ll heel like Rufus?

Fuck. That.

Fuck. Him.

I don’t want his dinner, I don’t want his threats, and I sure as hell don’t want his sympathy. If I have to sit here for two weeks to protect my loved ones, fine.

But I’m not going to make it easy for him.