Stolen Heir: Chapter 22

Marcel brings me inside the house, all the way up to my room as ordered. Klara was just turning down the sheets, like they do in a fancy hotel. She doesn’t leave a chocolate on the pillow, but I’m sure she would if I asked her to.

She straightens up as I enter the room. Marcel is right behind me. When Klara sees him, she takes one quick breath and I see her brush down the hem of her apron, trying to smooth away any wrinkles.

“Hello, Klara,” Marcel says.

“Hello,” she replies, looking at the ground.

You’d think they’d never met before. When I know for a fact that they’ve worked here together for years.

“I’ll help you get ready for bed,” Klara says to me.

“Actually, would you mind making me tea, Klara? An herbal one? If you don’t mind—I just need to wind down a little.”

“Of course,” Klara says.

She leaves the room. Marcel says, “ ‘Night,” and hurries after her.

I don’t actually need tea. I just wanted to give them time to talk, if they wanted to. Mikolaj and Jonas are gone, so there’s no one to catch them. No one except me.

I know this is awful, and I should stay put exactly where I am. But the curiosity is killing me. I have to know what’s going on between those two. I’ve been making up all kinds of soap opera scenarios in my head.

I creep down the stairs, quiet as a mouse. Turns out I’m much more of a snoop than I realized. Or at least, I become one after loneliness and boredom have preyed on me for a month. I never used to lie or eavesdrop. Dear god, my captors must be rubbing off on me.

Well, if they’ve been a bad influence, then they’ll pay the price for it.

I stand just outside the kitchen, back against the ancient green wallpaper, ear almost at the edge of the wooden doorframe.

“It’s only dinner, Klara,” Marcel says in Polish. Marcel has a nice voice. He doesn’t talk much, so I hadn’t heard it very often. It has a pleasant, soothing tone. Which he’s trying to use to its greatest effect at the moment.

“I can make my own dinner,” Klara says coolly.

I can hear her filling the kettle and getting the cups out. It doesn’t take long for her to make tea—Marcel better hurry up.

“When’s the last time you ate a dinner you didn’t have to make yourself?” Marcel says.

“Less time than it’s been since you cooked anything,” Klara says. “I doubt you even know how to use a toaster.”

“Why don’t you teach me?” Marcel says.

I can’t resist peeking around the corner. Klara is setting the kettle on its stand, and Marcel has come up behind her so close that they’re almost touching down the length of their bodies, only an inch between them. They make a beautiful couple. A matching set—both tall, slim, and black-haired.

Marcel tries to put his hands on Klara’s hips. Klara whips around. I have to duck back around the corner, so I don’t see the slap, but I certainly hear it.

“Remember that I don’t work at one of your clubs!” Klara shouts. “I won’t be one of those girls who sucks your cock for coke and purses until you’re tired of me.”

“When have you ever seen me do that?” Marcel shouts back at her. “All I’ve done is ask for a chance, every day, for three fucking years.”

“Not quite three,” Klara replies.

“What?” Marcel says, bewildered.

“Two years and eleven months. Not three years yet.”

“You’re going to drive me insane, woman,” Marcel says, with rapid footsteps that sound like pacing. “I think you just like to torture me.”

“I’ve got to take this up,” Klara says.

I can hear her gathering up the tea tray. I sprint back up the stairs, before she can catch me.

I leap onto the bed and pull the covers over me, looking around wildly for a book.

When Klara comes in a moment later, she sets the tray next to the bed, then looks at me suspiciously.

“What are you doing?” she says in Polish.

“Nothing. Just waiting.”

“Why are you breathing so hard?”

“Am I? Guess I was excited. About the tea coming.”

Her eyebrows have disappeared under her bangs. She does not believe one word of this.

“Oh, thanks. Great tea!” I say hastily, gulping too much and burning my tongue.

Klara rolls her eyes and heads toward the door, taking the tray with her.

I drink all the tea, but I don’t go to sleep.

I’m way too amped from the night I had. It started out promising, since I actually got to leave the grounds for the first time in forever. But then I realized Mikolaj was taking me to meet some awful Russian gangster. If I thought Jonas was bad, this guy really made my skin crawl. I couldn’t understand anything they said during the dinner, but the callousness in his voice made it obvious exactly what kind of man he was.

Then he tried to touch me as we left—nothing gratuitous, not trying to grope me or anything. Mikolaj grabbed his arm like he was going to rip it right out of the socket. Instantly we were in some kind of Mexican stand-off, and I was pretty certain it was the last seconds of my life.

Then we left, and Mikolaj was like an ungrounded wire in the car, thrumming with electricity, and fully capable of shocking me to death if I dared touch him.

And out of nowhere he drove us over to the Yard. I didn’t even think about Bliss being there. I had almost forgotten the show even existed, living in the strange fantasy world of Mikolaj’s mansion. But the moment I saw Marnie and Serena on the stage, I knew exactly where we were.

My god, seeing something I created . . . it was so unlike performing in the ballet. It was like watching my own dream, full and vibrant and real. I couldn’t breathe.

I’d seen plenty of the rehearsals, but this was different, in full makeup and costume, lighting and stage sets. I could have cried, I was so happy.

I should have been sitting right up front in the audience, with my family around me. That’s what would have happened opening night, if Mikolaj hadn’t kidnapped me.

For a moment I was hit with a stab of anger. I remembered all the things I’ve lost out on these past weeks—my dancing, my father’s birthday, my semester of school.

I looked at Mikolaj, so furious that I might have shouted something at him. But he wasn’t looking at me at all—he was staring through the glass, watching the ballet. He had that look on his face, similar to when he was sleeping. The harshness and anger washed away. Calmness in its place.

And I remembered that I hadn’t actually missed out on dancing at his house. Actually, I’d been doing more than ever. While creating something totally unlike anything I’ve done before. Not the product of the old Nessa, but of the new Nessa, a girl in progress, one growing and changing by the moment, in ways I never would have if I’d stayed at home.

My anger washed away. We finished watching the show, and we drove home. I thought Mikolaj might come upstairs with me. Instead, he rushed away somewhere else.

And now I’m laying here, not able to sleep until I hear his car in the drive.

Because wherever gangsters go, it’s never safe.

There’s always a chance that this is the night they won’t come home.

An hour passes. Maybe more. Finally, I hear the tires rolling over the loose stones in the driveway.

I jump out of my bed, shoving aside the dusty canopy curtains.

I run down the stairs, my legs bare beneath the hem of my nightgown. Klara stocked the wardrobe and drawers with so many beautiful pieces of clothing. The nighties are the one thing that makes me laugh. They’re so old-fashioned, like something a little girl from the Victorian era would wear. I probably look like a ghost, running around this place.

When I’m halfway down the stairs, Mikolaj hears me. He turns around. I see long scratches running up his arms and across the back of his hands.

“What happened!” I gasp.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

“Where did you go?” I’m about to touch his arm to examine the injuries, but I freeze in my tracks. The people most likely to have injured Mikolaj are my own family. Which means he might have done something awful to them in return.

My mouth hangs open, horrified.

Mikolaj sees it. He says, “No! I didn’t . . . it’s not . . .”

“Did you hurt someone I know?” I say, through numb lips.

“Well . . . not that . . .”

I’ve never seen Mikolaj stutter before. My stomach is rolling over. I think I’m going to be sick.

I turn away from him, but Mikolaj grabs my shoulders, pulling me back.

“Wait,” he says. “Let me explain.”

He pulls me out of the entryway, over to the conservatory.

He leads me through the thick greenery. It’s almost winter outside, but it’s still warm and humid in here, the air rich with oxygen and chlorophyll. He pulls me down on the little bench where he was sitting when I first woke up in his house.

“Look,” he says, “I didn’t kill anybody. I did hurt someone, but he fucking deserved it.”

“Who?” I demand.

“That director.”

“What?” I stare at him blankly for a second. This is so far outside what I expected him to say that I don’t connect the dots.

“He’s fine,” Mikolaj says. “I just broke his arm.”

A loose interpretation of the term “fine,” but much better than I feared.

“You broke Jackson Wright’s arm,” I say blankly.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a thieving shit,” Mikolaj says.

I’m dumbfounded.

Mikolaj broke Jackson’s arm . . . for me. It’s the strangest favor anybody’s ever done for me.

“I don’t want you to hurt people on my behalf,” I tell him.

“People like that don’t learn without consequences,” Mikolaj says.

I’m not sure a jerk like Jackson is going to learn either way. But I don’t care about him, not really. There’s a different kind of dread swirling around inside of me.

I’ve been completely cut off in Mikolaj’s house. No contact with anyone I know and love. I’ve assumed that nothing awful has happened while I was gone. But I don’t actually know if that’s true.

“What is it?” Mikolaj says.

His light blue eyes are fixed on my face, steady and clear.

It occurs to me that in all the time I’ve been here, Mikolaj has never lied to me. Not that I know of, anyway. He’s been harsh and aggressive at times. Hateful, even. But always honest.

“Miko,” I say. “Is my family okay? Have you hurt any of them?”

I can see the thoughts running through his head, as he decides whether to answer. His jaw flexes as he swallows. Then he says, “Yes. Jack Du Pont is dead.”

My stomach clenches up in a knot. Jack Du Pont is one of my brother’s closest associates. They went to school together. He’s worked at our house for years. He was my driver and bodyguard, and also a friend.

“Oh,” I say.

I can feel the tears sliding down my cheeks.

Mikolaj doesn’t apologize or look away. His gaze is steady.

“I’ve caused you pain,” he says.

“Is everyone else okay?” I ask him.

“Dante Gallo is in prison,” he says. “Otherwise, yes.”

I cover my face with my hands. My face is hot, and my hands are cool, by comparison.

Aida loves Dante the way that I love Callum. She must be freaking out right now.

My whole family will be. Because I’m still missing. And Jack is dead. And they know more is coming.

I raise my face out of my hands and I try to meet Mikolaj’s gaze with an equal level of composure.

“What’s going to happen?” I ask him.

When we first spoke in this room, he told me he was going to destroy everything I hold dear. I have to know if that’s still his plan. If nothing has changed between us.

“Well,” Mikolaj says, “that depends.”

“On what?”

“On you, Nessa.”

He runs his hand through his ash-blond hair, smoothing it back from his face. It falls down again immediately. It never stays in place. It’s Mikolaj’s only tell when he’s nervous. Otherwise you’d never know.

“Do you like this house?” he asks me.

It’s a bizarre question.

“Of course,” I say hesitantly. “It’s beautiful. In a spooky sort of way.”

“What if you stayed here?” Mikolaj says, his ice-blue eyes boring into mine. “With me.”

There’s almost too much oxygen in this space. I feel a little dizzy, like I’ve taken a whiff of nitrous oxide.

“I don’t really have a choice about that, do I?” I say softly.

“What if you did?” Mikolaj says. “Could you be happy here?”

“With you?” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“You’re talking about a marriage pact.”

“Yes,” he says. “If your family agrees.”

The room is spinning around me. This is both the most terrifying thing I can imagine, and the only thing that could give me hope.

This is nothing I ever pictured for myself. I’m familiar with the concept of mafia marriages, obviously—my brother just married Aida under similar circumstances. But that seems so different.

My brother is a gangster. He’s a politician and a businessman too, but he was raised to this life. I wasn’t. Not even a little bit.

I’m not like Callum and Aida. I’m not tough and resourceful. I’m not brave. I’m afraid of getting hurt. Physically, and in a deeper, more lasting way.

I’m only now realizing how dangerous Mikolaj is for me. In the time I’ve been living in his house, he’s dug his way under my skin, burrowed into my brain. I dream about him at night. I think about him all day while I’m composing my ballet. As my captor, he’s taken me over completely.

How much worse would that be if he were my husband?

I always thought I’d fall in love in the normal way. With flirtation and romance and kindness and gentleness.

Instead I’ve fallen into something so much darker.

Every time Mikolaj speaks to me, every time he even looks at me, he’s throwing a tiny thread of spider silk around me. Each one is so thin and light I don’t notice them. When we dance together, when he kisses me. When he even looks my way . . .

I had no idea how entangled I was becoming.

What frightens me is how much further this could go.

Everything that’s happened so far between us has been by accident.

What if I were to sink into this intentionally? How deep is this well?

I feel like I could fall down into it forever. So far that I’d never see the sun again.

I’m not looking at him because I can’t. His gaze is so piercing, I feel like he’ll be able to read every thought in my head.

Mikolaj takes my face in his hands and turns it toward him, forcing me to meet his eyes.

The first time I saw his face, I thought it was sharp and cruel. Now I think it’s nothing short of devastating. It devastates my notions of what I thought was handsome before. I liked the clean-cut, boyish look. I liked sweet and conventional.

There’s never been a man who looked quite like Mikolaj. He’s the culmination of male and female beauty, all in one. His high cheekbones, sea glass eyes, and white-blond hair, combined with his razor-sharp jaw, thinly carved lips, and ruthless stare.

He’s vicious and tender. His tattoos are like a suit of armor he can never take off, with a few pale spots of vulnerability—his face and hands, the only bits of him that show what he was before.

I know he’s just as multi-faceted on the inside. He’s a leader, a planner, a killer. But also someone who loves music and art. Someone loyal. Who has cared for people before—his sister, his adoptive father, his brothers . . .

And maybe, maybe . . . for me, too.

Mikolaj has embarrassed and frightened me. Taunted and tormented me. But I’m very aware of the lines he didn’t cross.

I don’t think he wanted this connection between us any more than I did. It happened all the same. It’s real. I don’t think I could sever it if I wanted to.

What if he sent me home now?

It’s what I wanted all this time.

I picture myself back in my bright, modern house on the lake. Hugged and kissed and protected by my parents. Safe and secure.

I think of my room at home. Even in my mind, it looks childish now—ruffled bedspread. Fuzzy pillows. Pink curtains. My old teddy bear.

I cringe, picturing it. Would I feel at home there now? Or would I lay in that ruffled, narrow bed and think about the smell of stone and oil paint, dust and citrus, and the masculine scent of Mikolaj himself.

I know the truth already.

I’d miss this dark, old house, and the even darker man inside. I would feel drawn back here like one of Dracula’s victims, bitten and infected and compelled to come home.

Is it good to feel ensnared by a man? Probably not. This is probably sick and wrong on a hundred levels.

But it’s powerful and real all the same. I can’t fight it. I don’t know if I even want to.

All this time he’s been staring into my eyes, unblinking, infinitely patient. Waiting for me to make my choice.

There’s no choice to make.

It already happened, without me knowing it.

He captured me, and there’s no letting go.

I close my eyes and bring my lips up to his. I kiss him, gently at first. Then I taste his lips and his tongue, I breathe in his scent, and it’s gasoline on an open flame. I’m the wood, he’s the accelerant. No matter how much we burn, we’re never used up.

I’m straddling his lap, my hands holding his face, his hands holding mine. We’re kissing each other deeply, hungrily, like we could never be satisfied.

Then he’s picking me up and he’s carrying me out of the conservatory, across the main floor, and up the stairs to the west wing.

He carries me into his room like a bride across the threshold. Our lips are locked together all the time. Every breath I take comes out of his lungs.

He throws me down on the bed and I’m terrified, looking up at his wolfish face and gleaming eyes.

I want this. Just as badly as he does.