When I was ten, I had a severe ear infection that led to me having to use a hearing aid for a couple of weeks. Now, I’m pretty sure the infection must’ve returned, because I can’t have heard Roman correctly.
The first part—getting married—I heard. He said it when he walked into the cathedral and tossed me over his shoulder.
The second?
I struggle to keep my jaw from dropping, and my hand goes clammy, making my grip on the railing slippery. My fingers tremble as he stares at me—no expression, barely readable.
“Bedroom?” I squeak.
Roman nods, his tone unwavering. “Yes. You’re my fiancée, and there are certain duties I demand of you. The first night was to give you enough time to settle in. Tonight, you do what’s required.”
What’s required?! Inside my head, my thoughts are screaming. He means sex. That’s the only explanation for what he just said.
No. No. No freaking way.
He’s hot, a silver fox with an amazing build and a physique that would probably work on me if we met at a club or something, but no. I’m not ever letting Roman Volkov, the man who kidnapped me from the church, made me his prisoner, declared that he was going to marry me…see me naked.
Did I add that I’m a freaking prisoner here? All because he has some grievances with my father.
“There’s no—” I bite my tongue. Hard. It’s a test. The same way he had me tripping over my words while I stood in his study, still wearing my wedding dress. Roman wants to see me riled up and desperate, so I’ll do anything he asks.
My lips curl into a subtle sneer. Never. I’ll jump off a building before I let him see me at my breaking point.
“Sure.” I shrug, flipping my hair over my shoulder. “If that’s what you want, who am I to stop you? I personally prefer role-play—I’m very good at playing starfish. But…” I pout. “I’m sure you can work something out. You’re big and strong, after all.”
“I’ll be the last person to judge you on your preferences,” he replies without missing a beat, before I’m done basking in my witty comeback. I’m down to my last line of defense, which is walking away. But, I don’t want to.
It’s foolish, maybe overzealous, but I know he’s always gotten the last say. Hopefully, this one time, I be able to break that streak.
Peeling my lips back and exposing a forced, bright smile, I point toward the ascent of the stairs. “You wanna go first? Or walk behind?” I ask.
He tilts his head but doesn’t bite, his expression unreadable. I keep going anyway because quitting mid-sentence would give him too much satisfaction.
“Make sure to bring a blanket, because I hate sharing,” I say with a dramatic sigh, tossing my hair over my shoulder. Theatrics help distract me from the very real and very inconvenient image that slips into my mind—us sharing a blanket, naked underneath.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I shake my head as if I can physically dislodge the thought, my lips pressing into a line. I’d rather sleep in a tub full of freezing water than spend one night tangled up in the same room, in the same bed, with him.
But when I glance at Roman again, just for a second, the thought takes on a life of its own. I can’t take my eyes off his broad shoulders, toned chest, strong hands. My face flushes so fast it burns, and I spin around on my heel before he notices the color rising in my cheeks.
Without another word, I rush up the stairs, bare feet slapping against the marble like a warning to myself: Don’t. Even. Go. There.
The door slams shut as I retreat into my room, and I clutch my chest, breathing heavily. One more minute, and my performance would’ve fallen apart like a box office reject.
As I keep my palm against my racing heart, I hear footsteps up the stairs. Blood roars in my ears as I spin around, searching for a lock on the door.
There’s none. Nothing to protect me from Roman if he follows up on his word.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking around the room frantically for something to use as an obstacle. The chair close to the vanity is the only thing I can move, and my feet slide across the floor as I practically jump to get it. Somehow, I manage to push it from its corner to the door, wedging it under the handle. I hold my breath as the footsteps get louder, the sound of them in the hallway like a terrible warning.
What was I thinking when I challenged him? I moan as I dissolve in panic. I was practically urging him on. Even if he had no intentions of doing anything and was simply threatening me, I dangled a carrot in front of his face and called him a dumb horse.
The closer and louder the sound of footsteps gets, the faster my heart beats until it’s the only thing I can hear. The footsteps slow, then come to a stop outside my door. I clamp my lips shut and hold my breath, not making a sound.
As if it’d stop him.
As if anything stopped him when he killed the man I was supposed to marry in cold blood.
“Miss Ricci.” It’s the housekeeper’s voice. I jump back when she knocks. “Miss Ricci?” she calls again.
It’s not him. It’s not him. But what if he’s behind her? It could be a ploy. But even as I consider the thought, I realize how unlikely it is. A man like Roman Volkov is used to having everything he wants—ruthless, egoistic, narcissistic, top-of-the-line asshole. He wouldn’t do anything that would hurt his pride.
Like putting on an act to get me to open the door. That’s why he had to barge into a cathedral with full pews. He could’ve gotten me before I reached the church or after, but he wanted to make a scene.
“Miss Ricci?” Polina knocks again. “I came to change your sheets, ma’am.”
“One moment!” I call out before dragging the chair out of the way again. A bit wary still, I open the door a fraction, peering behind her to make sure there’s nobody else.
Satisfied, I step away, letting her in. She gives me a puzzled look as she enters but doesn’t comment. I stand by the door as she strips and replaces the bedsheets before leaving.
When the door clicks shut, I stare at it for a long minute, chewing on my nail as I debate whether I really need the chair or if I’m just being paranoid.
In the end, paranoia wins. I drag the chair into place and wedge it under the handle, sighing as I shake my head. Then I make my way to the bed and drop onto it with a dull thud.
I can’t keep doing this. I can’t stay here much longer—I need a way out. Lifting the pillow, I reach underneath and pull out my phone. But before I can unlock it, I freeze. My brows draw together, Roman’s words echoing in my head.
“If you know where your father is, it will be best to tell me.”
It wasn’t a question. Not really. It felt like a warning, as if he knew the truth and was waiting for confirmation. I glance around the room, my grip tightening on the phone.
The phone? My eyes widen.
“No,” I whisper, heart thudding. “That’s not possible.” If Roman knew I had this, he would’ve taken it when he brought me here.
Unless he wants me to use it. And this is a trap.
Why did it have to be me?
With a frustrated groan, I hurl the phone to the other end of the bed, watching it bounce once before going still. I drag my hands through my hair and over my face, sighing loudly.
Later. I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need a shower. Maybe it’ll wash away this feeling crawling under my skin and keep my thoughts from going south whenever I see him.
The way he looked at me…his dark blue eyes roaming over the shirt. Like he was thinking of ways to take it off.
Shaking the thought off, I peel off the shirt and head into the bathroom, letting the hot water beat down on me until my skin turns pink and steam clouds the mirror.
When I step back into the bedroom, a towel wrapped around me, I head to the closet to pick out another of his shirts. Three shirts—that’s all I have to wear until I get more clothes.
I had to scavenge for them since I couldn’t keep wearing my wedding dress. Polina was kind enough to wash them for me, and as much as I didn’t want Roman anywhere near my body, I didn’t have any choice.
I still don’t want him anywhere close. Not after what happened downstairs.
“It’s just a shirt,” I murmur. One that he hasn’t worn in a long time. Still, I stare daggers at it for a beat before snatching it up.
The fabric slides down my body and ends at the top of my thighs. It’s soft—worn cotton. I inhale softly as the faint smell of expensive cologne, burnt orange, and a hint of coffee envelops me. The sleeves are too long, swallowing my hands until I fold them back. The collar slips slightly off one shoulder, and I catch my reflection in the mirror.
His shirt. My skin. For a moment, I slip, losing myself in a fantasy in which he’s some other man whose scent makes me heady and causes my nerves to throb. I wrap my arms around my middle, imagining they belong to someone else.
Someone with bigger, slightly calloused hands that slide across my skin—a combination of rough and gentle. My hands fall lower as I press my thighs together, and a shiver runs down my spine, settling between my thighs, teasing my thoughts further.
My eyes fly open as a whimper slips past my lips, and I see myself in the mirror again, but this time, I’m a reflection of forbidden desire.
Lust.
“It’s a chemical reaction,” I tell myself. “Nothing more.”
I exhale, pulling the shirt lower before walking away.
The surprised look on Roman’s face when he finds me sprawled across his living room couch the following day is enough to make my morning feel like a five-star breakfast. Still, I school my features, softening my grin into something more polite.
Less gloaty.
I am gloating on the inside, of course, but I have a plan to execute. The last thing I need is him catching on.
“Good morning,” I say with exaggerated cheer, flashing him my most innocent smile.
He gives a short nod. I grit my teeth behind a tight smile and fight the urge to roll my eyes. “You look like you’re off somewhere,” I add, tone airy. “Work, perhaps?”
Another nod.
Seriously? If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was talking to a holographic projection. I push down my irritation.
Focus, Isabella.
“I have a request,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I’d like to leave for the day. You can assign a security detail, as many as you think will keep me from running away, but I need to get out.”
He opens his mouth, but I cut in, raising my hand sharply. “Before you say the house is ‘big enough,’ I want you to think about something.” My voice softens, almost trembling—Oscar-worthy. “You took me from my wedding, Roman. You pulled me from everything familiar and brought me to an undisclosed location.”
I hold his gaze. “Unless you plan to keep me locked up like some ghost bride no one’s allowed to see or hear, I think I deserve some kind of normalcy.”
I don’t give him a chance to cut in.
“Also,” I add quickly, “if you’re serious about this whole ‘marriage’ thing, you really don’t want people whispering that your wife only exists behind closed doors.” I tilt my head slightly, my voice dipping into something like teasing. “Unless that’s the look you’re going for?”
Roman’s response after I’m done is silence that stretches on forever. His eyes scan me slowly, calculatingly, like he’s peeling back every layer of my performance.
Avoiding his gaze, as unnerving as it is, will give me away, so I square my shoulders and widen my eyes. His gaze lingers on my face, then drops briefly to my arms.
He shifts his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest, and when he rubs his chin, I think he might actually give in. Then his mouth tugs downward, the slightest frown curling at the edge. His voice is flat. Final.
“No.”
No?!
“What do you mean, no?”
“No,” he repeats.
I nod. “Yeah, I heard you. The single word was loud and clear. But I need to know why. I have a right to leave, don’t I? This isn’t Beauty and the freaking Beast.”
His expression doesn’t waver, not even when I take a step closer. “Unless you’re some type of sick, twisted man who thinks women don’t have rights, then let me go out. Like I said, you can send as many men along as you want. I don’t care.” I shrug, implying my nonchalance.
A ghost smile touches his lips as he shakes his head. “I’ve had men locked in places without light for less offenses, Isabella Ricci. And now I’m convinced that your father did a terrible job of teaching you how to get what you want.”
“Either that…” He clicks his tongue. “Or the people you think it worked on were just plain stupid.”
That’s it. I’m done. I toss my hands in the air. “I tried reasoning with you, and it didn’t work. Don’t blame me if I find another way out.”
“Escape?” he asks as I’m about to make a dramatic exit.
Escape? I did think about running away, but the thought didn’t last longer than the first day he brought me here. Now I plan to destroy everything he owns from the inside out. But for now—I face him, staring into his eyes as I wait for something to give.
Maybe a half-second lack of confidence in his ability to restrain me in this house? “Are you scared?” I ask, shaking my head with as much cockiness as I can muster. “That I’ll find a way?”
“No,” he replies flatly. “My men have orders to shoot you if you try to escape.”
Shoot?!
“You’re—” I exhale shakily as shock pours through my system. “You’re a monster.”
Sergei walks in and pauses when he sees us. He clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’ll wait outside.”
“No,” Roman stops him. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Like that, I become some forgotten relic, standing in the living room with steam pouring out of my ears as he walks away.
Shoot me?
I’ve come across men with no regard for human life before. I’ve watched them take the lives of other men without a shred of emotion.
But Roman? Roman Volkov is the devil, and I’m trapped in his lair.
