Page 12 of Stolen By the Don

Did I add that I’m a freakingprisonerhere? 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’rebigandstrong,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.

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