The ride back to his Moscow apartment is silent. He doesn't try to touch me. Doesn't try to gloat. But I feel his eyes on me. Studying me. Trying to decipher the storm brewing beneath the surface. Let him wonder. For now, I’m stuck here.
I have nowhere to go. No money. Fuck, I don’t even have my passport. Until I’ve figured out how to escape or Clyde comes for me… I’m his prisoner. My only means of defense is to shut down. Mentally remove myself from my hell. Just like Clyde taught me, if the RMSAD ever captured me. Your best defense is to never let anyone into your head. That’s your secret weapon. A means of escape.
We arrive at Ruslan’s penthouse, which could fit at least two of my apartments back home. It is modern but as cold as the manhimself. All glass, steel, and low-burning lights that hum like a predator waiting in the dark.
He leads me down a hallway and opens a door to what I assume is the guest room. Too pristine. Too impersonal. A beige cage dressed up in silk sheets. He pauses in the doorway.
“This is your room for the night,” he says. His voice is flat and devoid of emotion. “If I were you, I’d enjoy your last night in comfort.” His eyes bored into mine. “We leave for Dragunov Village at dawn. It will be an evening of a traditional wedding ceremony for me as the village elder, and then we will retire to my house. Once the village is sleeping, I will take you to your more permanent dwelling.”
My eyes hold his, but I don’t flinch. “Is that all?” My voice is as toneless as the emptiness inside me.
Ruslan watches me, jaw tight. His nostrils flare for a second, and I know exactly what he's thinking. He's fighting the urge to wrap his hands around my throat and finish what he started on the airplane.
“Dinner in an hour,” he says, clenching his fists at his side.”There are clothes in the closet for you andotheritems in the bathroom.”
I don’t respond. I just stand and watch him, waiting for him to leave or to strangle me.
His jaw clenches. I can feel him waiting. Needing me to snap, to lash out. I don't give him that satisfaction. He finally steps out, closes the door, and locks it. I hear the faint metallic click, and a beat later, his footsteps retreat down the hall.
I don’t move even though the anger at being locked into the bedroom starts to swirl in my belly, and every instinct in me wants to bang on the door and splinter it to the ground. I do the breathing exercises Clyde taught me, close my eyes, and mentally force the rage away. Ruslan wants me to crack. He wants to push me over the edge and snap, so he has an excuse to chain me up and treat me like the murderer he thinks I am. Once my hands stop shaking and the urge to storm the door subsides, I spin on my heel and go check out the closets which I’m shocked to find are bursting with designer clothes all in my size.
I choose a pair of black slacks, a light pink cotton blouse, and underwear to match. Grabbing the panties, I head into the bathroom and switch on the shower. Maybe hot water can burn away this itch beneath my skin.
RUSLAN
I stand listening at the door. I expected her anger at being locked in and her yelling at me.
She doesn't make a sound.
Not a bang. Not a curse. Nothing—just silence.
It pisses me off more than if she'd torn the fucking door off the hinges. Her silence is calculated. A move on the board. And against my better judgement, it’s getting to me.
I walk into my study and grab the bottle of vodka from the tray on the cabinet. I pour a shot of it and down it. Then I have two more. Anything to kill the gnawing edge she’s dragging undermy skin. The burning desire that rages through me every time she looks at me or touches me, I feel it.
I have another shot and flop into the chair behind my desk before pulling out my phone to check my messages.
There are three missed calls from Nadia.
I send her a message instead of calling. I’m in no mood to have a conversation: All is going according to plan. I should arrive at Dragunov Village tomorrow late in the afternoon to early evening, in time for the ceremony.
Nadia’s reply comes quickly: We will await your arrival. Be safe.
I toss the phone aside, but something hard jabs my thigh as I lift my legs onto my desk.
The rings.
I fish them out. The metal is warm from my body heat. Two platinum bands. One for Tara and one for me.
I should’ve given them to her at the court. They are proof of the first part of my family’s traditional ceremony.
The plain wedding bands for the left-hand ring finger. Then, the consummation of the marriage on the first night.
The next night is the village ceremony, where I receive the gold signet ring bearing the mark of the Dragunov for my right hand, and Tara will receive the Dragunov heart ring for her right hand. Once that ring is on her finger, she is marked as claimed by me, the Dragunov. The thought of her belonging to me sends a rush of heat through my veins, accompanied by a deep possessiveness.
A knock on the study door draws my attention.
“Enter,” I call, and Pavel steps inside.