Page 14 of For a Price

Though an inkling tells meI’mmentioned. He glances over at me before he continues speaking.

“Oni plokho podgotovleny. Oni trusy, kotoryye ostavili etu devushku v pokoye. Ona nichto. Nikakoy ugrozy.?*”

“HELLO!” I scream from behind the tape. I wiggle around some more, working up a sweat even being bound on the floor. “HELPHELPHELP!”

“Niet?*.”

“HELP!”

His head turns in my direction, his expression hardening. The sounds I’m making might not be clear, but they’re posing a distraction during his phone conversation.

“Derzhis’, otets.?*”

He presses a button on the phone—presumably the mute button—then comes over to crouch beside me. I’m not sure what I’m expecting from him, but it’s not for him to grip my face between his long, thick fingers and jerk my head up closer to his.

“Devochka,” he says sternly, “be good for me. Behave yourself. Or I will make you regret it. Do you understand?”

He lets go of my face, rising up to return to his lengthy phone call.

I lay where he’s left me, my heart hammering in dismay. I’m not sure whether to be terrified or furious.

…or disgusted with myself for being a little turned on by the authoritative way he handles me. I’d never admit it aloud—damn sure would never tell him—but there’s a rugged masculinity about him that’s fucking sexy.

It’s more than howgoodhe looks, his huge body molded by muscle and his dark blue eyes striking.

It’s in how he carries himself. Why couldn’t he be the creepy, frail old man I’d pictured Roman Volkova to be going into this mission?

At least then I could regulate my reactions to him. I could be repulsed and upset like I should be, instead of being on the verge of making myself wet.

That settles it. It’s been too long.

If I survive this ordeal, I definitely need to get laid.

The Russian’s conversation goes on for another few minutes. He’s started pacing the length of the bedroom, speaking every word in his native tongue, his tone growing more impatient and frustrated. I’d give anything to translate even half of what he says.

When he hangs up, he pockets my phone like it’s his. I make a throaty noise of protest before giving up altogether.

It won’t change anything—he’s not going to give me my phone back.

A moment passes where the Russian Bear rests his hands on his waist and peers at some distant point in the room. He’s doing some thinking.

The conversation he just had wasn’t a good one.

His gaze swings over to me and he says, “You were bad, devochka. I told you to behave yourself. But you interrupted me.”

I squirm on the floor as he steps over, taking a knee beside me. “Do you want to know what I was talking about? It is none of your concern. You don’t know how you’ve involved yourself with your scheme. You have made a mistake coming for my family. But I reassured the sovietnik you are no threat. You are a harmless little kitty cat… right?”

He strokes my cheek some more to my murmurs from behind the duct tape.

“I have done you a favor,” he says, his long fingers slipping along my jaw. His thumb glides across the soft curve of my chin. He’s peering into my eyes as if these touches are wanted. As if I’m not bound and at his mercy. “He was very angry, devochka. He would have your head on a pike. How will you repay me?”

“Donttouchme!” I demand, producing more garbled sounds.

The Russian’s face cracks in a hint of a grin as his hand continues exploring. It slips down the column of my throat and then my collarbone to the swell of my breasts. I suck in a sharpbreath from behind the duct tape and watch in mingled dread and curiosity as his hand smooths its way down my stomach.

Over my navel.

Past the little mound of fat above every woman’s pussy.

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