Page 9 of Fatal Bonds

“That’s right. I broke into your computer and emailed your company informing them of your illness. They know it’s bad enough that you’ll need some time off, and of course, your friends will corroborate the story since you left the club early because you were feeling sick last night.”

The roar of my pulse fills my ears, and the blanket slides from my shoulders as my fingers go numb. This can’t be happening. I must be trapped in some kind of nightmare—a romcom turned horror story.

“My family?—”

“Your father still lives in California, and you haven’t spoken to him in nearly five years,” Maks counters, cutting me off before I can feed him another lie. “There’s no end to how long I can keep you here, Lindsey, and if you don’t want to starve, you should cooperate. Your best chance of survival right now is to tell me the truth. So, what did you hear at the club?”

My back hits the cold cement of my prison cell, and I tense as I realize I’ve been backing away from him—right into a corner. “Please, I-I don’t know anything. I didn’t hear anything!” I insist, hot tears pooling in my eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Lindsey, but I will punish you if you lie to me again,” he warns.

A dizzying combination of heat and icy fear floods my body. There isn’t a single doubt in my mind that his version of punishment would make me feel very real pain. But something in the way he says it sounds sosensual. My core tightens, my mind flashing back to the dancers in the cages at his club.What is wrong with me?That is the last thing I should be thinking about right now. But as Maks slowly stalks toward me, closing the distance between us, the air electrifies with silent tension.

“The next words that come out of your mouth had better be the truth,” he murmurs, his palms pressing against the wall on either side of my head.

The masculine scent of tobacco and vanilla tease my nose—hisscent. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, and they have nothing to do with the cold this time. I can’t seem to find my breath as I stare up into his sky-blue eyes, mesmerized by the way he seems to read my mind. He hasn’t even touched me, and it feels like torture. He’s going to drive me mad with the anticipation of what comes next—what he’s going to do to me.

“And if I don’t?” I whisper, riveted by his face.

He must be nearly a foot taller than me—even though I’m in heels—and his presence feels so overpowering, it might just crush me. The cold steel of his gaze, the hard planes of his face and rigid set of his jaw, the jagged tips of his tattoos creeping up his strong neck—everything about this man screams danger. Fire ignites behind his eyes, and his nostrils flare with impatience. He looks over his shoulder, toward the chains dangling from the ceiling beyond my cell, and my stomach knots painfully.

“I know how to make people talk, Lindsey,” he warns. Then his eyes shift back to mine, his expression calm and full of deadly conviction. “You don’t want to know what comes next.”

I never knew how much Ididn’twant to be tortured until this moment, but right now, I would much rather die than know just how much pain this man can create, and the words are flooding from my mouth before I even consciously decide to tell him. “I heard that you and some Italian guy want to kill the man he works for. He can’t get to him at home, so he wants to find a more public event where he’ll be able to escape.”

Maks’s face looks stricken before a deep scowl darkens his expression.

I gasp, my blood turning to ice as I realize I told him everything I know—and it’s clearly enough to be a problem. “Are you going to kill me now?” I whisper, hating how small and helpless I sound.

Sighing, Maks pushes off from the wall, letting his hands drop and his back straighten as he puts space between us. “No, though I should—I’ve tortured and killed people for less.”

“But not me?” I don’t know what came over me to ask that. I shouldn’t be calling attention to the fact that he’s treating me differently, and I bite my lip as I cringe back against the wall. Still, I catch his hesitation in the glance he casts me before turning toward my cell door.

“But not you,” he confirms.

I’m still reeling, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened as Maks retraces his steps, breakfast tray in one hand, the metal stool it was sitting on in the other.

He jerks his chin toward the cot where I sat shivering all night. “Sit,” he commands.

I obey instinctively, dropping onto the flimsy mattress so quickly it makes him smirk. It sparks the observation that Maks seems more inclined to let down his guard when I stop fighting him, and a dim flicker of hope ignites in my chest. If I can earn his trust,showhim I’m not a threat, maybe I could convince him to let me go.

He doesn’t say anything as he sets the tray beside me and sinks onto the simple metal barstool between me and the door. As I think of the best way to appeal to his compassionate side, I pick up the fork on the tray and down my first bite of fried eggs. They’re cold from the time they sat during my interrogation, but they might just be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten—perfectly seasoned and cooked. I moan, the raw feeling in my stomach easing before the food’s even had a chance to make it that far. Maybe I burned through some extra calories while I was shivering all night. I haven’t been this ravenous in a long time. Scooping a combination of crispy hash browns and egg onto the fork, I follow it with a bite of bacon, filling my mouth.

A low chuckle distracts me from my single-minded effort to inhale my breakfast, and I pause, cheeks full, to look at Maks. His eyes dance with amusement, that subtle smirk gracing his lips as he rests his elbows on his knees to watch me eat.

I should try to compose myself if I want to convince him I’m harmless. I heard once that a good defense against captors in a hostage or kidnapping situation is to make yourself relatable. The random fact pops into my head now as I force myself to chew more slowly and swallow.

“This is delicious,” I say, picking up the glass of water to wash down the massive bite.

“I’m glad you like it.” His voice is low and rich with humor, the sound of its warmth unexpectedly unleashing butterflies inside my stomach.

I like this side of him a lot better. “Did you cook it?” I cut myself a more moderate bite with the side of my fork and slide it off the tines with my lips.

His eyes follow the motion before flicking back up to meet my gaze, and warmth creeps into my face.

“Yes.”

“Well, thank you. You’re a good cook.”

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