Page 14 of His Order

I can’t believe that in the short span of these few days, my life has been turned completely upside down.

“Fine. But when you come, I want all the answers. All of them.” I hold his stare, letting him know that I mean business.

“You have my word.”

I know that his word means fuck all, but for now, I will indulge him and act like I believe him.

“Okay.” I will pretend to play along for now, but if the opportunity ever arises, I will make sure that my knife doesn’t get missed.

We arrived at the safe house a few hours later. It's a nondescript building in a quiet neighborhood. Mikhail does his best to pretend that I don’t exist. He doesn’t answer a single question that I have, and he doesn’t even have the common courtesy to wait for me to get out of the car and go into the apartment building together.

“You’re rather rude.” I quip loudly. “Maybe even worse than Pavel.”

“Funny, I don’t remember asking your opinion. Remind me. Who are you? Just another little toy for Pavel.” He opens the door to the apartment and walks in without looking at me.

I stand in the hallway, looking completely and utterly gobsmacked by what he said. I blink and shake off the shock that had washed over my body initially. I follow him inside and find him already in the kitchen, pulling out a beer. Why did his words tick me? I wanted Pavel to be my toy and for him to play around with me. Now that Mikhail said it out loud, it hurt me.

“Your room is the one at the end of the hall. Your boyfriend will bring the computer soon.” He opens his bottle and takes a swig. “By all means, make yourself comfortable.”

I give him the finger. “Firstly, he is not my boyfriend, and secondly, I don’t like you. You are a bit of an ass.”

“Funny, 'cause I was thinking the exact same thing about you.” He closes the fridge with his foot and saunters over to the couch, where he makes himself comfortable. “Leave me alone.”

I huff out in annoyance and make my way down the hallway, wanting to put as much distance between him and me as possible.

My room is small and spartan, but it's clean and comfortable. There's a bed, a dresser, and a chair. The only window looks overthe street across. It’s a far cry from the penthouse room I was used to the past few days. I lie down on the bed and close my eyes.

I'm not sure how long I slept, but when I woke up, it was dark outside. I get up and go to the window. The city lights twinkle in the distance, and I can hear the faint sound of traffic.

I don't know where Pavel is or when he'll be back. I'm starting to feel nervous. I hear a noise at the door, and my heart jumps. I grab the lamp from the bedside table and hold it up like a weapon.

The door creaks open, and Pavel steps inside. He's carrying a tray of food.

“Really, little rabbit?” He cocks his eyebrow. “Like that would have helped?” He starts laughing.

“I don’t have a gun right now, so the lamp is the best that I could do.” I huff and place it back down on the bedside table. My eyes move to the tray in his hands. “What is that?”

"I brought you dinner," he says with a softness that I’m not used to. His entire demeanor has been unnerving since this morning.

"Thank you," I say as I eye the pasta. “To whom do I owe the gesture of kindness?”

“Me? Nothing. Mikhail made this for you.”

I scrunch my nose in disdain. “It’s poisoned, isn’t it? I know that.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Now eat. You’re starting to look like you have more bone than muscle.”

“Wonderful, what every woman wants to hear.”

He sets the tray down on the bed and sits down next to me. I can feel the weight of his gaze even while I avoid his eyes, every inch between us charged and vibrating with unsaid things. I take a bite of the food, reluctant at first, expecting sabotage, but it's surprisingly good.

I’m unreasonably relieved that Pavel remains silent as I eat, though the quiet is even more unnerving in a way. I know he's watching me, assessing, calculating, stripping me bare without touching me. Each second that passes thickens with tension, and his proximity needles at my composure, making it hard to swallow even as I shovel the pasta into my mouth.

Is this another one of his games? I try to read him and piece together his angle, but his face is an unreadable mask. I don't know whether to be grateful for the meal or suspicious of it, of him, of his uncharacteristic patience.

Halfway through the bowl, I finally glance sideways at him. The steadiness of his expression is unnerving, as if he's waiting for something but won’t say what it is.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

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