Page 13 of Hostage with Benefits

Galina’s laugh was like a rusty gate. “Your father. Pah. That man worth nothing to Mr. Volkov now.”

I paused in my dough-shaping. “What do you mean?”

She realized she’d said too much and busied herself with the oven. “Nothing. Not my business to say.”

“Galina—”

“You will make good wife,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Strong. Not afraid. You learn cook now too.”

“Wife? I’ve been here less than two days!”

“Time means nothing.” She tapped her chest. “I see how Mr. Volkov looks at you. Not like business. Likehunger.”

My face heated. “That’s just… physical.”

“No, no. Mr. Volkov has many women for physical needs. Models, actresses. They bore him after one night.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “He watches you on security cameras. He can’t stop thinking about you.”

That should have creeped me out. Instead, something warm and dangerous churned in my stomach. “He’s making sure I don’t escape.”

“Tell yourself this if it makes you feel better.” She patted my cheek, leaving a smear of flour. “But I know. He needs a good Russian wife. Someone strong who won’t break. Pretty with good hips to make kids.”

“I’m not dating or wife material; I’m a hostage.”

“Hostage, girlfriend, wife, they are all labels.” She dismissed them with a wave. “I see howhelooks atyou. Howyoulook athim.”

“I don’t look at him like anything,” I protested.

“Lie to Galina if you want. Don’t lie to yourself.” She opened the oven and gestured for me to slide in the tray of whatever we’d been making. “Now, we make soup. You chop vegetables.”

After escapingGalina’s culinary boot camp, I wandered the mansion. The place was massive. I found myself outside a heavy woodendoor I assumed was Mikhail’s office, hesitating only briefly before trying the handle.

It opened. Either an oversight or a test by my kidnapper.

The files in his office were scattered, but it was easy to piece everything together. A shipment of drugs was missing, stolen by my father.

I was trying to decipher Mikhail’s handwriting when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I moved to the bookshelf, pretending to browse. Dmitri appeared in the doorway, his expression suspicious.

“Looking for something?” he asked, his accent thicker than Mikhail’s.

“Just exploring. Mikhail said I could move around freely.” I pulled a random book from the shelf. “I like to read.”

Dmitri looked unconvinced but nodded. “Mr. Volkov will return soon.”

“Great. Thanks for the update.”

He lingered a moment longer, then left, but I knew my snooping time was over. I returned to my room, my mind racing with what I’d found. Whatever my father had stolen was drug-related, and it was big enough to warrant kidnapping me.

I was contemplating this mystery when Mikhail returned in the late afternoon. He opened my door without knocking, looking annoyingly perfect despite whatever “business” he’d been conducting.

“We’re going out,” he announced.

“Are we now?”

“You need clothes.”

I looked down at my wrinkled outfit. “What’s wrong with these?”

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