Page 25 of Hostage with Benefits

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Was she right? Did I actually want to be here? The fact that I had to think about it was concerning.

“Mr. Volkov say you stay,” she continued, cracking eggs into a bowl. “So you stay. Is that simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple.”

She gave me a look that was both pitying and amused. “Love never simple,devochka.”

“Whoa, who said anything about love?” The word made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. “This is Stockholm syndrome, at best.”

“Stockholm?” She frowned. “Is it in Sweden, yes? What does Sweden have to do with you and Mr. Volkov?”

“It's a psychological condition where hostages develop feelings for their captors.”

She cackled, a startlingly bright sound from such a stern-looking woman. “Americans. Always need a fancy name for normal things.”

“There's nothing normal about this situation.”

“Man wants woman. Woman wants man. Normal.” She placed a plate in front of me. “Eat. You need strength.”

“For what?”

“For when he comes back, of course.” She winked, and I nearly choked on my coffee because of the insinuation.

After breakfast, I wandered the mansion, half-expecting to be stopped by security, but no one seemed concerned about my movements. I made my way to Mikhail's office. I tried the handle, but it was locked.

Of course it was locked. The man wasn't an idiot. But the fact that he needed to lock it now, when he hadn't before, suggested there was something inside he didn't want me to see.

But Mikhail had gotten back what my father stole, right? The reason for my kidnapping was resolved, and yet he hadn't said a word about releasing me. I was still here, caught in this bizarre limbo between hostage and... whatever we had become.

Why was he keeping me here? What possible reason could he have for maintaining this charade?

The most obvious answer made my chest tight: he was using me.

The sex was convenient, and as long as I didn't cause trouble, why not keep his captive plaything around? The thought made me sick.

But then I remembered the way he looked at me. The tenderness in his touch that didn’t fit with his harsh exterior. The way he pushed his cum is deeper, as if trying to make his breeding fantasy a reality.

No, there was something more going on here. And I intended to find out what it was.

By Monday, I was ready to scream. Three days had passed since I'd discovered the truth, and still, Mikhail said nothing.

He came and went, always “business,” always distant when he returned. He slept in his room; I sleptin mine. The intimacy we'd shared seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a strange, tense politeness.

He would ask if I needed anything, if I was comfortable, if I wanted books or movies or anything else to pass the time—like I was a guest at a particularly boring hotel, not a woman he'd fucked senseless while talking about getting me pregnant.

And yet, I caught him watching me. When he thought I wouldn't notice, his eyes would follow me across the room, with a particular hunger in his gaze.

I tried to give him opportunities to explain. I asked pointed questions about how long I'd be staying, about what his plans were, about whether I should be thinking about my job and apartment.

He deflected every time, changing the subject or giving non-answers that left me more confused than before.

Galina and Irina were no help. They continued to treat me like I was already a permanent fixture in the household.

When I asked Galina directly if she knew why I was still being kept as a hostage despite the shipment being returned, she merely patted my cheek and said, “Some questions answer themselves if you listen to your heart instead of your head.”

Thanks, but no thanks for that, Galina.

By Monday evening, I'd had enough. When Mikhail returned from whatever mysterious “business” had occupied his day, I was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed.

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