Page 12 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“So what? That doesn’t mean he cares.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but they were true. William Beaumont had never been what anyone would call a loving father. “When’s the last time you saw us together in public? Family dinners? Father-daughter bonding time?”
His expression didn’t change, but I could see him processing the information. Good. Maybe if I could convince him that his plan was fundamentally flawed, he’d let me go.
“He uses me for photo opportunities,” I continued, pressing my advantage. “Business events where having a successful daughter makes him look good. But we haven’t had an actual conversation in months. You want to hurt him? Kidnapping me isn’t going to do it.”
Maxim was quiet for a long moment, those storm-gray eyes never leaving my face. When he finally spoke, his voice was just as controlled as before.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” Frustration boiled over, making my voice sharper. “Jesus Christ, do you think I’m making this up for fun? My father is a cold, calculating bastard who cares more about his construction empire than his own family. He probably hasn’t even noticed I’m missing yet.”
That was probably true, actually. Dad was off somewhere making deals and building his legacy, completely oblivious to the fact that his daughter had been drugged and kidnapped because of his past sins.
“He’ll notice when he gets my message,” Maxim said with chilling certainty.
“And then what? You think he’s going to rush in here like some knight in shining armor to save me?” I laughed again, the sound ugly and desperate. “He’ll probably write me off as an acceptable loss and move on with his life.”
Something flickered in Maxim’s eyes, so quick I almost missed it. Doubt, maybe. Or calculation. He was reassessing his plan, trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or just trying to manipulate him.
“You really hate him,” he observed.
“Hate’s too strong a word. I’m just realistic about who William Beaumont is and what he cares about. And trust me, his daughter isn’t high on that list.”
The truth was more complicated than that, but this Russian psychopath didn’t need to know about my daddy issues. The years of feeling invisible in my own home, of watching my father build relationships with business partners while treating his family like convenient accessories.
Maxim took another step closer, and I fought the urge to back away. There was something predatory about the way he moved, like a wolf circling wounded prey. But there was also something else, something that made my traitorous body respond in ways I absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
He was dangerous. Possibly a killer. Definitely a criminal. And some sick part of me was drawn to that danger like a moth to a flame.
I hated myself for it.
“You’re scared,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Of course I’m scared, you fucking psychopath. You drugged me and dragged me to some underground bunker to use as bait in your revenge fantasy. Scared seems like the appropriate response.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, I was scared. Terrified, actually. But there was something else mixed in with the fear, something hot and unwelcome that I refused to examine too closely.
“Good,” he said simply. “Fear will keep you alive.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact. The world I live in doesn’t have room for the innocent or the naive. You’re in that world now, whether you want to be or not.”
The casual way he said it, like he was discussing the weather, made my blood run cold. This man wasn’t unhinged or emotional. He wasn’t driven by passion or rage. He was something much worse; he was calm, rational, and completely committed to whatever course of action he’d decided on.
That made him a monster. A beautiful, magnetic monster who could probably kill me without losing a moment’s sleep.
“My father won’t come,” I said again, trying one last time to make him understand. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever you think this will accomplish, you’re wasting your time. William Beaumont doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“I’m not a terrorist,” Maxim corrected, his voice still maddeningly calm. “I’m a businessman collecting on a debt.”
“Same difference.”
He moved closer still, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that made my pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. My body was betraying me, responding to his proximity with a heat that I absolutely did not want to acknowledge.
Get it together, Eleanor. This man is dangerous. He’s holding you prisoner. Stop thinking about how good he smells or how his voice makes something deep in your stomach clench with unwanted desire.
“Your father will come,” he said with absolute certainty. “And when he does, he’ll face the consequences of his actions.”
