Page 33 of The Bratva's Forced Kidnapped Bride
“What?” Masha piped up behind me. “I didn’t hear you.”
“That’s because I wasn’t speaking to you and didn’t mean for you to hear,” I told her, then went back to pretending she wasn’t there. She gave me about half an hour of silence before heaving a gusty sigh.
“If you’re not going to kill me, you may as well talk to me,” she said plaintively, almost like a real woman and not a cold-hearted machine. “Did it ever occur to you that I got friendly with that guard because I was lonely and bored?”
Nice try. I turned, fixing her with a stony gaze. “You’re good, Masha. But I’m better. I know exactly why you tried to twist that guard around your little finger. And it didn’t work. It wouldn’t have worked even if it didn’t backfire on you and put you in danger.” My anger was rising. If I had been only a minute later, what would have happened to her? “You’re not going anywhere.”
I swung back around, trying to fix my attention back on my work, but I was too fired up. Damn the woman for having this effect on me.
“I’d almost rather be tortured,” she muttered, thinking I wouldn’t hear.
I got up so fast I almost knocked the chair over backwards. Storming to the bedside, I loomed over her, very much wanting to lay my hands on her. “Really?” I asked. “We can begin at any time.”
Showing absolutely no fear, she told me she’d rather I do my worst than continue to keep her prisoner for any longer. “My family must be dying of worry,” she finished.
“That’s merely a bonus,” I told her. Against my better judgment, I was once again enjoying our little game. Until her leg jutted out at a remarkable angle and landed dangerously close to causing me a great deal of pain. She smiled in triumph until I reminded her of the bombs. “One click of a button,” I said. “And everyone goes boom.”
She settled down then, and I eventually uncuffed her and let her move around the room. “Go ahead and try something,” I said. “I’m in the mood.”
That kept her in line, and she stopped staring daggers at me when a late-night pizza arrived in my room. Her lip twitched, but she finally accepted a slice. I had gone without meals in my life before, and knew from experience it would take a while for her to really feel full again.
“What, no movie?” she asked sarcastically.
I motioned toward my computer. “Just tell me what you want to watch.”
Her eyes flew wide, and it seemed like she warred with herself between relaxing and watching a movie while she enjoyed her greasy pepperoni pizza, or continuing to glare at me. She chose the movie, shocking the hell out of me.
“How aboutBeauty and the Beast,” she said.
I slapped shut the laptop, done with offering olive branches. “You wouldn’t like it. I hear it has a happy ending.”
After her shower, which I didn’t insist on watching, or even taking part in, though the thought of her naked, soapy body had me tense and on edge all over again, she dawdled too long in the bathroom, and I opened the door to find her rummaging around in the cabinets.
“Looking for a razor?” I asked.
She scowled and shrugged, not bothering to dispute that she was searching for a weapon. Her hair hung down her back in dark, damp waves, and she looked adorable in one of my t-shirts that hung halfway down her smooth thighs. She tugged at the edges.
“You think I’ll strangle you with my pajama pants drawstring?” she asked. “I don’t understand why I have to wear this.”
“I hadn’t considered the drawstring,” I admitted. “The shirt was the first thing I grabbed.”
“You could have someone bring me my clothes,” she argued. God, she loved to argue.
I smiled. “I could,” I agreed. “But I didn’t. And now I won’t.”
Her shoulders slumped as she realized just how helpless she was. A surge of compassion rose up in me that I just as quickly tamped down, instead leading her into the bedroom and rattling the handcuffs that were still attached to the post. Where was her compassion when she was in charge?
“Time for bed,” I said.
“You can’t be serious,” she said. “I have to sleep in here?”
“Where else would my wife sleep?” I asked. She hissed like an angry cat, rooting her feet into the carpet and refusing to take another step.
“You can’t handcuff me,” she said, almost pleading.
“Why not?”
Rocking from one foot to the other, her cheeks blazed red. “What if I have to… You know… use the bathroom.”
