Page 7 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
My stomach cramps and after a few slow breaths, I sprint toward the smaller hallway and throw open doors until I find the bathroom. There are two bedrooms, a study, and then a bathroom at the very end, which becomes my haven as I sink to my knees and heave over the toilet. There’s nothing left inside me to bring up. The cramping is just from stress, but I don’tmove from my hunched position until I’m certain the spasms inside me have stopped.
“Fuck.” Groaning, I stumble to my feet and fiddle with the gold-tipped taps until cool water splashes forth. Splashing it on my face and neck, I gulp a mouthful directly from the stream and swirl it around my mouth, then spit it in the sink and straighten.
My gray reflection hovers before me in the mirror. Water droplets run down my chin, my mascara runs in rivers down my cheeks from my tears, and a bruise forms on my cheek from that asshole’s blow. I look pathetic. A far cry from all the work I did to be presentable as soon as I made it home.
A soft, dry sob bubbles up inside me and I tear my eyes away. I can’t stay here. I need to get help.
The elevator doesn’t respond to my calls no matter how often I press the button, and despite the lavish layout of this luxurious penthouse, there isn’t a phone anywhere. Not even a laptop, and the computer in the study refuses to turn on even after I spend ten minutes under the desk checking and following the wires to the sockets. It’s like the entire apartment is working against me.
Frustrated, I retire to one of the couches and curl up around a cream tasseled pillow, determined to sneak a phone away from Maxim whenever he gets here. Taking a moment to myself, to sit and rest and process everything I saw, results in overwhelming exhaustion, and I close my eyes to fight off the growing throb of a migraine swarming my temples.
It feels like a blink but when I open my eyes, I’m lying down on the couch with cushions around my head and a thick, brown blanket draped over my body. It pools around me and is butter soft against my skin yet has a comforting weight that keeps melying down as my sleep-addled mind catches up with the events that led me here.
The gunshot.
The dead body.
Maxim.
Metal clatters softly from beyond the couch, and I tear my attention away from the haphazard gold patterns weaving across the gold ceiling, slowly lifting myself onto my elbows.
Beyond the couch, Maxim stands in the kitchen with his back to me. He’s topless and his broad, bare back shows an equally intricate pattern of tattoos as his arms. He’s absolutely covered in ink. From this distance, they seem like nonsense, but as I slowly stand and approach, more detail comes clear. There’s everything from flowers, birds, animals, flames, to a large dragon perched on one shoulder. A few stars and a cluster of flower petals are visible at the base of his neck, and they ripple and weave as if caught in a breeze as he turns toward me with a silver spoon dangling from his mouth.
As soon as our eyes meet, anger surges up inside me and I storm forward until my body hits the island counter. Slamming both hands down, I glare as much hatred toward him as I can.
“Let me go!”
“I know you.” Maxim removes the spoon, and his gravelly voice would be like honey to my ears if I weren’t so twisted up.
“No you don’t,” I snap.
“I do. You had blue hair when we met, but I know.” He brandishes the spoon toward me and it bobs lightly between his fingers. “Are you hungry?”
His question catches me off guard and I falter, hovering back a step. “Huh?”
“Are you hungry?” He steps to the side, revealing several pots bubbling away on the stove. “I’m making curry.”
“You can cook?”
“Why does that surprise everyone?” His blue eyes crease at the corners. “Yes, I can cook. I won’t ask a third time.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” He turns back to his cooking, but not fully. He’s angled as if every part of him is keeping an eye on me. “It’s good.”
“I bet it’s poisoned.”
Maxim scoffs. “So what if it is? I’m eating it too.”
My lips part but no sound comes out. So quickly, he engaged me in a light conversation and I almost forgot what the hell was going on. “I’m going to walk out of here.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Just watch me.”
“You can try.” He swivels back to me. “The elevator is biometrically coded. It won’t work for you.”
“What if there’s a fire?”
