Page 8 of Owned By her Enemy
“And we’re not there yet, are we?” He doesn’t expect a reply, it seems as he slides his hands into his pockets and strolls away. “There’s one more room I want to show you, ptichka.”
He’s called me that a few times, and I’m tempted to ask what the Russian accented word means. I restrain my curiosity and follow.
Let’s get this over with.
He opens the door wide and gestures for me to enter with a hint of a secret smile around his mouth, like he’s looking forward to my response when I’ve been politely positive about everything thus far.
I need him to trust me, or at least want me, so I try to be curious and happy. I really do, as I look into the room. It’s small.
My back seizes up at how small.
He’s not your father. He might be a monster, but he will be different.
I step inside. The walls are covered with foam, and my chest tightens. Then I see the microphone. The recording equipment.
It’s a recording studio. Nothing bad about this. Nothing at all.
I can’t breathe.
“I heard you like to sing,” he says from behind me. “Thought you might want to try recording yourself with more than just your phone.”
“Is this sound proofing so no one can hear your bride scream?” I cover the prickle of fear with a joke. Probably a joke.
But this man is the bratva. The bogeyman.
“When I make you scream, neither of us will care who hears.” And though it’s said in a silky tone, I’m not sure if it’s a threat or… Something else. And it’s not exactly scary, but my mind repeats different words with the same calm tone in a tiny room.
The walls aren’t moving. They’re not, but I’m breathing too fast. My vision blurs.
Oh shit oh shit oh shit.
Nikolai is speaking to me, but I can’t hear over the rush of blood in my ears. All I can see is my room in Tottenham Tower. The gold door handle and the white walls. The quiet and the glass that doesn’t move. The tiny bathroom and the unending silence. The boredom. Loneliness and lack of touch. Same walls day after day, same food, day after day. The silence. Trying the handle and the door not moving. Never moving.
The walls shift around me. I’m stumbling. I grab for the door. There isn’t enough air in this room, and I throw myself out, chest heaving. My head flops forward and while some rational part of my brain knows I’m not in Tottenham Tower, Nikolai isn’t my father, and I have a plan to escape this whole mafia trap, my body hasn’t understood.
A thought crackles through my mind: is this a panic attack?
“Ptichka?” A warm hand rests on my shoulder blade, and that cuts through—a little. I’m acting like a crazy woman.
“I need…” I have to get out I can’t breathe I can’t breathe. “Air.”
“Here.”
There’s a blast of cool air and I gasp it in. Then I’m being propelled outside—outside!—into the cool night. I drag in lungfuls of air, palms holding onto something solid and comforting. My cheek rests on soft cotton.
A few ragged breaths, then a few more. As my eyes focus, I find the dark glow of the London skyline, familiar and faraway, and below, trees. A garden. Sweeping arcs of flower bushes and smooth grass. A seat under a rose arch and a deep border of flowers that even in the dark I can see is a cascade of colour. And a perfectly round pool with a fountain in the middle.
It’s beautiful. An oasis in the middle of London.
I’m on a balcony, I realise. Unlike Tottenham Tower, with its hermetically sealed thick glass, this house has windows and outside space, even on the upper floors.
As my desperation for oxygen recedes, going back to the normal, unthinking process, I take in what else is going on. I’m pressed to Nikolai’s chest, clinging to his lapels. And my next breath brings in his scent. Fresh as the night, but with warm spice too.
“I’m sorry. Rapunzel wasn’t just a name, was it?” He’s murmuring softly and running his hands over my arms and shoulders, soothing me like I’m a wild animal. “My ptichka. I should have known.”
These words make no sense to me, but I can’t help but give a shuddering sigh and keep holding onto him like I’d be sucked back into the house if I let him go.
“I would have taken you to Cornwall tonight if I’d realised.”
