Page 40 of Promised to the Killer

It’s not funny. It’s not remotely funny. I hate him and hate myself and despise my father and the whole world, but I can’t help it. For some reason, him mentioning my clothes is just about the most absurd thing imaginable.

He smiles back, a ghost of humor on his lips. I shake my head and hug my knees tighter. “What, I don’t look good? You wouldn’t pay for me?”

His smile disappears. “I’m not interested in buying you.”

“Sounds like you already did.”

“I saved your life, Siena. You do realize you were about to fuck a string of strange men in that room, don’t you?”

I shrug, head tilted. “And now I’ll only have to fuck you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His jaw tenses. I shouldn’t tease him and push him like this, but I can’t help myself. I’m too angry and rippling with sadness to stop myself. Poor dead Tianna. She was such a sweet girl—she wanted to be a veterinarian one day. She used to feed a few stray cats in the parking lot of the whorehouse. I wonder if Papa killed the cats, too.

“You need to understand something,” he says very quietly, and the way he speaks sends a shiver down my spine. It’s terrifying and intense. “You’re about to enter my family’s home. We jokingly call it the Kremlin, but imagine it’s not so different from the real Kremlin. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and everything you do will be judged and held against you. If I had somewhere else I could put you, I would, but nowhere is safe. This is the only place I can guarantee nobody will hurt you. So you need to listen to me, Siena. If you want to survive this, you need to play my game.”

“Play your game,” I echo, shaking my head. “I thought we were getting married.”

“For now, you’re my mistress.” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. He can’t bring himself to stare into my eyes. “That’s what we’ll say at least. It’s not unheard of. Feliks brought a woman home for a few weeks once. Jasha always threatens to do the same.”

“Feliks? Jasha?”

“My younger brothers. I have two younger sisters as well, Galina and Emiliya. You’ll meet all four of them, along with my mother and my father.”

“You have a big family.” I tilt my head slightly. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you act as though you’re used to getting what you want, but I find that having siblings beats that out of you very quickly.”

He laughs darkly and nods. “You’re more right about that than you realize. Even still, we need to be extremely careful. My position is… tenuous.” He says that last word with upturned lips.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will.” He gets out of the car. “Come with me. We’ll head right to my room. Emmie is about your size. I’ll steal some clothes from her.”

Maxim gets out and walks to the elevator. I watch him go and consider running away. I could make it to the top of the entrance ramp, but he’d catch me and drag me back, and I suspect it would only make things worse.

I have to play along. He’s not lying when he says this is dangerous. I’ve heard a lot about the Novalov family, and everything I’ve heard is either horrible or absolutely frightening. It’s like I’m exchanging one viper’s nest for another, even bigger one. And in this one, all the snakes are twice as big and ten times hungrier.

I get out, my arms hugging myself. Maxim calls the elevator and we step on together. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and I stare back at him in the reflection in the elevator wall. It lurches to a start and slides up, moving past floors at a fast clip. My stomach sinks, and I wonder what Mira’s doing.

I hope Zita isn’t torturing her. Though I suspect my father will have some choice words for his madam. I smile a little at that.

We reach the fortieth floor and the doors slide open into a dim foyer with marble floors, wood paneling on the walls, and a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling. To the left is a small sitting and waiting area with nondescript chairs and couches set up around a wood-burning fireplace, and ahead is a spiral staircase. Paintings hang on the walls, dour things, like something you’d see in a museum dedicated to really depressed people.

Maxim grabs my hand. “Don’t stop,” he says and we march forward, up the stairs. We twist along, and I catch a glimpse of a living room and a kitchen and a big table before we head up to the third floor. Maxim yanks me down a side hallway, walking so fast that I have to jog to keep up, until we reach a door toward the back of the building. He yanks it open and we stagger inside. He slams it shut and bolts it locked like he wants to keep some chasing beast from catching us.

I take a step back and look around.

It’s a quiet sitting room. There’s a TV above a fireplace, couches and chairs, comfortable blankets and pillows, and a small bar in the far corner. A hallway disappears toward more rooms. It’s masculine, mostly grays and browns and dark greens, but there are small soft touches: photos of Maxim and his four siblings, a greeting card tucked behind a carved wooden cat with its paw in the air, abstract expressionist art in bright colors on the walls. It’s similar to the other rooms I saw on our trip through the Kremlin, but different, more like… him.

Maxim pours a drink and offers it to me. I’m not in the mood, but I accept it anyway. “Sit,” he says, gesturing at the couch.

I sit and curl my legs up underneath me. I sip the vodka and force myself to swallow. It burns and makes my belly feel warm, and I don’t want it at all—it’s way too early in the morning to drink—but I figure it might help me get through today.

He takes his own drink and sits across from me. He stares without speaking, throws back half his glass, and lets out a long sigh.

“I’ll get you clothes,” he says. “For now, stay here.”

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