Chapter 11: Natalia

As the sun’s rays spill through the window, I wake up and glance at the clock on the wall.

It’s six o’clock, and the space next to me is as empty as it was when I went to bed. I can’t sense anyone else in the room with me.

Mikhail didn’t come back last night before I went to sleep, and from what I can tell, it doesn’t look like he slept in here.

I think I’d know if he had.

I gaze through the long French windows at the radiant sun, my first New York sunrise. Beautiful as it is, I have no idea what’s going to happen today.

I already feel like I’ve aged a hundred years over the last few days. It’s morning again, day two of me being in this house, my new prison.

Last night was the first night I slept in Mikhail’s room, in his bed.

Thankfully by myself.

I was so sure he was going to make good on his word to fuck my brains out, and after the way he handled me yesterday, I imagined him to be violent and cruel.

I figured after I ate dinner by myself and night fell, I may not see him again for the day. Again because of our encounter. When he didn’t return, I was grateful for the small mercy.

At the same time, the worrying part about not seeing him means not knowing what’s going on.

When you can see your enemy, you can keep your eye on them and be ready when they strike. When you can’t see them, you have no idea what sort of ammunition they’ll be gathering against you to wipe you out.

My guess is he probably came home and slept in a different room.

Or maybe I’m being naïve again because the alternative for men like him is the possibility he spent the night in another woman’s bed.

Why would he sleep in another room in his house because of me?

What I need to do is get my head together and keep on my toes.

I wish I knew when José was coming here. Having him around would help.

Right now, I don’t know if I’m going to see him again. If I don’t, I’ll be flying blind, never knowing when the other shoe’s going to drop, and my secret will be out.

Not only that, I’m worried about him, too.

He’s like family to me, and I have to face the very real possibility that this disaster could take him away from me.

I slide off the bed and make my way into the walk-in wardrobe. Yesterday, one section was cleared for me to put my things in.

The other section—basically the other half of the room—holds Mikhail’s clothes.

I dare not look at his things. I thought of looking around to see if I could gather more than the bare minimum of information I have on him. But I thought better of it.

I realized he wouldn’t have anything like that lying around. So, I know nothing more than what I’ve seen and heard.

I’m supposed to marry this man next week, yet I hardly know anything about him.

I don’t even know how old Mikhail is. His ruggedness makes him look older, like a man’s man, but that beauty in his features suggests he’s in his mid- to late twenties.

Yesterday I spent most of the day putting away my commandeered clothes. What I’m after now is the only thing that belongs to me. It’s a little shoe box I managed to take care of over the years.

Inside the box are my trinkets. I’ve hidden it under some jumpers I placed on the bottom shelf. There’s nothing much inside to give me away, but I’m keeping it there for the simple reason that I don’t want anything to happen to it.

I don’t want the last few precious memories of my parents tarnished.

I sink to the floor and press my back against the wall before I open it, reaching for the one thing that will soothe me.

It’s a picture of my parents and me when I was ten. We’re in San Francisco at the beach, and we’re happy.

Mom’s blonde hair is sparkling against the sun, and her bright blue eyes are beaming. My father has a protective arm around us, and he looks proud.

It’s a happy picture, of happier times, and a great memory. But it makes me sad because none of these people exist anymore.

Not even me.

I can’t be the girl from this picture anymore, or I’m dead.

I must sit there for over an hour staring at the picture and trying to recapture my calm by looking at the trinkets in my box. I lose track of time and only regain my awareness when there’s a hurried knock on the bedroom door.

Quickly, I put the box away, grab my robe, and rush out.

I don’t know who that is, but I’m guessing it’s not Mikhail. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person to knock, and why would he on his own bedroom door?

The knock sounds again just as I open the door.

It’s Aleksander, and he has the same tight lipped, displeased expression on his face he wore yesterday.

“Good morning,” I greet him.

“Miss Alvarez, breakfast will be served in ten minutes,” he replies, not even bothering to return the pleasantry, or even offer up some fake warmth. “I suggest you get ready and make your way downstairs. Mr. Dmitriyev does not like to be kept waiting. Breakfast is served at eight because he has to leave at eight thirty sharp.”

“Okay. I—”

He doesn’t wait for me to finish. He just marches off, automatically dismissing anything more I have to say.

What a prick.

He’s just as abrasive as Mikhail.

I groan inwardly and backtrack into the room before I close the door.

I guess if Mr. Dmitriyev doesn’t like to be kept waiting, it means Mr. Dmitriyev is sitting at the table. Waiting. Mikhail is here. I’m going to have to face him.

I shower quickly and change into a long-sleeved T-shirt and a little wrap-over skirt. Neither are really appropriate for the cold New York weather, but they’re the best I can find. Adriana didn’t wear pants. Her signature clothing was short shorts, dresses, and skirts. This one is knitted, so it will at least provide some warmth.

I plan to go outside today and play with the dog if I can. Then I’ll try to stay outside as much as I can and only come in to eat.

I pile my hair on top of my head in a messy bun, then make my way downstairs to the dining room.

That’s where I find my husband-to-be sitting at the head of the table looking like he’s the king of the castle.

His face is expressionless, and it doesn’t change when he sees me.

Not even a little bit.

He’s serious, always serious.

How am I supposed to live with this man?

Even if I manage to pull off this stunt of mine and truly be Adriana Alvarez, what kind of life would we have?

Would it be like last night, where he’s gone and I’m wondering if he’s sleeping in some woman’s bed? Would he be gone for days?

Would I care?

There’s nothing normal about us, but I’d at least hoped if I were to ever get married, it would never be to anybody like him. A symbol of everything I loathe. He’s death and captivity rolled into one. The complete antithesis to life.

“Sit here,” he commands, pointing to the chair opposite him. Like Aleksander, he doesn’t say good morning to me either.

I walk around to the chair and lower to sit, but the way he scans over my body before I do doesn’t escape me.

I steady my mind and gear myself up for him, hoping I’ll survive today’s encounter.

The maid I met yesterday who seemed nice but didn’t talk to me walks out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee and gorgeous-smelling pastries. It smells like you’d imagine breakfast to smell. Inviting and delicious, with everything nutritious.

When two other maids join her with more trays of food, I feel like I’m at one of those exquisite vacation getaways in Europe I’ve seen on TV.

They set the table with everything. There are three different styles of eggs, crispy strips of bacon, two different types of sausages, French toast, normal toast, and an assortment of spreads.

There’s so much food I wonder if this is for the two of us or if more people are joining.

As the staff leave and no one else enters the room, I get my answer.

The feast is just for the two of us, and it seems this is what they do every day. I’m probably used to eating this much food over a week. I’m still full from yesterday.

The main maid I’ve seen—whose name I can’t remember—returns and pours Mikhail’s coffee. I notice he takes it black. No surprise there. But he does take two sugars.

She pours me some, too, then focuses her attention on Mikhail as they start speaking in Russian. All the while Mikhail keeps a straight face. I have no idea what they’re talking about, and I can’t figure it out. For all I know, they could be talking about the weather. Or me.

I start eating but continue to watch their interaction, wondering why he’d have such an in-depth conversation with his maid.

I notice how comfortable she looks with him, not like when she was with me. It’s then the thought occurs to me that she could be one of his women.

Maybe he spent the night with her. She’s quite pretty in an English Rose sort of way and is either the same age as me or slightly older.

She makes the simple maid uniform she’s wearing look good with her shapely figure and has her long blonde hair up in a ponytail. It’s also quite obvious from the blush in her cheeks that her interest in Mikhail is more than professional.

She likes him. And I guess from the flow of that conversation he might like her too.

Great. This is another snapshot of what our mornings will be like. I’ll have to sit here and watch him flirt with his maids. I wonder if I’ll catch him doing anything else with them. Something more unsavory.

After a few moments, she leaves us, closing the dining room door behind her, and the tension returns.

Mikhail looks at me as he takes a sip of his coffee. I stare back at him, not knowing what to say.

Clearly, from the sharp gaze he’s giving me, my final plea yesterday fell on deaf ears and he thinks I’m evil.

What does he consider himself to be, though?

He massacred everyone at Raul’s house. Everyone except me and José.

There were people there who didn’t deserve to die. What qualified their death was their mere presence on the property.

How does he explain that?

In my book, that is evil.

Maybe he doesn’t care.

My gaze drops to his knuckles, and my attention goes right back to all those tattoos. I’m sure now they’re prison tattoos.

He’s killed many over the last few days. Who did he kill to make him ink his conviction on himself?

“Ask me,” he says, startling me.

Confused, I meet his hard gaze.

“What?” I don’t know what I’m supposed to ask him or if I was concentrating so hard on his tattoos that I missed something he said.

“You’re looking at my tats and trying to figure me out. Princess, if you have a question about me, just ask.”

I stare back at him, knowing that’s obviously some backhanded trickery to scare me. He knows I’m not going to like any answer he could give. So, I bite back my curiosity and shake my head.

“I don’t have any questions about you,” I lie, and the million questions I have just about him go crazy in my mind.

“No? Last chance to ask me, Malyshka. Don’t you want to know more about my tats? They seem to interest you so much.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“All right. Case closed. Any other questions?”

I look him over and decide I might try for some basic questions.

“How old are you?”

He smirks. “Twenty-eight.”

I was right about his age. I’d bet he’d look younger too without the fullness of his beard.

“Anything else?” he steeples his fingers on the table and stares deeply at me.

“Where do you work?”

“The family business, Dmitriyev Ltd. Just think of me as the accountant. Anything more?”

That was as basic as I can get. Everything else in my head will get me in trouble.

“No.”

He finishes his coffee while I focus on eating my food. I’m eating way too much, but eating is giving me something to do. It’s my anything-but-looking-at-him thing.

He sets the mug back onto the table and clears his throat.

“I want you to go shopping later,” he states.

“What for?”

“Clothes. You need warmer clothes for the weather here, and I don’t particularly like what you’re wearing.” He looks me up and down.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? These are nice clothes.”

“Yes. It’s sexy as fuck, but I’m not the only one who’s going to think so.” His gaze settles on my cleavage, and I swallow hard against the spark of arousal threatening to push its way through me. “I have guards patrolling the grounds who will think so, too. That’s just one thing wrong with your Malibu Barbie look.”

Malibu Barbie? Is he being serious? I couldn’t look any different to Malibu Barbie if I tried.

“What’s the other thing?” I challenge.

“Your father bought them for you, so the less I see of them, the better. I’m sending you to the store to get a whole new wardrobe. Aleksander will go with you. Think of your old stuff as keepsakes. Is that clear?”

“Yeah.” I can’t exactly complain. Getting new clothes is probably a good thing. At least I get to pick them and will feel less like I borrowed someone’s life.

“The seamstress is also coming by tomorrow to discuss your dress. You only have tomorrow to pick the style you want. So, make sure you do it, and don’t give her any trouble,” he states.

Seamstress.

For my wedding dress.

Me.

God, this is actually happening. We’re really getting married.

I’m going to be in my own dress, and we’ll be married.

It won’t be the fairy-tale wedding I dreamed of having when I was a little girl. It will be like some nightmare.

And who will be there to see it happen?

His people. All people who hate me and nobody for me. Unless José will be there.

Or not. What if I don’t see him again?

I was told yesterday he was none of my concern, but I have to ask the question just so I know.

“When am I going to see José?” I say quickly and pray he doesn’t go crazy on me. “Am I going to see him again?”

He sets his elbows onto the table, and I can tell I’ve taken this conversation in a direction I didn’t want.

“I already told you, he’s none of your concern anymore.”

“I know, but I just wanted to see him. Is he still coming to New York?” It would be a cruel joke and a sick twist of fate if I’m sitting here asking these questions while Mikhail has already killed José.

“I’m going to say this one more time, Malyshka. José has nothing to do with you anymore,” he informs with emphasis on every single syllable. “And just so you know...”—he touches my face and lifts my chin, so I meet his gaze head on—“I’m a very jealous, possessive man, and I’m not exactly a fan of your interest in the old man.”

“I told you; he’s my bodyguard. This is the longest I’ve gone without seeing him.”

“I don’t fucking care. In my mind, you look like you want to fuck him.”

My mouth drops, and I don’t know how it doesn’t hit the floor.

“You bastard,” I hiss, backing away from his grasp, different to yesterday when I allowed him to hurt me. I’m just so appalled by what he said it’s enraged me, and I can’t calm myself back down.

He bolts up, squaring off with me with his nostrils flared and eyes blazing.

Sensing he’s about to go ape shit on me, I stand, too, but back a few paces away to put some distance between us.

He’s too big. Too tall and formidable. I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to crush me in one move before I could think to get away.

“What did you just call me?” he demands, balling his hand into a tight fist.

“What is the matter with you?” I snap, answering his question with a question. Surely, his behavior isn’t normal by anybody’s standards. It’s not by mine, and I can’t believe what he’s implying. He implied the same thing back in Mexico, but I was so worried that I couldn’t fully address the matter. “How does asking for a man who’s like a father to me make me look like some kind of whore?”

“What. Did. You. Just. Call me?”

“You heard what I said, and I gave you an answer.”

“Lady, I call it like I see it. If you look like you want to be the old man’s whore, then that’s not on me. It’s on you. Fuck, maybe the doctor got it wrong, and you’ve been fucking the old man this whole time.”

“Fuck you, you fucking asshole. How dare you say that to me!” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Every one of them.

Jesus, who told me to say that?

Why did I snap back like that?

I don’t get to think any more because it takes a split second for him to lunge for me, and I swear I see my life flash before my eyes. Everything rushes me, the good and the bad.

When he grabs my arms, I scream and do the only thing I can think of to break free. I send one hard kick to his knee.

I was aiming for his balls. I just never reached.

I make an impact, though, and he loosens his grip on me in an instant.

However, I think the only reason he lets go is because I catch him off guard. I shock myself, too.

I don’t, however, waste time mulling over it.

I run.