Chapter 6

NATALIA.

Over the last few days, I’d stayed away from him. I ate when I was asked, and the rest of the time I stayed in my room except to go to the bathroom. All the time, acting like a spoiled brat by pretending I was sulking, which is what I knew he expected of me. But really I was watching his movements. Reminding myself as much as he presented himself to be vulnerable when he punched into the tree like a crazed man, he was dangerous.

He’d captured me and brought me here. He was my jailer. The one holding me against my will. Yet, I’d kissed him and wanted to do more than that. I shook my head, chewing on a thumbnail. What was wrong with me? I should hate him. It was like I’d lost my senses as lust and attraction clouded my judgment. His scars had made him look vulnerable, but that didn’t take away what he’d done.

Or did it?

Fuck!

I was so confused. This would be paradise to some, but to me it was torture. Only the same faces every day; mine, with the reflection in the mirror, and his. I wondered if this was what they meant by Stockholm syndrome. How if I were set free to go back to the city but would want to be here in this fake paradise. That I’d pine and dream of him and being with him. I huffed out a breath. As if.

Wait. I hadn't had my medicine since he kidnapped me and brought me here. Was that the reason my hormones were all out of whack? Why I was so turned on around him one moment and wanted to scream and throw something at him the next?

“I’m having dinner if you want to join,” he said, and I spun around. I hadn’t even heard him open the door.

I blinked, staring at him. It’d been the first time in over a week since he’d tried to have any type of conversation with me. Every day, I waited for him to leave the house. I’d even followed him a few times, hoping to find a way off this island or perhaps someone else here who could help me.

Nothing.

No. There was no doubt that if he got what he wanted, then he might kill me. I knew how it worked. I wasn’t naive enough to think he would just let me go. If he planned on doing that, then he wouldn’t show his face.

I’d been watching too much CSI. So what if he showed his face? It wasn’t as though I would ever go to the police. They have their own code and their own laws within the families.

“Sure.” I shrugged, trying to keep it casual. Was it wrong that as he asked me, my nipples became erect and my stomach filled with butterflies?

It was almost like when he acknowledged me, it made me feel special.

I shook my head at the idea of it. I was getting distracted once again. I had to prevent my body from betraying me and creating a false illusion that he cared at all. I was a token for my father to do whatever they wanted and then would be tossed aside if I was lucky. No, all of this must be my body coming off the medicine I'd been taking since I was fifteen.

“Earlier, I caught a huge fish--a sea bream. So I put it on the fire outside and thought I would make something special with it.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to sound ungrateful, but he was trying too hard. He had a full, prideful smile on his face. I wasn’t a fan of fish. I’d had it enough times to know it only filled me up so much and it was an acquired taste.

That taste wasn’t mine.

“I prepared the table outside and the moon will be rising high soon.”

I’d tried to figure out the times. But it was crazy doing it with no clock, no watch. I used only the sun setting and rising as a means of knowing how many days I’d been here.

I used my phone for everything. I remember what my uncle once said to me. “Natalia, what will you do one day when you have no phone? This is why it is good to have a watch. Without time, you have no purpose.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until now. I did feel a little lost. Lost in the sense of time, and the quick flash of memory of my uncle made me not want to be alone. Even if it was with my captor.

“This is one of my favorite dishes. Mom used to make it for me whenever it was a special occasion to make me feel good.”

“Used to?” I raised an eyebrow, and his gaze, which once met mine, darted in a different direction, letting me know that the memory of his mom was just as painful as mine of my uncle. This was the issue with the Bratva. If you met anyone associated with it, guaranteed they’d lost someone not by natural causes but by them being murdered. It was a horrible life, one that I’d disassociated myself from as soon as I had graduated high school. But the awareness of it all had hijacked me from the moment I was kidnapped.

“Do you want a glass of wine?” he asked and headed in the direction of the kitchen.

“Sure.” Finally being over the legal age in America had its perks. It sucked when I first came to America at eighteen to find out it was illegal, and I had to wait until I was twenty-one without having to worry about having a drink.

“Okay, if you want to be like that. I’m sure once you have a taste of what I’ve prepared, then you’ll be full of more than one-word answers.”

More like, when I have a couple of glasses of wine, I would be. Right now, I was in a state of denial. Denying my attraction and excitement about the whole idea of us sitting down and having a romantic meal, and pretending that I would use this as an opportunity to get off this island. His walkie-talkie. I could grab it and try to see if I could get someone on the line. Like if it was a radio, I could call for help. I just had to be careful and not call one of his men accidentally.

I had no other opportunity to do anything else right now. As much as my senses were telling me otherwise.

“I wanted to use this opportunity to be a better host.”

I stood frozen, too scared to go outside, and the same fear kept me inside. “Did something happen? We haven’t spoken for days, yet you’re acting strange.” Oh no, did my dad refuse to do what they wanted? Did they no longer need me and I was going to be killed?

Once again, his dark eyes met mine. “Come, it’s time to eat. We will talk business another time. I’m famished.”

He walked with me to the table he had set up for two outside in the moonlight.

A scent lured me closer, and my eyes raced across the wooden table, which was now covered in white linen with a candle in the middle of it.

His hand shifted across the table as he explained what we were going to eat. “This is garlic bread for you to snack on, then the side dish is a green salad with a lemon sauce, then the main dish of sea bream with slices of potato and asparagus. And for dessert? Well, that’s a surprise.”

“It looks amazing. Are you sure all this is just for the two of us?” I couldn’t help myself from asking, and my stomach was already growling for me to shut up and eat.

He chuckled, and it was the first time I’d noticed—maybe because he’d never laughed until now—that he had a dimple at the same place where he had the scar.

“Sit. Eat.”

I didn’t hesitate, grabbing a piece of garlic bread, from the sliced baguette. It was so soft and hot.

“Did you make this all here?” I asked with a full mouth.

He chuckled once again. “No.”

Then he joined me and started to eat too, but more civilized, as he put the napkin across his lap. Then he seemed to admire me eating as my fork and hands darted across the two plates, ignoring the salad.

“You’re not much of a salad person, are you?”

“I’m not a healthy eater at all. Mom said that the moment I have children I would regret my bad eating habits. I have no plans on having children yet, so I’m enjoying eating rubbish while I can.” He nodded like what I said made perfect sense to him.

So much for not being a fish eater. I realized as the white fish hit my tongue, that it didn’t smell like a typical fish, which meant all the ones I’d been eating were the wrong ones. This one was fleshy, like eating chicken, but a lot softer.

“How did you make all this and I didn’t smell it all day?” I asked while closing my eyes and enjoying every succulent taste.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Are you enjoying it?”

I nodded, but he was avoiding the question, which meant only one thing. He didn’t make it here, it was brought here. And the question was, how?

“Are you studying law to figure out how your dad could avoid going to prison for all his crimes?”

I chuckled at the idea of it. Prison would be like a two-star hotel to my family. Their fear wasn’t prison but dying. At times, I wondered if they worried about that. I crossed my arms, thinking that everything that had happened to date could be a trick. He didn’t know shit about my family.

Tomas blinked.

“We’re here, and as I said, I’m not here to hurt you as long as your dad plays the game right.”

My gut clenched and I swallowed. “And if he doesn’t?”

No more did I feel like eating, as I knew the answer to his question.

He shot up from his seat and ignored me. “Seeing as you’ve eaten everything, I hope you have room for dessert.”

“In America, serial killers on death row always have their favorite meal as their last supper. Will this be mine?”

It was a cheap shot. I didn’t like fish, so it wasn’t exactly my favorite meal. But then he opened the oven, and there it was in front of me as he pulled out the tray. The delicious treat was unmistakable.

“Chocolate brownies,” I purred.

“Not just that, but vanilla ice cream too, and not just any vanilla ice cream.”

I finished his thought for him, and for a split second, I remembered the conversation in which he discovered my fetish for not only ice cream but brownies too.

“Haagen-Dazs. The most expensive ice cream ever and worth every bite.”

He grinned as he laid the oven tray with the brownies on the workspace and then nodded. A woman could find it romantic. A passing conversation online, and he remembered it enough to go to the trouble of baking it.

“This I made especially for you.”

“How come I didn’t hear you or even smell it?”

“You sleep a lot.”

“Do you think that you could butter me up with brownies and ice cream?”

He avoided my stare as I thought about this week. I’d been in my room, yes, but not sleeping. I’d been listening and trying to figure out his movements. Yet, at times I couldn’t hear him at all. It was as though he had feathers on the bottom of his feet. I would open my door and he would be there.

He took a bowl and scooped the ice cream into it. Then he cut the brownie and put it on a plate. It was fancy, especially when he took the chocolate syrup from the fridge and put it on top of the ice cream, not the brownie. Something else I’d commented on. I knew the brownie would taste as good as it looked, but I couldn’t help but feel that all this would come at a price. One that was worth it, as I didn’t even wait until we got to the table to devour the chocolate dessert.

“I’ll get the next plate ready,” he smiled.

I nodded, thinking if this was my last meal, then I would enjoy every last second of it. It was like he was taunting me, by reminding me how I got on this island in the first place. By joining the serial killers chat group and our discussion one time about serial killers and their last meal. I didn’t know if he was doing this as an act of kindness or proving a point. I didn’t want to think too much about it, because being here with nothing to do, but think at times just gave me a headache.