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Chapter Nine
Tiana
My thoughts are a jumbled mess of denial and horror.
I’m still fighting off disbelief as the realization that I’ve been traded like a pawn in some sick game to settle my father’s debts claws at me.
The walls of Kirill Vyronov’s room feel like they’re closing in as it all comes crashing in. It’s not just what happened that’s hanging over me - it’s the suspicion that’s been thrown on me. That I might be blamed for my father’s bullshit on top of it all. That I might be forced to pay for his crimes. It feels unfair.
What have I done to deserve this?
First, the auction, then my father being gunned down, and now this. Is there anything else the Universe could throw at me to make my life more of a shitshow?
Don’t tempt Fate, Tiana!
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whisper under my breath. My voice breaks as the heavy silence that hangs between us.
“That doesn’t answer my question, Ptichka.” The man who bought me still hangs over me like a bird of prey. A dark, brooding bird of prey. With ruffled hair and a face that only seems more viciously appealing now that it’s streaked with blood.
I’ve lost my mind.
It’s the only reasonable explanation.
Who wouldn’t in a situation like this?
“Answer me!” He roars. His deep, guttural voice almost has the walls of the room shaking. It snaps me back from my wandering thoughts in an instant. I shrink down, feeling even smaller under his fierce gaze. But I set my chin straight.
“How do I answer something that I know nothing about?” My voice is sharp, rising a little.
Kirill’s eyes are icy as they fix on me. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, little bird,” he leans in closer. “What do you know of his business with the Bratva?”
If I wasn’t shaking from fear and shock, I would probably laugh out loud - it’s too ludicrous. My own life has spiraled into something out of a dark, twisted fairy tale, and here stands the big bad wolf asking if I played in the woods knowingly.
“I know nothing about my father’s business,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
“Then fucking prove it,” he snaps.
“Screw you,” I mutter. “I have nothing to tell you. Except that I hope you rot.”
His eyes narrow, his pupils darkening. Yet, my defiance doesn’t get to him. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Ptichka,” he warns, his voice is a low and threatening growl. But when he turns slightly, there’s a brief flicker of pain that flashes across his face as he adjusts his stance. It catches my attention.
He’s wounded.
I saw it when he took me from the other room. There’s blood on his shirt. I can see the stickiness seeping through the dark fabric, making it gleam wetly in the dim light.
“You’re injured,” I say, surprising myself, and probably him too.
“That’s none of your business,” he shoots back immediately. His eyes are filled with fire, but he doesn’t let himself be overtaken by his anger. He’s like a wounded tiger that is prepared to do anything to get his way. And I find that oddly appealing, which is all kinds of crazy. Especially that I’m all tied up and completely at his mercy. He’s all about death and violence. He could snap me in half if he wanted to, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Yet here I am, defying him every step of the way. It’s like our own little game. And that shouldn't make my heart race and my nipples tighten. But it does. And I don’t understand why. Why am I reacting this way to this man? It’s all new to me.
Am I screwed up in the head?
Maybe I am one of those perverts my father was always protecting me from?
“You’re hurt. You need help.” I tell him again, allowing my eyes to move over the stain of blood on his shirt.
A dark eyebrow rises. “Are you trying to convince me that you care, Ptichka?”
Now I wish I’d said nothing about it. I hate that I noticed, I hate that I want to know more about the real man behind the monster who holds my fate in his blood-stained hands.
