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She picks out two novels and moves to the sofa to sit down. I rummage through the box, pick out a well-read historical romance book, and sit near her.
“Really? Romance?” she asks. “You read romance?”
“What? Can’t a killer be romantic? I love historical romance and the way they used to speak—the traditional way, most of all, how things were in order and customs were followed.”
“How the rich were really rich, and the poor were really poor,” she points out.
“That’s just capitalism. It’s how it works. I try not to think about things that will ruin the book for me when I’m reading,” I say as I flip to page one.
Time ticks by slowly as we sit in silence and read, only getting up to stoke the fires or make food and coffee. I need to hunt some meat for us. Lawrence only bought basic supplies with him so as not to draw attention.
Elena is different when she’s quiet. She’s almost personable. I could imagine us spending many nights just curled up together in a seat reading. These are not images I want to picture because they can never happen, but images I picture nonetheless.
She doesn’t try to attack me again, and as the days go by, I mostly tell her bad jokes and tease her a lot. I try not to be cruel to her. She’s easier to manage if she’s in a good mood.
God, she’s opinionated, though. She was made to run a family, that much I can tell, and her father is a fool for not taking her opinions to heart.
I don’t let her know that, though. She is my prisoner, not my guest, though in another world, I’d wish it was the other way around. She has stopped building her pillow fort between us when we go to sleep, and I try to keep my hands to myself so she doesn’t feel like I’m trying to violate her. Sometimes, though, it’s hard, sitting with my head propped up on my hand, looking down at her sleeping.
I want to taste her. I want to engulf her. I want to make her buck wildly under me until she’s crying that she can’t take the ecstasy anymore.
Chapter 10 - Elena
The first couple of days in the cabin have been unremarkable. I spend most of the day curled up by the fire reading. You could almost imagine it being on holiday if there wasn’t a handcuff on my wrist. Sounds of nature, crackling fire, a decent enough book to read, and meals prepped for me. It basically is a kidnapping holiday.
Arseny still doesn’t trust me enough to uncuff, and if he’s not cooking dinner or showering, he’s sitting next to me on the sofa, reading a book, or carving a piece of wood into something.
In the two days we've been here, he has carved a wolf, a hippo, and a mountain lion. I also notice he doesn’t answer his phone. Either no one is contacting him, or he has it on silent mode and ignores any calls.
I haven’t seen him take his phone out, but his guard delivers food to the cabin in the morning. Was this prearranged? Was he lying about him taking me on a whim?
I look over the top of my book at him as he carves. When he glances my way, I look back at the book.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see what you’re making now,” I comment.
“What do you think makes more money? Laundromats or butchers?” he asks.
“Laundromats, probably. All that change, and if you sell soap in the laundromat, that is extra. Plus, you can filter so much money through there that people wouldn’t notice.” I turn the page of my book and glance at him. “Why?”
“Well, you said yourself that you are a key player in your family,” he says. “Surely you have opinions on things.”
I look at him, surprised. “You want to know my opinions on things?”
“It’ll pass the time.” He goes back to the carving in his hands.
“How much time do we need to pass?” I ask sneakily, hoping he’ll answer.
“As much as we need to. Why don’t you tell me how I should handle your father?” He puts the carving down and looks at me.
“Be straightforward. Don’t do this smoke and daggers act that you’re currently doing. Go to him and discuss business straight to his face.” I close my book and set it down.
“That’s rich considering he’s doing a covert power play against my family,” he says. “I don’t think you know how your father ticks.”
“I know exactly how he ticks, and he isn’t doing covert anything.”
“How did you hear about the butchers, then?” he asks me. Did you have to find out on your own, or was the information volunteered to you?” He sits back and stares at me for a moment, but I don’t answer him. I won’t give him satisfaction.
