Page 115 of Cruel Demands

“Oh, good, so you are also greedy like your father, not only violent.”

“She followed me into a dangerous situation. I needed to make sure she would keep quiet before she put herself in more danger.”

“I saw the way you were watching her. She is not only a prisoner.”

“No, she is not only a prisoner.”

“Mikhail,” she says low, her voice a warning, “Do not ruin her like your father ruined me.”

“I have no intention of ruining anyone.”

“You never do.”

“She is not mine to ruin.”

She rises and gathers her robe around herself. “Well, your not-yours is getting away, moy syn, whatever she is.” My son. Even when she thinks—knows—I have kidnapped a girl, I am her son.

From the piano bench, I listen to Taylor’s footsteps disappear down the corridor toward the front door. The front door slams shut. I know my men will stop her before she gets far.

I sigh and call Yuri. “Just let her go. Have someone make sure she gets home.”

My mother smiles sadly and pats my face. “Drink some tea with your alcohol please, Mishka. I cannot stand to see you like this.”

28

TAYLOR

I stay home from work. I tell Anya that I’m not feeling well, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me, but she has an exam to take, so mercifully, she leaves me alone. I lock the door the second she leaves, and check all the windows. No black cars or men in dark coats. No one suspicious.

I turn my phone off, and I run back to bed and hide under the covers. I need to make a plan. I need to drop out and go home, I’m sure of it, but for today, I need to lie low and not get myself killed.

By noon, I almost begin to believe he will leave me alone.

By one, I understand that I am not afraid he will come. I am afraid he will not.

That realization makes me so angry that I clean the kitchen. I scrub the counter, reorganize the cabinet, throw away three expired packets of tea, and begin wiping the refrigerator shelves with enough force to remove paint.

I’m bent over the bottom drawer when someone knocks. My entire body freezes. Three slow knocks. Not Anya. She has a key. Not Petyr. He announces himself. The knock comes again.

I stand carefully. My phone is still on the table. Too far away. There’s a knife in the drying rack. I take it. The blade is small and serrated, designed for tomatoes. I grimace, imagining how close I would have to be to stab someone with it, but I take it anyway. I move toward the door without making a sound. A shadow blocks the light beneath it.

“Taylor.” Mikhail’s voice passes through the wood.

My fingers tighten around the knife. “Go away.”

“No.”

I close my eyes. Of course not. “I’m sick.”

“You are not.”

“You don’t know that.”

Then, quieter, “Open the door, Taylor.”

I should not. Every reasonable instinct says not to. Unfortunately, reason has accomplished very little for me lately.

I slide the chain into place before turning the lock. The door opens two inches. Mikhail stands in the hallway wearing a dark coat dusted with snow. He holds a paper shopping bag in one hand.