Page 120 of Beautiful Secrets

He could have said no. Fuck, I half expect him to laugh as he pummels my face into the ground and leaves me disfigured for life.

But instead he ties me up again and leaves.

Damn…should have told him I had to take a piss.

Then again, if he decides to try and find Mika himself—not an impossible task by any means—then some damp boxers will be the least of my worries.

43

Mika

Iam watching the air hostess taking us through safety procedures but if there was an emergency, I will not remember a single thing she is saying.

All I can think about is the mischievous gleam in a pair of green eyes matched by the roguish smirk of Cole’s full mouth.

The fasten seatbelt signs went on a while ago. I am sure we are about to take off. I have a window seat, but it makes me sick to look out of it. I never even knew I was afraid of heights, but even just sitting in the airplane and seeing the distance between my window and the tarmac is making my head spin.

Or maybe it is just nerves.

I am, after all, returning to a country I left over fifteen years ago. And when I get there, I will have to find the Vasiliev estate in Moscow.

What if my grandparents do not live there anymore? Maybe my parents have contact with the Vasilievs back home, but neither I nor any of my siblings have spoken with them since we left.

I cannot remember the day we left, or even much leading up to it. What I do recall are birthday celebrations where the Vasiliev estate in Rublyovka was crammed full of family. And grandmother, grandfather—they were always so kind and warm. Even Grandfather, who had no reason to be pleasant to me. He would smuggle sweets into my hand when no one was looking, and tell me gory details about the kind of Bratva justice they handed out in Moscow.

I know they will welcome me back…if I can only find them.

But while I was sure my memory would serve me well when I was thinking up my plans for escape, now I am not so sure.

There’s a hiss and a clank, and the airplane starts moving forward.

The man beside me is middle-aged, chubby, and smells of cigarettes. He’s reading a newspaper, but folds it in half and puts it away when the plane begins to move.

My stomach lurches as the plane takes a sweeping turn and heads for the runway. I try and keep my eyes on the distant horizon, but now it is too easy to notice the other large planes zooming past as we begin to pick up speed.

“First time?”

I turn my head, staring for a second at the man beside me. I blink, and perhaps my confusion is evident because he makes a point of looking down at my hand.

I have a death grip on the armrest, the tips of my fingers white where they stick out of Cole’s suit jacket.

“No, but I was young.”

“Ah,” the man says, switching to fluent Russian as his eyes light up at the sound of my accent. “When last where you home?”

“Too long ago.” I hug myself, trying to drown in Cole’s smell.

“Erik.” The man sticks out a hand, but takes it back when I refuse to shake it. He gives me a small frown, taking in my odd assortment of clothes.

He is not the first. Every flight attendant who has seen me so far has given me a second or third look. I guess an expensive suit jacket worn over cheap, pink yoga pants is not considered fashion in Scotland.

Also the fact that I carried no luggage for a seven-hour flight is something they found very strange.

“Are you feeling all right?” Erik asks.

God, really?

My stomach flips over, and the blood drains from my face. I quickly shake my head, and start fumbling with my seatbelt.