Page 10 of Hostage with Benefits

I didn't think I’d find myself making a mental pros and cons list about our relationship while curled against his chest that night.

But here I was, doing exactly that.

Mikhail's breathing had evened out, but I knew he wasn't asleep yet. His hand traced lazy patterns on my back, and he smiled every time I got goosebumps from it.

After our confrontation, we'd ended up here in his bed. Not for sex this time; we were just cuddling, but it felt more intimate somehow. His lips pressed against my hair, my forehead, and my temple every so often.

So… the pros and cons list.

Pros:

Financial security.

No more hustling for freelance gigs that barely covered rent.

No more anxiety about medical bills or unexpected expenses.

A mansion instead of my shoebox apartment.

Galina's cooking.

Sleeping in obscenely high thread count sheets.

Orgasms, lots of them and good ones at that.

The way, for the first time since my mother died, I didn't feel completely alone.

A really good looking man to ogle whenever I pleased.

Cons:

He was a criminal. Whatever euphemistic “business” he conducted, it wasn't legal. I wasn't na?ve enough to pretend otherwise.

This whole thing had started with a kidnapping. The foundation of whatever we had was built on coercion, no matter how blurry the lines had become since.

My father was involved somehow, which meant this tangled web included the man who had abandoned me repeatedly throughout my life.

I'd known Mikhail for a week. This was insane by any rational standard.

And yet.

And yet when he held me like this, when I felt his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, none of those cons seemed to matter as much as they should. They were abstract problems.

What felt real was the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, and the way hollow in my soul seemed to be filling, slowly but surely, with each moment I spent with him.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“I think my therapist is going to need therapy after I tell her about all this.”

His chest moved with silent laughter. “Perhaps I should cover her bills as well as yours.”

“Thoughtful kidnapper.”

“I prefer ' attentive fiancé,'” he said, the words so casual it took a moment for them to register.

I lifted my head to look at him in the dim light. “I don't recall a proposal. Or saying yes.”

His lips curved. “Consider this advance notice that one is coming.”

“That's presumptuous. That I’ll say yes, that is.”

“Is it?” His hand moved to cup my cheek, thumb tracing my lower lip. “Tell me you haven't been weighing the pros and cons of us together in that practical mind of yours.”

“Hey! Mind reading wasn’t a part of the deal.”

“I don't need to read your mind.” His expression softened. “You’re always analyzing, always so pragmatic. It's one of the things I love about you.”

Love . The word still made my stomach flip, still seemed impossible. But in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, with no one to witness my vulnerability, I could admit to myself that I wanted it to be true, even though I couldn't say it back just yet.

“Go to sleep, Natalia,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “We'll talk more in the morning.”

I settled back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing until I fell asleep.

I blinked awake the next morning to find Mikhail sitting on the bed, fully dressed, just watching me.

“Creepy,” I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. “Watching people sleep is creepy.”

“Good morning to you too. Did you sleep well, kukolka ?”

I nodded.

“I had Galina prepare breakfast for us in the dining room,” he said. “Join me when you're ready. ”

After he left, I took my time showering and dressing. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked different… less exhausted, my eyes were clearer. I still looked like me, but a version of me that had been getting enough sleep and regular meals, which I’d never met before.

Twenty minutes later, I found Mikhail in the dining room, seated at the head of the table with papers spread before him. He looked up when I entered, his face softening.

“There you are,” he said, gathering the papers and setting them aside. “Sit. Eat.”

The table was set up with the usual feast Galina prepared. I settled into what had become my usual chair and reached for a pastry.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, noticing the unusual quiet.

“I gave the staff the morning off.”

“All of them?”

“I wanted privacy for this conversation.”

I paused mid-bite. “That sounds ominous.”

“Not at all.” He took a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. “I wanted to discuss your job.”

“My job?” Not what I'd expected. “What about it?”

“You've missed work for a week. I assume you’re expecting to get back to it eventually?”

I hadn't thought much about my clients in the past few days, which was strange considering how central work had been to my life before. “I suppose I should call my clients, let them know I'm... indisposed.”

“Or you could quit freelancing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And do what instead?”

“I could take care of you,” he said simply. “Completely.”

The offer hung between us. Independence had been something I’d been striving for so long, the thing I'd clung to when everything else fell apart. The idea of giving it up, of being dependent on someone else, made something in me recoil instinctively .

“I like working,” I said curtly.

“You could still work. Design whatever you want, for whoever you want. But only because you enjoy it, not because you need the money.” He paused, studying my face.

“You'd have the freedom to be selective. To take only projects that interest you. Maybe you can work for one of the more legitimate businesses my cousins run.”

Put that way, it sounded almost reasonable. Almost.

“Why are you offering this?”

Instead of answering directly, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box, placing it on the table between us. Without much ceremony, he slid it toward me.

I stared at it, my heart suddenly pounding. “Mikhail?—“

“This would make things simpler,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact despite the enormity of what he was suggesting. “We could elope tomorrow. Or whenever you want.”

I opened the box with fingers that weren't entirely steady. Inside was a ring. A platinum band with an emerald-cut diamond flanked by smaller stones. Not tacky, yet undeniably fucking expensive.

“This is crazy,” I said, not taking the ring out. “We've known each other less than two weeks.”

“Yes.” No denial and no attempt to soften the reality from him. “And yet, here we are.”

“Why the rush? Why not... date like normal people for a while?”

He leaned forward, his expression serious. “In my world, marriages are rarely about love. They're arrangements between families, political alliances to prevent bloodshed or secure partnerships. They are negotiated like business deals.”

“And this would be different?”

“This would be a choice. My choice. Your choice.” His eyes held mine. “But it would also give me peace of mind. In my world, only a wife is respected and protected. I want you to have access to that, or I’ll worry any time you’re not in front of me.”

The practicality of his approach was so perfectly calibrated to my nature that I almost laughed. He knew exactly how to frame this with logical arguments and practical benefits so I would have to consider it. Bastard.

“You want to marry me for my protection?” I asked.

“I want to marry you because I love you,” he said, those particular words still sending a shock through me. “The protection is a benefit, not the purpose.”

I looked down at the ring, still nestled in its box. “I don't need a proposal to stay.”

“I know.” His voice was soft. “This isn't about keeping you here. It's about keeping you safe. About making it clear to everyone in my world that this isn’t something temporary. That you are mine, and I am yours.”

Mine . The possessiveness in that single word shouldn't have made warmth pool in my belly. But it did.

“What about my father?” I asked, the question that had been nagging at me.

“What about him?”

“He's involved in... whatever it is you do. Won't that complicate things?”

Mikhail's expression hardened slightly. “Your father's involvement in my business is over. He's been... encouraged to look elsewhere. He won't be a problem for either of us again.”

I should have been concerned about what that meant. Instead, I felt only relief that I wouldn’t have to think of him again.

“So that's it? You decide you want to marry me, and I'm supposed to just say yes?”

“You're supposed to say whatever you want to say,” he countered. “That's the point. This is your choice. Say no if you want to say no.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. The man who had treated me with unexpected kindness. The man whose carefully constructed walls had crumbled when he thought I might leave.

“Yes,” I said before I could overthink it.

His eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected me to agree so easily. “Yes?”

“Yes,” I repeated. “But I have conditions.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Of course you do.”

“I keep working. Maybe not as much, but I don't want to lose that part of myself.”

He nodded. “Done.”

“And I want to know more about your business. Not everything; I'm not na?ve enough to think that's possible. But enough that I'm not completely in the dark.”

He hesitated, then nodded again. “Within reason. But some things are safer for you not to know.”

He rose and came around the table, took the ring from the box then knelt beside my chair.

“Natalia Petrova,” he said, completely serious. “Will you marry me?”

I blinked in confusion. “I already said yes.”

“Humor me.” The smile playing at his lips softened.

“Yes, Mikhail Volkov. I will marry you, God help me.”

He slid the ring onto my finger, then pressed his lips to my knuckles just above it. The tenderness of it made my chest ache with love.