Page 4 of Hostage with Benefits

I woke up wondering if last night’s orgasms had permanently altered my brain chemistry.

I stared at the ceiling, inventorying the soreness between my legs, the light bruising on my wrists, and the memory of Mikhail’s weight pressing me into the mattress. What kind of person sleeps with their kidnapper?

This kind, apparently.

A knock at the door jolted me from my existential crisis. I yanked the sheet up to my chin.

“Who is it?” I called, my voice scratchy from sleep. And screaming. Definitely some light screaming was done last night.

Mikhail entered carrying a mug. He’d already dressed in another one of those criminally well-tailored suits. His hair was styled, and I had the absurd urge to run my fingers through it just to mess it up a little.

“Good morning,” he said, setting the mug on the nightstand. The smell of coffee hit me, and my stomach growled in response.

“Morning.” I sat up, keeping the sheet tucked around me. “Do kidnappers usually provide room service? Is this what that is?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “No. This isn’t room service.”

“What are you doing here, Mikhail?”

“I wanted to tell you that you are free to move around the house. The door will remain unlocked. You can lock it from the inside for privacy.”

“Upgrading my accommodations already? What did I do to deserve that?”

His gaze traveled deliberately down to where the sheet covered my body, then back up to my face. “I think you know.”

Heat bloomed across my skin. “So that’s how it works? Sex for hostage privileges?”

“No,” he said sharply. “That is not how it works. Do not suggest it again.”

The shift in his tone was jarring.

“Sorry,” I said, not entirely sure why I was apologizing. “I just meant?—”

“I know what you meant.” He moved toward the door. “Join me for breakfast in thirty minutes. That is not a request.”

After he left, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, letting hot water wash away the evidence of last night’s activities.

My mind kept replaying fragments—his hands pinning mine above my head, his mouth on my neck, the way he’d looked at me when I came, and my body responded with an embarrassing eagerness for a repeat performance.

Cold shower. Definitely needed a cold shower.

I dressed in yesterday’s clothes, grimacing at the wrinkles. My laptop sat on the desk, reminding me of my deadline. I should be working, but the prospect of breakfast with Mikhail was far more interesting. I took a sip of the coffee and took a deep breath.

What was wrong with me?

The dining room was just as intimidating in the daylight. Mikhail sat at the head of the table, reading something on his phone. He looked up when I entered, his eyes tracking me as I approached.

He nodded, gesturing to the chair on his right. The table was set with food: pastries, fruit, eggs, and things I didn’t recognize but smelled amazing.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked as I sat down.

“Is that a serious question?”

His lips twitched. “Fine, just eat.”

I reached for a pastry. As I ate, I caught him watching me with that same intensity from last night; occasionally, he would do this thing where he added one more of the things I already had on my plate.

“I can feed myself, you know,” I said after the third time.

“Clearly not. You are too thin.”

“I maintain a perfectly healthy weight for someone surviving on my levels of income and anxiety.”

He frowned. “Your job and the deadline are giving you anxiety now?”

“No, it’s fine now. I have time to finish everything.” I surprised myself with how easily I dismissed it.

“Good.” He looked pleased. “There are more important things for you to do than work right now.”

“Like what? Being a good hostage?”

“Like enjoying breakfast.” He reached for the coffee pot, refilling my cup. “And perhaps getting to know your host.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? You’re hosting me?”

“Would you prefer I call it kidnapping?”

“I’d prefer it if you were honest, yeah.”

Something in his expression shifted. “Then I will be honest. I have business to attend to today. You are free to explore the house, but do not leave the building. The security system will alert me if you try.”

“What kind of business does a kidnapper have this early in the day?”

“The kind that ensures you remain my only hostage.” He stood, straightening his already perfect suit. “Make yourself at home, Natalia.”

The way he said my name, rolling the syllables with that accent, made my insides liquefy. I watched him leave, appreciating the view of a man in a wickedly well-tailored suit despite myself.

Make myself at home. In my kidnapper’s mansion. After sleeping with him. Sure. Perfectly normal fucking Wednesday.

I found the kitchen by following the scent of freshly baked bread. Galina stood at a massive island counter, flour up to her elbows, muttering in Russian.

She looked up when I entered. “Ah, Miss Petrova. Good. You help.”

Before I could protest, she’d shoved an apron at me and positioned me beside her at the counter.

“I don’t really cook,” I started to say.

“Not cook. Bake different.” She demonstrated kneading the dough. “Like this. You try.”

I mimicked her movements, surprised when she nodded approval.

“You have good hands for this. Strong.” She looked at me, assessing. “But too thin. American girls don’t eat enough.”

“I eat plenty,” I protested.

“Today breakfast, yes. But before? No. I can tell.” She poked at my ribs through my shirt. “We fix this fast.”

For the next hour, she worked me like a sous chef, all while interrogating me about my life, my job, my apartment, my family.

Galina narrowed her eyes at me. “You think this is normal kidnapping? If normal, you be in basement, no nice bed.”

“I’m aware of the luxury hostage accommodations, thank you.”

“Not hostage. Guest .” Her tone suggested this distinction was important to her.

“Guests can leave whenever they want, Galina.”

She waved a flour-covered hand dismissively. “Details. Important thing is, Mr. Volkov likes you.”

“Because I’m useful leverage against my father. ”

Galina’s laugh was like a rusty gate. “Your father. Pah. That man worth nothing to Mr. Volkov now.”

I paused in my dough-shaping. “What do you mean?”

She realized she’d said too much and busied herself with the oven. “Nothing. Not my business to say.”

“Galina—”

“You will make good wife,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Strong. Not afraid. You learn cook now too.”

“Wife? I’ve been here less than two days!”

“Time means nothing.” She tapped her chest. “I see how Mr. Volkov looks at you. Not like business. Like hunger .”

My face heated. “That’s just… physical.”

“No, no. Mr. Volkov has many women for physical needs. Models, actresses. They bore him after one night.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “He watches you on security cameras. He can’t stop thinking about you.”

That should have creeped me out. Instead, something warm and dangerous churned in my stomach. “He’s making sure I don’t escape.”

“Tell yourself this if it makes you feel better.” She patted my cheek, leaving a smear of flour. “But I know. He needs a good Russian wife. Someone strong who won’t break. Pretty with good hips to make kids.”

“I’m not dating or wife material; I’m a hostage.”

“Hostage, girlfriend, wife, they are all labels.” She dismissed them with a wave. “I see how he looks at you . How you look at him .”

“I don’t look at him like anything,” I protested.

“Lie to Galina if you want. Don’t lie to yourself.” She opened the oven and gestured for me to slide in the tray of whatever we’d been making. “Now, we make soup. You chop vegetables.”

After escaping Galina’s culinary boot camp, I wandered the mansion. The place was massive. I found myself outside a heavy wooden door I assumed was Mikhail’s office, hesitating only briefly before trying the handle.

It opened. Either an oversight or a test by my kidnapper.

The files in his office were scattered, but it was easy to piece everything together. A shipment of drugs was missing, stolen by my father.

I was trying to decipher Mikhail’s handwriting when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I moved to the bookshelf, pretending to browse. Dmitri appeared in the doorway, his expression suspicious.

“Looking for something?” he asked, his accent thicker than Mikhail’s.

“Just exploring. Mikhail said I could move around freely.” I pulled a random book from the shelf. “I like to read.”

Dmitri looked unconvinced but nodded. “Mr. Volkov will return soon.”

“Great. Thanks for the update.”

He lingered a moment longer, then left, but I knew my snooping time was over. I returned to my room, my mind racing with what I’d found. Whatever my father had stolen was drug-related, and it was big enough to warrant kidnapping me.

I was contemplating this mystery when Mikhail returned in the late afternoon. He opened my door without knocking, looking annoyingly perfect despite whatever “business” he’d been conducting.

“We’re going out,” he announced.

“Are we now?”

“You need clothes.”

I looked down at my wrinkled outfit. “What’s wrong with these?”

“Everything.” He stepped closer, his presence filling the room. “Unless you plan to wear the same clothes until this situation resolves.”

“And how long will that be?”

His expression hardened. “Longer than we initially expected.”

“So we’re going shopping?”

“No.” His voice was flat, but his eyes said something different. “ We are going to a store. You will get clothes. Then we return. This isn’t a shopping trip.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

“Then you can continue wearing the same outfit and washing it in the sink each night.”

I sighed dramatically, suppressing a smile. “Fine. Then shopping it is.”

I tried not to think about how bizarre this was: shopping with my kidnapper.

“Get whatever you need,” Mikhail said, trailing behind me at the mall with thinly veiled discomfort. He clearly wasn’t a mall person.