Page 6 of Hostage with Benefits

I found Galina in the kitchen the following morning, already deep in breakfast preparations. She gave me a knowing look that made me wonder if the entire household had heard last night's activities.

“Good morning, Miss Petrova,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “You sleep well?”

“Fine,” I mumbled, heading straight for the coffee pot.

“Mr. Volkov has business today,” she informed me. “Important meeting about the shipment.”

My ears perked up at that. “The stolen shipment? That my father stole?”

Galina's expression turned guarded. “I told you I do not discuss business.”

“But you know about it.”

She shrugged, turning back to the stove. “I know everything in this house.”

“Including what's between me and Mikhail?” I couldn't help asking.

A smile spread across her face. “Especially that. Walls not so thick as Mr. Volkov thinks they are, you know.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Great. ”

“It is normal,” she said matter-of-factly. “Healthy young people with feelings, of course there is passion.”

“We don't have feelings,” I protested automatically.

Galina snorted. “Americans always need silly labels. Always need an explanation for the heart.”

“This isn't about my heart,” I insisted. “It's about being kidnapped and developing inappropriate feelings for my captor.”

“Not captor now.” She set a plate of eggs in front of me. “Partner.”

“We are not partners!”

“No? Then what? Still hostage? Hostages don't sleep in master bedroom, and don't make him smile after years of nothing.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

“It means everything,” Galina countered. “Now eat. Growing woman needs strength.”

The way she said “growing” made me pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “Galina... did Mikhail say something to you? About, um, children?”

Her eyes lit up. “Babies? You can’t be pregnant already?”

“No!” I said hurriedly. “Absolutely not. I was just... he mentioned something last night.”

She nodded. “Mr. Volkov always wanted family. His father push, push, push for heir, but Mr. Volkov say must be right woman. Must be strong woman.” She gave me an appraising look. “You are strong woman.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. The idea that Mikhail had been waiting for the “right woman” to have children with, and had somehow decided after three days that I was that woman, was simultaneously flattering and terrifying.

“I'm not looking to have children right now,” I said carefully. “I have a career, debt, a life back home.”

“Career here,” Galina said dismissively. “Mr. Volkov owns many legitimate businesses too. Need good designer sometime.”

“That's not?—“

“Debt gone. Mr. Volkov has money.”

“You're not listening,” I said, setting down my fork. “I barely know him. He kidnapped me three days ago. This is insane.”

Galina's expression softened. “Love is always little bit insane, no? My husband, he stole me from dance in village. I hate him for one week. Married forty-seven years before he died.” She patted my hand. “When you know, you know.”

“This isn't love,” I insisted. “It's... convenience. Proximity. Biology.”

She made a dismissive noise. “Keep telling yourself this. But I see his eyes when he looks at you. Not like other women. Like you are water in the desert.”

I didn't know how to argue with that, so I focused on my breakfast instead. But Galina wasn't done.

“His father called this morning,” she said casually. “Very interested in you.”

I nearly choked on my eggs. “What?”

“He asked questions. How long you here, what you do, if you strong enough for family business.”

“And what did Mikhail say?” I tried to keep my voice neutral.

“He said not father's business. He said you are his concern, no one else.”

For a second hope bloomed in my chest. I dismissed it immediately a moment later.

“Galina,” I said carefully, “what exactly did my father steal? I need to know.”

She busied herself with the dishes. “Not my place to say.”

This was insane. Mikhail couldn't seriously be considering something permanent after just three days... right?

The conversation shifted as Galina asked about my family. Before I could deflect, I found myself mentioning my mother’s death when I was fourteen. I expected brief sympathy, not the crushing hug Galina wrapped me in.

“You need a mother,” she declared, pulling back to look me in the eye. “I am your mother now.”

The matter-of-fact way she said it, as if adopting a hostage was perfectly normal.

“I never can have children,” Galina continued. “You can be my daughter, I help you.”

I blinked rapidly, fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. “That’s… very kind of you. But it’s not how that works.”

“Who says? Now tell me what foods your mother made for you. I will cook them for you. Make you feel better.”

“Actually, my mom was a terrible cook,” I admitted.

Galina recoiled in horror. “This explains everything! No mother’s cooking, no husband. I fix both problems now.”

“I don’t think those things are related?—”

“Of course they are! A man wants a woman who knows how to cook good food. It’s biological.”

“I’m pretty sure Mikhail didn’t kidnap me for my cooking.”

After lunch, Irina came into the kitchen and offered to show me around parts of the house I hadn't seen yet. Whether this was part of the matchmaking campaign Mikhail’s staff were all a part of or just boredom on her part, I wasn't sure, but I welcomed the distraction.

The mansion was even larger than I'd realized, with wings and rooms that seemed to go on forever. We passed a library filled with books in both Russian and English, a music room with a grand piano, and what appeared to be a small home theater.

“Mr. Volkov loves films,” Irina explained as we peeked inside.

“Really? He doesn't seem like the type.”

“Many things about him would surprise you.”

Then we ended up in a room filled with security monitors showing feeds from cameras throughout the property. I spotted the entrance gate, the perimeter fence, various hallways, and rooms, including my bedroom.

Heat rushed to my face as I realized the implications. “You mean everyone has been watching?—”

“No, no!” she assured me quickly. “Only Mr. Volkov has the password for recordings. No one watches here all the time. But…” She shrugged. “The walls are not so thick. The security team makes bets.”

“Bets on what?” I asked, though I was afraid I already knew.

“How many times he makes you—” She made a crude gesture.

I was contemplating the logistics of drowning myself in the nearest toilet when a commotion from the front of the house interrupted my mortification.

Irina and I exchanged glances before hurrying toward the entrance hall. Mikhail stood just inside the door, looking annoyed as Dmitri and another security guard hovered around him. Blood stained the left sleeve of his white shirt.

“It’s nothing,” Mikhail was saying as we approached. “A scratch.”

“You need a doctor,” Galina declared, appearing from the kitchen with a first aid kit the size of a small suitcase.

“I need everyone to stop fussing,” Mikhail snapped, though he winced when Dmitri accidentally brushed against his arm.

His gaze landed on me, taking in my concerned expression. For a moment, everyone else in the room seemed to fade away.

Then Galina stepped between us, breaking the moment. “Miss Petrova will help. Everyone else, out.”

“I will?” I asked.

“Boss will behave better for you,” she said with absolute certainty. “Men are always brave for pretty women.”

Before I could protest, the staff had dispersed, leaving me alone with Mikhail and the first aid kit.

“Need something, boss?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t call me boss.”

“Would you prefer ‘kidnapper’? ‘Captor’? ‘He who abducts women from Trader Joe’s’?”

“Two can play this game, kukolka.” He smiled a wicked grin at me, then glanced at his bloody sleeve. “Can you really help with this?”

I sighed, gesturing toward the stairs. “Yeah, let’s go.”

In his ensuite bathroom, I made him sit on the edge of the tub while I examined the wound. It was a clean cut, about three inches long on his upper arm, not too deep but still bleeding steadily .

“What happened?” I asked, dampening a cloth.

“Disagreement.”

“With what? A knife?”

“With someone holding a knife,” he clarified, as if that made it better.

I pressed the cloth against the cut, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. He hissed through his teeth.

“Careful!”

“Don’t be such a baby. I thought you were a strong Russian man.”

Our eyes met in the mirror, his narrowed in irritation, mine bright with amusement.

“I hate doctors,” he admitted suddenly. “Hospitals. Needles.”

I paused. “The fearsome Mikhail Volkov is afraid of needles?”

“Not afraid,” he corrected quickly. “I just… dislike them.”

“Uh-huh.” I grinned, resuming my work. “Will you need me to hold your hand when you get shots at the doctor?”

“I need you to stop talking and fix my arm.”

I cleaned the wound thoroughly, taking perhaps a bit too much pleasure in his discomfort, before applying antiseptic and butterfly bandages. “You should probably get stitches.”

“This is fine.”

“Your call, tough guy.” I started packing up the supplies. “But don’t blame me if it scars.”

“One more won’t make a difference.” He rolled his shoulder experimentally, testing the bandage.

“You should be careful with what you say around Galina and Irina. They’ve been running a full-scale matchmaking campaign all day. Apparently, you’re quite the catch: rich, respected, cultured.”

He stared at me, expression unreadable. “They should mind their own business.”

“That’s not really their style, now is it?”

“What did you tell them?”

“That it’s generally frowned upon to date your kidnapper. ”

He smiled for a second, looking at the ground, then he looked into my eyes again.