Page 8 of Hostage with Benefits

I woke up on Friday still technically a hostage despite the fact that I was pretty sure the shipment my father stole had been returned.

Mikhail had been gone all day and only came back late at night, long after I'd fallen into restless sleep in my original room.

I'd woken briefly when he checked on me. He stood in the doorway for a long moment before quietly closing the door without saying a word.

No explanation.

No “Hey, got the shipment back, you're free to go.” No “Actually, I've decided to keep you indefinitely because the sex is good and Galina needs someone to fatten up.”

Nothing.

So here I was, Friday morning, brewing coffee in the kitchen and wondering what my status actually was. Hostage?

Guest?

Live-in booty call with Stockholm syndrome?

“Good morning, Miss Petrova.” Galina bustled into the kitchen, eyebrows rising when she saw me operating the coffee maker. “You are early.”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“Ah.” She nodded sagely. “Men. They make good sleep impossible.”

I snorted. “In this case, it was less the man and more the existential crisis.”

“Eggs-is-what?”

“Never mind.” I poured a cup of coffee, inhaling the steam. “Is Mikhail up yet?”

“Left already. Business.” She made the word sound like a personal affront. “Always business. I tell him, take day off, spend with pretty girl. He say no, must work.”

“Did he, um, mention anything about me? About what happens now?”

Galina paused in her breakfast preparations, giving me an assessing look. “Now? You stay, of course. Where else would you go?”

“Back to my apartment? My job? My life?”

She waved dismissively. “Psh. That not life. This is life.”

“Galina, you do understand I was kidnapped, right? That I'm here against my will?”

“Were kidnapped,” she tried to correct me. “Past tense. Now you are here because you want to be.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Was she right? Did I actually want to be here? The fact that I had to think about it was concerning.

“Mr. Volkov say you stay,” she continued, cracking eggs into a bowl. “So you stay. Is that simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple.”

She gave me a look that was both pitying and amused. “Love never simple, devochka .”

“Whoa, who said anything about love?” The word made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. “This is Stockholm syndrome, at best.”

“Stockholm?” She frowned. “Is it in Sweden, yes? What does Sweden have to do with you and Mr. Volkov?”

“It's a psychological condition where hostages develop feelings for their captors. ”

She cackled, a startlingly bright sound from such a stern-looking woman. “Americans. Always need a fancy name for normal things.”

“There's nothing normal about this situation.”

“Man wants woman. Woman wants man. Normal.” She placed a plate in front of me. “Eat. You need strength.”

“For what?”

“For when he comes back, of course.” She winked, and I nearly choked on my coffee because of the insinuation.

After breakfast, I wandered the mansion, half-expecting to be stopped by security, but no one seemed concerned about my movements. I made my way to Mikhail's office. I tried the handle, but it was locked.

Of course it was locked. The man wasn't an idiot. But the fact that he needed to lock it now, when he hadn't before, suggested there was something inside he didn't want me to see.

But Mikhail had gotten back what my father stole, right? The reason for my kidnapping was resolved, and yet he hadn't said a word about releasing me. I was still here, caught in this bizarre limbo between hostage and... whatever we had become.

Why was he keeping me here? What possible reason could he have for maintaining this charade?

The most obvious answer made my chest tight: he was using me.

The sex was convenient, and as long as I didn't cause trouble, why not keep his captive plaything around? The thought made me sick.

But then I remembered the way he looked at me. The tenderness in his touch that didn’t fit with his harsh exterior. The way he pushed his cum is deeper, as if trying to make his breeding fantasy a reality.

No, there was something more going on here. And I intended to find out what it was.

By Monday, I was ready to scream. Three days had passed since I'd discovered the truth, and still, Mikhail said nothing.

He came and went, always “business,” always distant when he returned. He slept in his room; I slept in mine. The intimacy we'd shared seemed to have evaporated, replaced by a strange, tense politeness.

He would ask if I needed anything, if I was comfortable, if I wanted books or movies or anything else to pass the time—like I was a guest at a particularly boring hotel, not a woman he'd fucked senseless while talking about getting me pregnant.

And yet, I caught him watching me. When he thought I wouldn't notice, his eyes would follow me across the room, with a particular hunger in his gaze.

I tried to give him opportunities to explain. I asked pointed questions about how long I'd be staying, about what his plans were, about whether I should be thinking about my job and apartment.

He deflected every time, changing the subject or giving non-answers that left me more confused than before.

Galina and Irina were no help. They continued to treat me like I was already a permanent fixture in the household.

When I asked Galina directly if she knew why I was still being kept as a hostage despite the shipment being returned, she merely patted my cheek and said, “Some questions answer themselves if you listen to your heart instead of your head.”

Thanks, but no thanks for that, Galina.

By Monday evening, I'd had enough. When Mikhail returned from whatever mysterious “business” had occupied his day, I was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed.

“We need to talk,” I said, blocking his path to the stairs.

He looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that made even his perfect posture slump slightly. “Can it wait until tomorrow? I've had a long day.”

“No, it can't wait. It's been waiting for days.”

Something in my tone must have alerted him to my mood because he straightened up. “Very well. My office?”

“Fine.”

I followed him to his office, noting with bitter amusement that he didn't seem concerned about me seeing inside now. He unlocked the door and gestured for me to enter, then followed, closing it behind us .

“What did you want to discuss?” he asked, leaning against his desk rather than sitting behind it. A small concession to make this less formal, I supposed.

“The shipment,” I said bluntly. “My father returned it last week.”

If he was surprised that I knew this, he didn't show it. “Yes.”

“And yet, here I am. Still here. Still being kept hostage in this house.”

“You're not a hostage, Natalia. You can move freely?—“

“But I can't leave, can I?” I challenged. “So what am I, Mikhail? Not a hostage anymore, since you got the shipment back. Not a guest, since guests can leave when they choose. So what exactly is my status here?”

He was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “It's complicated.”

“That's not an answer.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth would be nice,” I snapped. “Why are you keeping me here when there's no longer any reason to? Is it just the sex? Am I a convenient warm body to keep your bed from getting cold?”

His jaw tightened. “You know that's not true.”

“Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got what you wanted from my father and decided to keep me as a bonus prize.”

“That's not what happened.”

“Then tell me what did happen! Tell me why I'm still here when the shipment has been returned. Tell me why you've been avoiding me for days, why you check on me at night but won't talk to me, why you keep giving me these... these looks when you think I won't notice!”

He pushed away from the desk, agitation visible in every line of his body.

“You want the truth? The truth is I don't know what to do with you. The truth is this was supposed to be simple. Kidnap you, get the shipment back, let you go. But nothing about you has been simple from the moment I threw you over my shoulder in that parking lot.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you weren't supposed to be like this! You were supposed to cry and beg and hate me. You were supposed to be afraid. Not—“ He gestured helplessly. “Not making jokes about kidnappers providing room service. Not blowing me in changing rooms. Not looking at me like...”

“Like what?”

“Like I'm a man, not a monster.” His voice had dropped, the anger replaced by something that sounded dangerously close to vulnerability.

“That doesn't explain why you're keeping me here.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration. “I'm not keeping you against your will. You can leave whenever you want.”

“Bullshit. You told me security would 'ensure' I stayed put.”

“That was before.”

“Before what? Before you got what you wanted from my father? Before you got what you wanted from me?”

His expression hardened. “Is that really what you think of me? That I used you?”

“What else am I supposed to think? You won't talk to me, you won't explain anything, you just... keep me here like some kind of pet!”

“I'm trying to give you space,” he raised his voice to match mine. “I'm trying to... to figure out what this is, what I want, what you want. But you make it impossible!”

“I make it impossible? I'm not the one keeping secrets! I'm not the one who fucks someone and then acts like nothing happened! I'm not the one who?—“

“I'm in love with you!” he shouted, the words echoing in the suddenly silent room.

I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. “What?”

“I'm in love with you,” he repeated, quieter now but no less intense. “And it's terrifying.”

I shook my head, taking a step back. “No. No, that's not... you can't be. That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His laugh was harsh and humorless. “You think I planned this? You think I wanted to fall for the woman I kidnapped?”

“This is insane. We've known each other for less than a week.”