Page 8

Whenever Rigor leaves the mansion, I take the opportunity to walk around and explore. I love the library and his extensive collection of books. It’s strange because he doesn’t strike me as the type of person who enjoys reading.

A ruthless, cold, mafia boss. A murderer and torturer—a kidnapper.

He is all those things. So. I struggle to see him as someone who would enjoy literature and beautiful stories.

I trace my fingers over the spine of an intricately designed book with gold lettering with beautiful hand drawn curls. It must be a first edition.

My heart feels heavy.

The same heaviness I’ve been carrying inside me since I saw the video of Avraam.

I can’t assume anything about Rigor. I can’t assume or know about whether he likes to read—anymore than I can still claim to know my own brother.

I’ve always thought that out of all the people in the world—despite not spending that much time with him anymore—I assumed that I knew everything there was to know about my brother.

That video plays over and over again in my mind when I lie in bed at night. It haunts my dreams and infects my thoughts.

I don’t know that man.

I can’t merge the idea of that murderer with the idea of who I think my brother is.

The gentle, caring, overprotective person who has always been so sweet and kind to me. He is my brother . He is my family.

How can I see him any other way? But now—how can I not when I’ve seen it for myself?

I tug the book from the shelf and brush my fingers over the ornate leather cover. Gently opening it, I catch the scent of ink on crisp clean pages.

And the scent of time.

This book is old.

It’s beautiful and delicate and old.

I turn each page carefully, savoring the art and history hidden inside it. My heart sinks deeper into the pit of my stomach.

My brother.

Betrayal begins to rise inside me, filling up my legs and arms and flooding high into my thoughts. It sits tight in my throat. Betrayal because I have to accept that I never knew the real man Avraam is. He’s never been honest with me.

All the time he spent protecting me—he was protecting me from himself. From the choices he made to be involved with the mafia. He has been protecting me from the repercussions of his own actions.

I also feel betrayed because he thought I couldn’t handle the truth, and because he didn’t respect me enough to be open with me.

I sigh, closing the book and sliding it back into the open space on the shelf.

How would I have reacted though—knowing he was capable of such things? It would have—and will—change so much between us.

I can never look at him in the same way again.

I’m torn between understanding why he kept these things from me—and why he chose this life in the first place.

Or what ‘this life’ even means.

I’ve seen one video. I don’t know anything.

I turn away from the books and look towards the library door. I can hear Rigor arriving home. He might be the best chance I have of learning everything about my brother and the world I was kept out of.

Perhaps spending more time with Rigor is exactly what I need to do. I can learn from him. I can use him.

Then when I get the chance to escape this prison, he has me locked in—I will be more prepared to face whatever is waiting for me out there.

I can face my brother without letting him hide anything else from me.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’ll spend more time with Rigor. I’ll get to know his life and routine and as much as I can about this world.

Nodding, satisfied with my decision, I walk out of the library and go downstairs to greet him.

“Hi,” I say, stepping towards the kitchen and leaning against the counter top.

He jumps in fright, almost spilling the drink he’s pouring.

“Hi?” he says cautiously, as though he was asking a question. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure,” I mutter, not enjoying the notion of being friendly towards him. I pull the kitchen chair out from beneath the counter and slide onto it. My feet don’t reach the ground, so I tuck them beneath the chair on the cross bar.

Remember—you are gathering information. Think of yourself like an undercover agent. Be nice. Make friends. Gather information.

“How was your day?” I ask, sounding annoyed. Dammit. I’ll have to do better than that. I clear my throat.

Rigor laughs and turns to face me, holding two drinks. “Alright, what’s going on?” he asks, grinning at me.

“What do you mean?”

“Since when do you come downstairs to greet me?”

“I can go back upstairs if you prefer?” I snap back at him.

“No, no, don’t do that,” he says quickly, amused.

I pick up the drink he sets in front of me and down the whole thing. This is a lot harder than I thought. Alcohol burns sharply down my throat and I gasp a quick breath of air.

He reaches over and takes my empty glass. “I guess I’ll pour you another one then.” He smirks.

At dinner he’s chatty and friendly and I do my best to force myself to stay civil. But it’s nearly impossible. This man is driving me insane. Why the hell is he always so calm and friendly? He kidnapped me.

He acts as though we are friends but I’m his prisoner .

He’s a monster, and he wants to pretend he’s something else.

I tap my leg in annoyance and he reaches under the table to run his hand over my thigh. “Are you anxious?” he asks, his touch sending bolts of lightning through my body.

“I’m annoyed.”

“Is that so? The roast not up to your usual standards?” he chuckles.

“What is wrong with you?” I snarl, pushing his hand off my leg because I hate the way it floods me with heated passion. How the hell can I still be attracted to this asshole?

I turn my face away from him so that I can’t look at his perfect face and those sharp grey eyes that pull me right into him.

“What do you mean?” he asks quietly, the endless patience he shows is grating me in all the wrong ways.

“I mean—you drag me into your life by force. You tricked me into thinking you were a nice guy—then next thing I know I’m married to you and a prisoner in your home. Then on top of that you show me a horrific video of my brother and try to convince me he’s the bad guy. Look at yourself,” I snap.

Rigor pulls his mouth tight. He looks defensive.

He stands up, towering over me, making me feel small and defenseless. So I stand up too. I won’t let him make me feel that way.

His fists clench and unclench at his side and I step closer to him, glaring at him in defiance.

“I never claimed to be the good guy, Alyona. I was only showing you the truth,” he snarls.

“Your truth. And your truth doesn’t have to be my truth!” I shout at him, clenching my own fists, feeling the tension of the last few days becoming too much to bare.

“My truth? The truth isn’t a subjective thing. It is what it is. Your brother is who he is whether he hid it from you or not.”

“My brother is none of your business. And neither and I. My life has nothing to do with you. You just barged into it and started changing things that were never meant to be changed.”

I’m so angry I’m shaking, and Rigor is looking just as enraged as me.

He reaches out and grabs me around the throat and tugs me right up against him. I gasp and want to push him away, but the poison of lust has spiked into me and my breathing has become fast and heavy.

Rigor leans close to me, his lips only inches from mine.

“You are my business whether you like it not, Aly. You are my wife, and you are my business until I say you aren’t anymore.”

“Then what? You murder me? Bury me out in the middle of nowhere? Throw me into the ocean with bricks tied to my feet?” I fume back at him, but I’m struggling to think because I can feel the heat of his lips and the hot sweet scent of his breath.

“You want to pretend you’re the most innocent girl in the world—but I know better than to believe it.”

“You know nothing about me,” I hiss.

“And you know nothing about me,” he snarls.

His grip on my throat loosens, but he doesn’t let me go.

His other hand brushes up my back and I gasp.

A low growl rumbles through his chest and vibrates against me.

“You are pushing your luck, firefly. Burning your flame a little too dangerously.”

“I’ll burn whatever flame I want, however I want to burn it,” I mutter, but I hardly know what I’m saying anymore. His hands on my body have stolen my thoughts. He tugs me tighter against him and I can feel how hard his cock it. It shocks me. And delights me. It teases me and distracts me.

Then his lips are on mine and everything becomes carnal and wild.

I reach up and thread my fingers through his shaggy hair and knot them, pulling tightly. He growls again and tightens his grip on my throat, pressing his lips harder into mine and letting his hand run down my back over my ass.

He lifts me off my feet and sets me down on the table as he pushes himself between my legs, knocking our dinner plates to the side.

I moan against his lips and drop my hands to around his waist. Feeling the taut pull of his muscles beneath his shirt.

He thrusts against me, letting me feel again how hard his cock is.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

This wasn’t the plan at all. I just wanted to get to know him—not to end up like this—wrapped up in him and out of control.

I whimper when he tilts my head back and whispers against my mouth, “Stop pretending you don’t want this, firefly.”

His words send a shiver down my spine.

I squeeze my eyes tightly closed.

I do want this.

My body wants it.

I press my hands against his chest and push him away from me.

He doesn’t resist. The moment I push he steps back.

But his face is tight. Annoyance dancing in those cool grey eyes.

If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to kiss him again and this time I won’t be able to stop whatever happens.

My body is screaming to be with him.

I’m willing to take every risk in the world just to feel him inside me.

But that is probably the worst thing I can do right now.

I slide off the dining room table. Tugging my clothing straight and brushing my messy hair back into place.

I can’t even look at him. The tension between us is palpable.

“Alyona—“ he says gently, with regret in his voice.

“There’s nothing to say. Nothing happened,” I snap. I can’t talk about it. I can’t talk about anything if I can’t even look at him. I have to get out of here.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

I shake my head. Nothing matters.

Then turning away from him, I practically run from the dining room.

I bolt into my own room and slam the door shut behind myself.

Leaning my back against the door, I take long steady breaths to try to grab back whatever control I lost a moment ago.

I can’t believe I did that.

It’s all too much and I am suddenly weighed down by it all. I sink to the floor and curl my legs against my chest, tears flowing over my cheeks in silence.

I hear a soft knock on the door.

“Go away,” I mutter.

“I just wanted to bring you some food. I’ll put it here by the door. Please—eat something.”

I listen for a long moment, the silence between us growing heavier by the second. Then I hear him walking away.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I open the door and pick up the plate of food.

Carrying it to the bed I sit down and slowly start picking at the food.

I’m such an idiot for doing all of that.

It got out of hand so quickly I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.

When I’m done eating, I flop down onto the bed, confused, annoyed and angry with myself.

My plan to learn from him won’t work if this is how things keep going. I need to rethink everything.

When I wake up in the morning, I don’t leave the room until I’m sure he’s left for the day. And as soon as I hear him getting home I run back up to the room and close the door. I don’t have the strength to face him.

The little routine we have of eating lunch and dinner together disintegrates because I refuse to come down no matter how many times he asks.