Page 6 of Ruinous Need

LISETTE

A DOG BARKS.

It’s chasing me through the suburban streets of my childhood while I pedal my bike, frantically, trying to stay ahead.

The sidewalk is covered with ice, but I’m not afraid of slipping. I have good balance and I can ride with no hands. What I am afraid of is the beast that is gaining ground behind me, so huge that it’s practically the size of my bike and me put together.

My legs burn. My lungs ache. I can’t go any faster.

“Go Lisette!”

“Look at those legs go.”

My parents are calling to me from the end of the street, but they don’t understand how scared I am. They think I’m having fun, racing the neighbor’s dog.

In my head, I’m fighting for my life.

The harsh barking gets louder until it’s right beside me and becomes a snuffling. That’s even worse because I can feel the dog’s teeth getting closer and closer to my leg.

I jam the brakes on too quickly and fall. My head plummets forward over the handlebars. The dog yelps once more. I can’t see it as I fall and hit the ground, but I can feel its hot breath closer and closer to my face until…

I wipe away a trickle of moisture from my face, and my hand comes away covered in red. Thick, sticky blood coats my whole body.

I can’t stand, I can’t move.

The dog growls in triumph.

There’s a sharp call in another language, and it stops.

A bad dream. The dog’s not real.

I sigh and bury my face in the pillows, trying to go back to sleep. The light stops me. Too much of it — harsh and unrelenting, bursting in bright red shapes on my eyelids. I don’t understand.

I open my eyes a crack and it pours in, white winter daylight, illuminating an unfamiliar room. Where am I?

I scramble back towards the headboard, taking the covers with me. They’re stark and white too. My mouth feels parched, and my head pounds with a dehydrated headache. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late.

I’m awake. In an unfamiliar room.

The last thing I remember is… Him. The man from the other night. With the black eyes, messy hair and the gold chain.I opened my mouth to accuse him of following me, and then everything went black.

I blink the sleep away. The room comes into focus again. There he is, standing with a gigantic black wolf at his feet. Or maybe it’s a husky. Either way. A terrifying creature that has no place inside.

I shake when I see how the dog looks at me, its teeth bared in a way that might seem harmless to anyone else. To me, it reads as a threat.

Some people think dogs can smile. I think they like to show off their sharp teeth, to remind us they’re wild animals.

“Nyet, Chekhov.” He’s holding the dog back by its collar. All I can focus on are its bone-white teeth, long and pointy.

“Please.” I cover my face with my hands and let out a sob of fear. It’s pathetic, but it’s all I can manage as my head spins with my phobia.

It’s stupid, when you’ve been kidnapped, to be scared of your captor’s dog.

But I was prepared to be taken away for this forced marriage. I’ve been expecting this day for years, knowing it was just around the corner. For the last three years it’s been hanging over me.

I was not prepared for there to be a dog involved.

When I peek out again, the dog is gone. The dark-haired man stands alone, staring out the window, so I can only see half his face.

“You don’t like dogs.” He raises an eyebrow and turns towards me. Those black eyes flicker over me as though he doesn’t want to meet my eyes directly.

I pull the covers tighter over me, feeling chilled by his eyes. I’m relieved to find that I’m still wearing the yellow silk dress from my date. Although someone must have tucked me into bed.

This man doesn’t have that kind of tenderness in him.

“I’ve been scared of them since childhood.”

“That will be a problem. Chekhov is around here more than I am.”

He has the faintest hint of a Russian accent, but his English is perfect. Other than the extremely stilted way he’s speaking to me.

“Well… I’m not staying.”

“Yes. You are.” His replies are infuriatingly brief. He’s back to looking out the window, only the side of that brutally sharp face visible.

I follow the line of his black tattoos with my eyes. The branch of a tree spreading over his neck. A flock of black birds, maybe ravens, soaring. A word written in Cyrillic script I can’t read.

“I am? Why?” I’m still groggy from whatever sedative he stabbed me with yesterday, and my responses feel slow and confused.

He nods slowly and rakes a hand through his tousled hair.

There’s frustration in his every movement, as though he’s not pleased with this state of affairs either.

“The Pakhan’s orders.” I might be imagining it, but I think his lip curls as he says the Pakhan.

“He’s dealing with business elsewhere. I have to keep you safe until he returns. ”

“He doesn’t think I’m safe?”

“That man from the other night was looking for you. There are others like him as well.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re his. And he has many enemies.” He’s staring out the window again, the brightness glinting in his black eyes.

“So you kidnapped me for him. I’m trapped here. I can’t leave.”

He nods again. “Correct.”

“So… Aren’t you going to tie me up?”

I’ve imagined how this would happen many times. How the Pakhan would send his men to claim me when he’d had enough of my delays. And it always involved me kicking and screaming. Going down with a fight.

His nose wrinkles as he considers it. “Why would I need to do that?”

“I’m a prisoner. What if… What if I try to escape?” My mind is turning slowly this morning. I feel drained of energy. The drugs are still working their way out of my system.

He turns to face me. I’m hit head-on by the force of his presence. Those dark eyes gleam like polished granite. He looks energized, as if I’ve just asked to play his favorite game.

“It makes no difference whether you’re tied up or not, Lisette. I’m not letting you go anywhere.” His voice is a low, powerful hiss. I feel disoriented by the intensity of his gaze.

“You can’t be here 24/7.” I point out weakly. “You must have other things to do.”

“You’re right. You can try. If you like.” His mouth twitches into a cruel, knowing smile. “I don’t think you’ll get far.”

“I will escape,” I vow.

I can be forced into marriage for the right price, they already proved that, but they can’t lock me in an apartment for supposed protection. That was never part of our deal.

“As I said, you can try.” His eyebrows lift, and he turns away to think again.

I can’t stop myself from asking. “W-when’s the wedding?”

In the next few weeks, I suppose. They can’t keep me locked away forever.

He shrugs lazily, as if that’s irrelevant. As if my being sold to a monster isn’t really a concern of his.

“Who knows? That’s for the Pakhan to decide.”

Then he seems to decide the conversation is over. “There’s aspirin and water on the table. You can take whatever you like from the living area. There should be enough for you to survive while I’m gone.”

He walks out of the room, taking up most of the doorframe as he leaves. The man is huge. I shudder to think what it’s like to be on the wrong side of the muscles that seem to strain at his shirt with sheer power.

“I don’t even know your name,” I call out after this impassive, tattooed giant who’s now my prison guard.

He casts a glance over one broad shoulder. “Viktor.”

Then he stalks away with silent steps. I hear the click of the front door, followed by the electronic beep of a security system, and he’s gone. I’m alone. Relief washes over me, followed quickly by exhaustion.

I didn’t expect to be left to fend for myself. The Pakhan has always been controlling.

When I was supposed to attend our engagement party, three years ago, I was given instructions on what to wear, the color lipstick I should apply, how to style my hair, and even what type of manicure I should order.

I still remember my mother’s hands shaking as she braided my hair into the specific style he’d requested.

Then, at the last minute, he told me not to show up to my own engagement party.

We’d celebrated at home.

I tore the frilly white dress off, wiped the make-up from my face and gladly pulled on my flannel pajamas. My parents and I were giddy at the thought that this meant the deal had been called off.

“A man like him moves on quickly,” my father had always promised me. The next shiny thing would always draw his attention instead of the girl from last year.

It felt like we were off the hook.

Then, the next week, gifts continued to arrive. The dismay returned just as quickly as it had vanished. I knew what the shiny jewelry, sports cars and expensive electronic devices were: threats. Or promises. The two were opposite sides of the same coin, as I’d learned the hard way.

The Pakhan I’ve gotten to know over years of gifts and threats wouldn’t suddenly leave me here in relative freedom without there being some catch.

My yellow silk dress is crumpled after a night of sleep, but the drawers of the bedroom are filled with stiff business wear outfits in natural colors. They may be expensive, but they look uncomfortable as hell.

If I’m not leaving the house, there’s no way I’m going to wear a pencil skirt. I decide that my mission today will be to find something more comfortable to wear.

As I wander the hallways, wood-paneled with abstract artwork of colors and shapes that look like they cost a fortune, there’s no sign of anyone else.

It’s why I think there must be some kind of catch to the freedom I’m feeling right now. I spend half an hour searching for cameras but come up with nothing. Half the apartment — including, of course, the exit — is blocked off with fingerprint sensors.

But Viktor wasn’t lying. The rest of it is well-stocked. There’s food, books, movies, even enough space that I can dance if I shove the lounge furniture aside and roll up the thick rug covering the hardwood floor in the living room.

As far as being imprisoned goes, this is not the worst thing I could ask for. The apartment is luxurious, even if it is impersonal. The kind of thing my mom would read about in an interior decorating catalogue.

I feel a sudden surge of anger bubble up when I think about my family, but I shove it down again. It’s no more their fault than it is mine. The money wasn’t really an offer that could be refused.

At least they’ll be safe now. At least my constant guilt about my selfish decision to delay the arrangement can fade.

My head is pounding and I’m grateful to find an array of coffee and tea to choose from in the kitchen. I need caffeine to make my body believe that it’s mid-morning. We left the bar last night at around ten, which means I’ve been out for at least twelve hours.

A large mug of green tea in hand, I wander around the living area.

The doors are locked, apart from the kitchen, living room, my room and another room that I assume is Viktor’s bedroom.

It’s disturbingly impersonal. Black bedspread. Dark-stained wooden floors. A minimalist dresser of black clothes.

Does the man own anything with a bit of color?

It appears not. My options are: black, grey, white or black.

At last, in his bottom drawer, I find comfortable clothing. A pile of plush, thick sweatpants and hoodies. I clamber into his black sweatpants and hoodie. The fabric swallows me whole, but it’s strangely comforting, the firewood and sea salt smell of him just like it was a week ago.

I collapse back onto his bed for a second. I feel suddenly drained. Whatever sedatives they gave me yesterday are still making their way through my system and every movement is taking a lot of energy. I’ll just close my eyes for a second.

I don’t know if it’s the soft clothing or the king-size bed, but I fall into a blissful sleep.

When I wake up, with a jolt of fear that Viktor might have discovered me sleeping in his bed, it feels like late afternoon. My green tea is cold.

I don’t know when he gets back, I realize. I don’t even know what he does for work.

The fear that Viktor will come home sets in as the sun goes down. Is it risky if he catches me wandering around the house? Am I breaking an unspoken rule?

The free rein he’s given me suddenly seems dangerous. The huge windows in the living room look out onto the city. If I knew morse code, I could be flashing help signals to pedestrians on the street below.

I must be monitored somehow, but there are no cameras in sight.

I comb the rest of the apartment, carrying a fresh mug of green tea. Nothing to help me unravel the stone-cold enigma that is Viktor.

Even the bathroom is sparse, with luxury body washes and lotions in unopened packages. Like no one really lives here.