Page 8 of Ruinous Need

LISETTE

“I CAN’T HAVE him in the room with me.” My voice shakes and I scramble to the back of the couch.

“Even if he’s all the way over here?”

I nod my head and Viktor leads the dog outside again.

I think he’s trying to give me exposure therapy by bringing the dog in each morning, but it’s not working. I have the exact same response, every time.

“You need to get used to him. He’s getting lonely staying outside in the courtyard all the time.”

Viktor flops down on the couch across from me and pushes his black hair away from his face. He sounds frustrated with the situation. He’s probably sick of having me here, though it’s only been a few days. “Soon I’m going to be away, so he’ll need someone here.”

“I don’t think I can get over a lifelong phobia just because my kidnapper wants me to.”

“I think you’re being stubborn about it,” he shoots back.

I’m getting good at riling him into arguments.

“You know, there’s an easy solution to this…” I begin.

He rolls his eyes. “For the last time, Lisette. Just because you can’t co-exist with Chekhov doesn’t mean I can let you go back to your home.”

I have been nagging him about that for the last few days. I know that my families’ lives are on the line. But I think Viktor could let me visit them for a few hours, not tell anyone, and no one would find out.

I pout. “I think it should.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “I promise he’s not going to attack you.”

“That’s not really what I’m scared of. I mean, an attack was what started it, when I was a child, but that’s not what goes through my mind when I see a dog.”

“Then what is it?”

“The stupid thing is that my brain just goes blank. It’s an irrational response rather than a real worry. Dogs just activate some kind of fear receptor in my brain, and no matter how illogical I know it is, I can’t stop myself from freezing up and being terrified.”

“You know, exposure therapy is one way to get over fears. I can make sure Chekhov doesn’t overwhelm you.”

The name stirs a memory somewhere. “Is he named after the playwright?”

Viktor clenches his chiseled jaw and gives a tight nod, looking away. “My mother was a stage actress. She loved Russian plays.”

The way he talks about her, looking away as though the topic is painful and hunching in on himself, makes me regret bringing up the subject. He clearly doesn’t know how to talk about her.

“Oh, I’m sorry. My mother was sick, too.”

He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more, his dark eyes softening as he stares at the view of the city. I change the subject.

“Why do you have a dog if you’re away so much?”

“I like that he’s not a person. He’ll never judge me, or talk back to me, or tease me.” He shoots a pointed glance in my direction.

I sigh. “Unconditional love. I get it.”

The way he talks about Chekhov with such tenderness surprises me. It’s not something I would’ve thought he was capable of. I didn’t imagine anyone in the Bratva had feelings.

“You wouldn’t be so lonely in here all day, if I let him in.”

He’s really not going to give up on this. It’s subtle, but I think from a stoic guy Viktor, this is the equivalent of an enthusiastic sales pitch.

“Fine.” I huff. “You can bring the dog in. But if he gets too close to me, he’s going straight back to the courtyard.”

The black husky strains at his collar while Viktor leads him slowly into the room. His dark eyes are fixed on me, monitoring my response carefully.

“Chekhov. Sit.” He strokes the dog’s head when it obeys his order.

The dog tilts his head at me, watching me with those pale blue eyes. Its mouth falls open and its tongue lolls out, revealing its pointy teeth.

I exhale sharply. Viktor is holding him back. However big and scary the husky is, the muscled giant holding him back is bigger and scarier.

He should be scarier.

But when I look at Viktor, I don’t feel anything close to the panic that rises in my chest when Chekhov is here.

“If you reach your hand forward and let him smell it, that’s usually the best introduction.”

I tentatively extend my hand and the dog waits as though he’s asking Viktor for permission.

“Go on,” he says, his voice gruff.

The dog sniffs my hand, his wet nose against my palm and his breath hot. I stay as still as I can.

“You can pet him if you want, no pressure.” He strokes his hand gently through the dog’s fur to demonstrate.

Chekhov tilts his head at me expectantly.

It takes so much effort to unstick my limbs and raise my hand to the top of the dog’s head. Once I do, I don’t hate it. His fur is silky and soft and he butts his head against my touch, like he wants more pressure.

I feel Viktor’s eyes taking in every movement. “That’s right.”

Then the dog wags his tail and springs closer.

I freeze up, my pulse quickening at the unexpected movement.

Viktor notices. His knuckles go white from how tightly he’s holding Chekhov back by his collar.

“Well done. But maybe that’s enough for today.”

Chekhov looks back at me as though saying goodbye while Viktor hauls him out of the room.

He re-enters, dusting the black fur off himself.

“Sorry if he got too enthusiastic there. He’s well-trained but huskies can be stubborn as hell.”

“It didn’t kill me,” I say, still feeling a bit shaky. “You know, you’re good at this.”

Viktor narrows his eyes at me.

“Helping people. You just helped me face a fear that I’ve held for years.”

Viktor shrugs his broad shoulders and I stare at the way the fabric strains over his prominent arm muscles.

“I’m trying to make my life easier. So that I don’t have to keep explaining to the neighbors why he’s out in the courtyard in the freezing cold.”