Page 50 of Ruthless Vow
The first thing I notice in the pain in my ribs. I feel the ache under the bruise, deep enough that it makes breathing difficult. I try anyway, slow and shallow, because the second I pull in a deeper breath, my side flashes hot and my vision tightens around the edges.
My stomach follows right after. The nausea hits hard and familiar, completely indifferent to where I am or what just happened to me. It’s been getting worse for weeks, but I think what I feel now has much more to do with the hate that’s rising in me. Or, possibly, the fear. I don’t want to dwell on that, though. If I let myself, it will consume me.
My gaze shifts to the nightstand and lands on a porcelain bowl placed neatly within arm’s reach. The placement isn’t accidental. Someone expected me to be sick, and someone made sure I would have what I needed without being able to leave the room.
I sit up carefully, moving in stages so I don’t aggravate my ribs, and the room comes into focus piece by piece. Thick curtains cover tall windows. There’s a sitting area arranged like a staged photo, with a couch that looks expensive and a tray with foodlaid out thoughtfully. Fresh flowers sit in a vase on the table. Everything is deliberate, down to the soft carpet under my feet when I swing my legs off the bed and stand.
I test the door immediately. The handle doesn’t give. The lock is electronic with a keypad. If I know Mikhail, the code changes at least every thirty minutes. There’s no use trying to pick it or harbor any illusions that I might somehow escape this new prison.
I turn away from it and map the room without wasting energy. There’s a bathroom to the left, and a closet to the right, windows that look sealed, and furniture that’s too heavy to be easily moved.
My stomach clenches again, harder this time, and I go to the bathroom on sheer instinct. There’s no pride here. Mikhail is likely watching my every move. Unlike Viktor, he doesn’t have the decency to give me privacy in my own room.
When it’s over, my throat burns, my ribs ache. I shakily stand up and splash water on my face. My skin feels hot and my breathing takes a moment to return to normal.
Before I can make it back to the bed, the lock clicks behind me. I don’t have to wonder who’s come to check in on me. I know he wouldn’t leave me alone for even one second. He’s finally found me and he’s come to claim his prize.
When I turn to face him, I see that he’s dressed in a full tuxedo, like maybe he’s going to a private dinner or a fundraiser. More likely, he’s celebrating his victory and wants to look good whilst doing so.
I look behind him to see two guards in the doorway. Even if I managed to somehow get the door unlocked, there would be noway out. He wants me to see that. It’s why he doesn’t let the door shut behind him immediately. He wants me to know I’m trapped.
Mikhail’s eyes sweep over me in a slow assessment. They linger on my face, then dip briefly toward my ribs as if he’s cataloging the injury he caused, then settle back on my eyes. The look isn’t lustful. It isn’t warm. It’s ownership in its purest form, the same way a man looks at an expensive car right before he drives it off the lot.
“Anya,” he says, calm as a priest. “You look tired.”
“I’ve never felt better,” I shoot back.
The lie is pointless and we both know it. He doesn’t get to break me, though. He’ll never get that satisfaction again. Mikhail’s mouth tilts in something close to amusement.
“You always insist on arguing with me. That stubbornness is part of what makes you valuable.”
I don’t move. I don’t step back into the bathroom. I don’t step forward either. The doorway gives me something to anchor to, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.
“You found me,” I say flatly. “Congratulations.”
He looks at the tray of food as if he’s noticing it for the first time, then back at me.
“Now, Anya, you act like I’m some monster.” He smiles cruelly. “I’m your fiancé. You should be happy I saved you from your father’s real enemy. I’m the hero here.”
“I’m not one of your men,” I reply. “You don’t own me, and I owe you absolutely nothing. You’re exactly the monster I think you are, and I’m never going to stop fighting you.”
His eyes sharpen just a fraction, then smooth again.
“I do own you,” he says easily. “Your father and I agreed to this, and you will be my wife. Stop pretending you have any say in the matter.”
“You’re doing a great job proving my point,” I say.
He walks farther into the room, stopping near the sitting area without crowding me. It’s a choice. He’s giving me space because he wants me to notice he can afford to give me space. He wants me to feel how controlled this is.
“Marriage is not a punishment, Anya,” he says. “Marriage is a contract. It’s a bond. A vow that I will never hurt your family and your family will never hurt me. Marriage is destiny.”
I let out a quiet breath through my nose because I can’t help it. “You sound like a cult leader.”
Mikhail’s smile deepens, polite and empty.
“Even so, our marriage is inevitable. Your little disappearing act put a lot of lives in jeopardy, but now that you’ve returned, I will still uphold my deal with your father.”
“My father only agreed to this because he’s afraid of you,” I spit at him.
