Page 14 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
So, what else can I do?
I could try to escape, wait until someone brings me food or comes to check on me, then make a run for it. But even if I managed to get past whoever opens that door, I'd still have to navigate an unfamiliar estate, get past whatever security measures are in place, and somehow make it over those walls. The odds of success are practically zero.
I could refuse to cooperate, just keep telling them I don't know anything until they either believe me or kill me. But that's not really a plan. That's just giving up.
There has to be another way. Something I haven't thought of yet.
I stand and walk to the bathroom, needing to see what resources I have. The room is as luxurious as the bedroom, with marble countertops and a shower that looks like it belongs in a spa. There are fresh towels folded neatly on a shelf, and when I open the cabinet under the sink, I find unopened toiletries. Shampoo, conditioner, soap, and even a toothbrush still in its package.
It's like someone prepared this room specifically for a guest. A prisoner, but a well-treated one.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. My blonde hair is a tangled mess, still damp from the water they poured over me. My face is pale, with dark circles under my eyes. My clothes are wrinkled and stained, clinging to my body in all the wrong ways.
I look like exactly what I am. A victim. Someone who's been caught and broken.
But I'm not broken. Not yet.
I strip off my wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor, and step into the shower. The hot water feels like heaven against my cold skin, and I stand under the spray for a long time, letting it warm me from the outside in. I wash my hair and scrub my body, trying to wash away the feeling of their hands on me and the memory of being restrained, helpless, and completely at their mercy.
At least I drew first blood.
When I finally step out, I feel almost human again. There's a robe hanging on the back of the door, soft and plush, and I wrap myself in it. It's too big, obviously meant for someone much larger than me, but it's warm and clean, and that's all that matters right now.
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed again, my mind working through possibilities. I need a new approach. Something they won't expect. Something that might actually work.
And then it hits me.
The man who captured me, the one with the blue eyes and the expensive clothes, he's attracted to me. I saw it in the alley, the way his gaze lingered on my face. I saw it again in the interrogation room, when he removed my blindfold and studied me like I was something valuable. Something worth keeping.
He wants information from me, yes. But maybe he wants something else too.
My stomach churns at the thought, but I force myself to consider it. I'm not naive. I know what men like him are capable of. I know what they take when they want it. But what if I offered it willingly? What if I used his attraction against him?
I could seduce him. Make him think I'm interested and that I'm willing to cooperate in exchange for better treatment. Get close enough that he lets his guard down. And when he does, when he's distracted and vulnerable, I could escape.
It's risky. Dangerous. The kind of plan that could backfire spectacularly. But it's also the only plan I have that might actually work.
Fighting hasn't done any good. Running hasn't done any good. So maybe it's time for a different approach.
I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and let the plan take shape in my mind. I'll need to be careful. Convincing. I'll need to make him believe that I'm attracted to him, that I'm willing to trade my body for my freedom. And I'll need to wait for the right moment, when he's vulnerable enough that I can actually get away.
It's not a perfect plan, but it's all I have.
8
ANDREY
Istand outside Mariya's door, my hand hovering over the keypad, and force myself to wait. Just a few more seconds. I've already resisted checking on her for a full twenty-four hours, and I'm proud of myself for the restraint. Most men in my position would have gone back within the first hour, eager to continue the interrogation or at least verify their prisoner hadn't somehow escaped.
But I'm not most men.
I wanted to give her time to think. Time to realize the futility of her situation. Time to understand that cooperation is her only option.
At least, that's what I tell myself. The truth is more complicated. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her, and not just for the information she can provide. There's something about her that's gotten under my skin, the way she fought in that alley, the defiance in her eyes during the interrogation, and the fact that she actually stabbed me.
The wound at my side tingles, as if reminding me what she's capable of doing. I press my hand against the bandage, feeling the dull ache beneath.
I should be angry. I should be planning ways to break her spirit, to make her regret ever raising a hand against me. Instead, I find myself grinning like an idiot, looking forward to finding out what else she's capable of. I'm even looking forward to sparring against her again, though next time, I'll be more prepared.
