Page 7 of The Mafioso's Virgin
Then I pull out my phone and call Gavril Volkov.
“I got her. She's safe," I tell him. "Under a doctor's care. She'll need a day or two before she can travel."
"Good." His voice is clipped, satisfied. "We'll arrange the handoff —"
"I'll bring her myself. When she's ready."
A beat of silence. "Appreciated."
I end the call. Put the phone on the arm of the chair.
Liar, something whispers in the back of my skull.
The doctor says she can go home tomorrow.
We'll see about that.
Polina
Something wakes me.
Not a sound exactly—just a shift in the air. I go very still, eyes shut, breath shallow.
Someone's in the room.
I crack one eye just enough to see through my lashes.
A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Even in the dim light spilling through the curtains, I can make out the sharp angles of his face, the way he moves—controlled, deliberate.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He owns me now. He must. That's how this works, isn't it? You get pulled out of one nightmare and deposited into another. The doctor said I was safe, but the doctor isn't here now, and this man is.
Will he hurt me?
Will he want...other things?
I hope not. God, I hope not. My body already aches everywhere—ribs screaming with every breath, bruises throbbing, exhaustion so heavy I can barely think. I don't know if I could survive being used right now. Not tonight.
I keep my eyes closed and force my breathing to stay even, slow, like I'm still asleep. Maybe if he thinks I'm unconscious, he'll leave. Maybe he'll just check on me and go.
But he doesn't leave.
I feel him move closer. The mattress shifts slightly under his weight as he sits on the edge of the bed, and my pulse hammers so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
Then his hand—warm, tender—touches mine.
I nearly flinch, but I hold myself frozen. His fingers fold gently around my hand, and he just...holds it. Not squeezing. Not demanding. Just holding, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
His thumb brushes my knuckles. Once. Twice. A slow, absent stroke, like he's memorizing the shape of my hand in the dark.
Then I feel his other hand on my hair.
Oh.
He smooths it back from my forehead, his touch so tender I barely feel it, and something inside me flutters.
