Chapter 4

I'm sitting on several blankets, still wearing Aiden's hoodie, behind two huge boxes covered with military jargon. I keep expecting to wake up in my dance studio with no writing on the mirror, no Aiden, and no madness. Reaching over to the box, I touch the cool metal to confirm that it's real and that this is actually happening.

Aiden sits opposite me on a seat that folds out from the wall. A few men talk quietly on the other side of the huge storage area. Nobody pays us any attention. On the way into the hangar, Aiden had to put a black bag over my head. That was when the nerves got so bad I couldn't hold back the tears.

Don't let them hear you cry, I told myself over and over, struggling to make my sobs as silent as possible.

Aiden looks so big in the foldout chair. He leans over a small piece of wood, casually picking at it with a small knife. He handles the blade with surprising precision for a man of his size. I want to ask him what he's going to turn the piece of wood into—he seems to have a purpose—but that would go against the whole hating-him thing.

"Still think I should fear your brothers?" he says after a few minutes, the plane rumbling beneath me as it takes us who-knows-where.

I aim a cocky grin at him or try to, anyway. Everything feels so surreal, but I'm determined not to let him see how terrified I am. "That hurt your ego, didn't it?"

He tightens his grip on the knife, turning away, maybe thinking he's hiding the fact that I'm right. His ego does seem hurt. "In my line of work, having an ego is a bad idea."

"Then maybe you should quit."

His lips twitch, and he quickly kills what I know would've been a laugh. He's done that a few times, clearly about to laugh and then quickly stopping himself as though he feels guilty about it. Or maybe he's worried about laughing because he doesn't want to develop any rapport with me. Perhaps he knows he'll have to do something bad, and he's getting himself ready.

"It doesn't matter where you take me," I go on. "It doesn't matter why you're doing this. They'll never stop."

It's true, I now know. Mikhail and I got off to a rocky start, but ever since finding his Mila, he's become the best big brother a girl could wish for. And Dimitri has always been protective.

"Criminals always find it difficult to accept when they've been beaten," Aiden says, shrugging.

"Stop calling them criminals," I snap.

"Hmm."

I almost throw something at him, but there's nothing on hand. Folding my arms, I lean against the blankets, desperately wanting to lie down and sleep. I shouldn't feel comfortable enough around this stranger to even think about sleeping.

"How long is this flight?"

"Several hours," he replies. "Rest if you want."

It's like he can read my mind, but then I shake my head. "So you can … take advantage?"

He shakes his head in disgust. "I'm not some Bratva trafficking pimp, Ania. I'm not like them."

"My brothers aren't pimps." When he just shrugs, I add, "Stepbro."

For some reason, this seems to bother him. Maybe it's because he's spun a ridiculous tale for me about my mom, and every time I say stepbro, it reminds him of the lie. That would mean there's some humanity in him, and I can't afford to assume that.

I need to get ready to fight, but just thinking that seems ridiculous. He's so much bigger than me and calmer. He looks constantly on the edge, getting ready for something.

Even with that knowledge, sleep still tugs at me. He goes back to whittling, blowing on the emerging shape so that little pieces of wood dance and flake in the air. We're quiet for some time, but then we hit some turbulence again, and I can't help it. Usually, I'm a chatterbox when I'm nervous, but I'm trying to contain some of it.

"What are you making?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. A person, I think."

"But you don't know what, exactly?" I ask.

"I never do," he replies in a husky voice that makes him seem poetic and more handsome. No, not more handsome. Not handsome, full stop. "I just let my hand move, and whatever emerges, emerges."

"So you're an artist and a kidnapper, bro?"

He frowns, making me wish I could take the comment back. Then I realize that means I need to calm down. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about anything I say to him.

"You seem to enjoy trying to antagonize people," he says.

"Nah, I don't enjoy trying to. Just actually doing it, my sweet, loving stepbrother."

He grits his teeth, focusing on his work. I try my best to glare at him, but keeping up that level of aggression for long is challenging when so many other feelings flurry through me. I'm not sure how much time passes with us in this standoff, me staring at him, him working diligently on his craft. Then, as I watch, the piece of wood transforms into the silhouette of a ballerina, wood shavings all around Aiden's chunky black boots. There's something weirdly romantic about it, but then he moves as though to toss it into the trash.

"What are you doing?" I say.

"I never keep them," he mutters. "Just a way to pass the time."

"But …"

I try to warn myself to shut the hell up. I don't want him to think I care, even about some silly goofball carvings. Yet there's something in me that wants that carving. I don't even know why. It's beautiful in a subtle way, and something is appealing about the fact that it came from somebody so savage.

"Do you mind if I …" I can't even finish the sentence.

He tilts his head at me, looking suspicious. Then he shrugs as though it's no big deal. He tosses it to me. I try to catch it, but I'm tired and sleepy. I miss it, and the carving bounces off my forehead. It's a light piece of wood. I barely feel it. Suddenly, Aiden rushes over to me, kneeling at my side.

"Ania?" he says tightly, panic in his voice, softly touching my face in a way that makes me want to be his, under his protection. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to …"

His touch is warm against my skin, shivers dancing over my cheeks and neck and tingling all over me. He looks mortified as he stares down, as though he thinks he just seriously threatened my life. I almost say, "So kidnapping is okay, but this isn't?" But I don't want to hurt his feelings or shatter this moment, which is N-U-T-S.

"I'm fine," I tell him. "I'm not even bleeding."

He leans back, nodding, but he still looks disgusted with himself. "Well, you can have it, for what it's worth."

Returning to his seat, he takes another small piece of wood from his pocket and starts chipping away at it again.

"You can sleep if you want," he says after a moment, watching me.

"Who said I want to sleep?" I counter.

The more he smirks, the more I like it, even as I keep reminding myself this is the last thing I should be thinking. "You don't have to say. Your eyes have been closing and opening for the past hour. Don't worry. I'll watch over you."

Again, a sarcastic retort tries to word-vomit out of my mouth, but I can't bring myself to say it after that oddly tender moment. Instead, I cradle the small piece of wood and lie back against the blankets. When I wake up, anything could happen. I could be in a cell. Do I really believe he's done all this to take me to my mom?

He hasn't hurt me yet. When he thought he might have, he seemed so sickened with himself. Maybe I'm way more naive than I like to believe, but I think he's a good person. Have I got Stockholm syndrome already?

As sleep takes me, I remember something Dimitri said once. "You're a good person, Ania. Kind. Empathetic. The world will take advantage of that if you let it." Then he paused, and he got that Bratva-boss look in his eyes. "But if that ever happens, I'll tear the world to pieces to make it right."

Dimitri is happy now. He's found his woman. He's looking forward to the future, but that doesn't mean he's turned soft. I know he's still capable of doing what needs to be done.

Finally, everything becomes too heavy. The events of the past couple of weeks—the secrets, the fear, the threat of a Bratva war—drift away, and I'm left just with the feel of the wooden ballerina in my hand. She feels so small and vulnerable, like one wrong move could shatter her into a thousand tiny pieces.