Chapter 8

Eight

R uby

I am officially married. The ceremony, if one could call it that , had been quick. My devil had, to my surprise, sealed the deal with a kiss to my forehead and a murmur to ‘do it properly later' while the priest had dripped sweat and fear, not daring to say a single word about the way my new husband had ‘kissed his bride'.

Now, the rings sparkle on my finger as I perch, my spine straight, in one of the two window nooks in my plush prison. It seems I'm done living like a rat in the cellar. I can't say I'm disappointed.

My eyes shift from the massive diamond that is shaped like a teardrop— fitting —that cuts into the diamond encrusted band of my wedding ring, to the view outside. It's snowing. Again.

It's been my suspicion more than once that I'm no longer in America, what with all the Russian accents I've encountered. But I don't know how that would be. It's not like someone can kidnap someone and toss them into baggage claim to be transported to a wholly different country, right?

Maybe Kirill— I'm happy to finally know his name —just employs a lot of Russian people.

It's a question for, hopefully, another day.

I don't think I can handle seeing him again tonight. And seeing that the sky is getting darker with every passing minute, I'm beginning to think I might get lucky. For once.

He doesn't usually come to me in the night. But I did just marry the guy, so who knows.

He'd slid my sparkly shackles on between the vows and signatures, then he'd brought me to the kitchen for the very first time. There, I met a woman who, I suspected, was in her mid-sixties, named Tatiana. The familiar way she spoke with Kirill, in Russian that I could not understand , told me she's likely been with him for some time.

The suspicion was, again, proved true when she dared to ruffle his dark hair as she set his bowl of stew on the table before him, a plate of rolls along with it. She brought my bowl with a small, warm smile. But she gave me no words. I doubt she speaks English quite as fluently as Kirill, who, although he has an accent, speaks it beautifully, and most definitely, proficiently.

I watch as thick flakes fall in spirals from the sky. I'd been taken in December. I assume it's now January.

A month into my captivity, and I'm a married woman.

I feel tainted, and I haven't even kissed him.

Even if I could escape, the diamond shackles I wear signify a legally binding agreement. Sure, I could probably tell the police that I'd signed the marriage certificate under duress. But there are witnesses, and the priest, to consider. I can't imagine, with them all telling a different story, that mine would be believed.

It's plenty clear that my new husband has more money than I can imagine. Why would he ever need to kidnap a wife when, surely, he could have a line of willing women applying for the position happily in about five minutes.

His money aside, the man himself is more than desirable. With his stunning features and big frame, his towering height and his deep voice, I'm confident finding willing women has never been his problem.

So, why me?

What could he possibly want with me?

I wonder, now that I've taken his last name as my own, if he'll let me walk the grounds of his property. Again, with no other homes in view, the rolling land blanketed in white and sprouting pockets of trees ringed by a fence and surrounded by what appears to be a forest, I have a feeling that his grounds, like his house, are palatial.

I yearn to explore it all. Not only am I bored out of my mind, having stared at the walls of my cell for so long, but I've always found great peace while in nature. Besides, maybe—just maybe—I might find a way to escape.

I'm plenty content to live a life of solitude, never taking a husband again. So, it won't matter that I'm legally taken. I could change my name, if I could figure out how to do that without alerting the law, that is. My new husband has the means to track me, so I would have to be careful. But I could get myself a little pocket of land. A tiny home and maybe a kitten. I've always wanted a cat to call my own, but with Mama's allergies and Daddy's hate for felines, I'd had to abandon the fantasy. Now, though…

I shove the fantasy of my tiny home and kitten from my mind as I stand and move to the bathroom. The sky is almost pitch black now, and I'm bone weary.

Inside the bathroom, I strip and step beneath the spray of hot water. After I'd been moved into the cellar, I'd had only the unscented soap to use when I showered. Now, I have the products they stole from my home when they stole me.

As I lather the bar of rose petal scented shampoo into my hair, I inhale the familiar scent of home.

Mama had loved the scent of roses. In our little back yard, she'd planted dozens of rose plants, taking great care with them every day. Together, we'd made rose water tonic we'd both used to keep our complexions glowing, and the bars of shampoo, conditioner, and body soap to match, all from the petals of the plants she adored.

From my favorite natural shop, I'd always purchased a rose scented cream I lathered into my skin after every shower.

I don't know what I'll do when these products are gone.

The thought is a blade that stabs into the battered pincushion of my heart. Eyes stinging, heart aching, I hurry to finish my shower. Then I hurry to brush my teeth and, in my towel, bound for the closet, I open the bathroom door.

I stumble to a stop as a shocked gasp falls into the space between us. Standing there, too close for comfort, is my new husband, and his dog.