6. Elira

6

ELIRA

I 'm already out of sight when the basement door opens.

I hold the metal bar I spent what felt like hours unscrewing from the pull-out bed tightly in my hand, closing my eyes and pressing my back against the side of the couch.

My heels scrape against concrete floor as I drag my feet closer to my rear, making myself as small as I can. There are little options to hide in this basement, so it won't be long until I'm found, but I still want to surprise my captor.

Someone hums, heavy feet planting off the last step into the basement.

Have they come to kill me?

Take me somewhere else?

Is Maksim awake? Did he tell them what happened?

"Are you hiding, Elira?"

My grip on the bar loosens at the sound of Maksim's voice, but I don't let go. He doesn't sound angry. Last night, when he gave me the keys to his car, he didn't sound angry then either. He sounded as if he wanted to call a truce. As if we could somehow put this behind us, and I wanted to believe him. I would be less skeptical if he hadn't spoken so softly when he took me out to the middle of nowhere to kill me.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Maksim says, his voice calm. Even. "You held up your end of the bargain saving my life. What kind of man would I be if I hurt you now?"

I tried to end your life.

He isn't stupid. He hasn't forgotten that part.

His footsteps start this way, making my grip on the bar tighten. I won't use it. Not unless I have to. But I feel a lot safer with it than without it right now.

He doesn't look the slightest bit surprised when he sees me, deep blue eyes locking onto mine. He stops just out of my reach, holding a plate of food that makes my mouth water the instant I register it.

Food .

My stomach gnaws. My head spins.

How long has it been since I've eaten?

Too long. I could go longer if he wasn't holding it in his hand.

"This again?" He nods to the bar held firmly in my grasp while a slight smirk lifts his lips. "I thought we were going to be friends."

Friends .

He doesn't mean that. I don't know what his endgame is for me, but if he was my friend, he would let me go.

When I say nothing, his smirk falls. Letting out a sigh, he lowers himself to the floor to sit a metre away. He extends a free hand while holding the plate slightly back with the other, giving a silent offer to exchange.

I hesitantly place the bar in his hand before taking the plate. My stomach gnaws some more, coming alive for the first time in probably a day and a half. I expect the aroma of the…waffles?...to blow up my senses, but it doesn't come, and I don't wait for the smell to hit me. I pick up one of the small, oddly colored waffles and shove it in my mouth.

Maksim watches while I eat like a piranha, barely tasting, which is a good thing because I'm not sure these are waffles. They taste bland, and … I don't know, not good, but I don't suppose they give their prisoners the good food.

"Are you thirsty?" Maksim asks me when I only have one bite left.

No, I'm not, but I nod anyway in hopes that he'll give me a cup or something I can keep. I figured out how to get cold water in the laundry machine soon after they threw me down here, and that was after I'd hydrated in the shower. I've pretty much covered my bases in terms of hydration.

He pulls a plastic bottle of orange juice from the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and hands it to me.

I take slow sips, savoring the sweet liquid, and keep my eyes in front of me. Maksim looks better today. Too good for a man who almost died last night, the bandage around his naked torso reminding me of vengeance he must want.

The sound of metal crashing against concrete makes me flinch, and I jerk up to see that Maksim has tossed my bar across the room.

"You're cute, Elira," he says, tugging my eyes his way to look at him in my periphery. "I respect your fight. I even find it sexy."

I cringe at that, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

That's what I am to him. A game. A fool.

Is he forgetting I almost won?

I should've learned how to fire a gun.

"But that's enough," he goes on. "No more fighting. My friends have been kind enough to allow you to stay here while I figure out a more permanent situation for you. If you choose to be the foreign girl who speaks no English and stays locked up in the basement, so be it. I will come once a day to bring you food until my boss no longer remembers you."

Finally, I turn to him. "What happens then?"

He shrugs, barely waiting before he replies like it's obvious, like there's no need to think it through. "Then I let you go."

I stare at him, showing nothing on my face. I show nothing because I feel nothing. I don't believe this man even for a second.

"You speak as if I have some choice other than to be kept in this basement," I say, brushing aside his lie to get back to what he was saying.

He nods. "You do." My arms press into my sides as he scoots toward me. "Can I be honest with you, Elira?"

I hate the way he says my name. It sounds dirty.

"I'm not sure you're capable of honesty, Maksim , but you can try."

He rears back like he's surprised, but then his face relaxes with an amused grin. "I'm not nearly as bad as you think."

I think you're a snake .

But … there is worse.

Nikita flashes into my mind, making me shiver. I don't know either man well, but I know Maksim is better than Nikita. He seemed better than Roman as well. And better than Anton.

Maybe Maksim is as good as it gets.

I don't know if he senses my sudden unease or if he was planning on touching me all along, but one hand smooths over my shoulder while the other caresses my cheek, guiding me to look at him. A minute ago, I would've wanted to slug him. Right with the reminder of Nikita at the front of my mind, it doesn't feel so bad.

"The truth is, I actually do need you." He speaks like he's admitting it to himself as much as he is me. He sighs. "It was rash of me to react the way I did last night. If my boss found out, he'd take it as disrespect. For the foreseeable future, I need you to be my living, breathing, preferably obedient whore."

I jerk my arm, but his soft touch on my shoulder turns firm as he holds me still.

"That does not have to be as horrendous as it sounds. It does not have to involve locked doors and restraints. If you're as smart as you are scrappy, it could mean your own apartment, your own car. Schooling if you want, a job, whatever it is you came here for in the first place, you could have it."

This , more than anything, boils my blood.

My ears heat, and my hands curl into fists.

For days I felt fear. More of it than any person should feel in a lifetime. I've felt fleeting sadness, sort of woah-is-me moments of weakness, and little anger. The people put me here are vile, but their intentions were honest, their purpose was honest, their lack of remorse was honest. They are more monsters beneath my bed than they are villains in my mind.

But this… This is sick . This is counterfeit. Insulting to my intelligence as well as my pride.

Am I to be thankful for this generosity ?

"I did not come here to be someone's whore ," I sneer, my teeth flashing like fangs. "I came here to be someone's wife ."

Maksim's hand slips off my shoulder as he gives me a puzzled look, as if the idea of marriage could never occur to him. I don't suppose it could. A man like him is capable of many things, but love isn't one of them.

"You can't be serious."

He doesn't say it like it's a question, but I can tell he wants me to explain myself. I don't. I should have never opened my mouth about it in the first place. The less he knows about James, the better. Right now, Maksim has no leverage. If he threatens James, he'll have all of it.

"Sweetheart…" Maksim clears his throat, readying himself like he's about to explain something beyond obvious. "Are you a mail-order bride?"

I narrow my eyes. "No."

"No?"

Don't say anything.

My jaw clenches while I glare.

"Okay, but you came here to get married?"

Silence.

"Have you met your fiancé?"

The way he says it, like I'm the punchline of some joke, makes me want to rip his head off. I can't help it. I speak.

" Yes ."

"Uh-huh." He nods like I've somehow only further proved some point he's trying to make. "How many times have you seen each other?"

Why ?

"When you met, was it via Skype?"

I scoff. "I wouldn't consider that meeting ."

"Sure, sure. Was he a tourist in your country, then?"

Yes. So?

I need to stop answering his questions. Stop speaking.

But it's hard because he sounds… He sounds like he knows something I don't, and there's a knot forming in my stomach that I need to go away, which won't happen until he's finished.

"There are only so many ways for people to meet, Maksim. Eventually, you're going to get it right."

"How long was it before he proposed?" he asks. "It was fast , right? Probably on that trip."

My narrowed eyes soften.

How does he know that?

He shakes his finger, squinting like he's contemplating something. "I'll take a few more guesses, and you tell me how close I am. You're not from a city. He found you dirt poor in a gutter, probably in a village somewhere."

The knot tightens.

"The first time you met, you told him how much you always wanted to go to the States."

No .

That wasn't until the third night when I talked about my father. I've always wanted to know where the other half of me comes from, and I told him this.

He told me I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life. That the short time we'd been together could never be long enough. That he wanted to show me my roots, to show me a new life, a better life with high-paying work that would be more than enough to support my mother and three sisters back home.

He wanted to help me, all in exchange for my love. He was handsome and charming and everything I dreamed a man would be.

He proposed. I said yes. That night, I gave him my virginity.

We were supposed to wait for my visa, but months passed, and he grew impatient. He asked me to fly to Mexico where all we'd have to do is pay to help me cross the border, which they did. I willingly climbed into that truck, not knowing it was the worst mistake I'd ever make.

We asked the wrong people for help. I'm paying for it.

"I was going to marry for love," I lie. I'd never admit the truth out loud. "Not for the visa."

"It doesn't matter what you were going to marry him for. He was never going to marry you."

What?

"He's a trafficker, Elira. It's pitiful you haven't figured that out on your own by now."

There was humor in Maksim's voice when he started this, but it's gone. He sounds serious.

I look away, choosing instead to stare at my knees. I'm wearing the dress again. The dress. It looks more like the one I picked out in the store now that I've washed it, but it suddenly feels dirtier than it did yesterday.

I close my eyes so I don't have to see it. "You're wrong."

"Even having zero clue who this guy is, I know with absolute certainty that I'm right."

My eyes burst open, my head snapping up to face him. "You're wrong !"

I hate him.

I've never hated another human being so much in my life.

Maksim raises his hands up before slowly standing, picking up the plate as he does. "You believe whatever you need to keep your sanity. But think about your situation and make your moves carefully." He points above us. "My friends are kind. Knock on the door, promise to be a good girl, and they'll let you out… But hurt someone or try to take off again, and I will throw you in a dried-up fucking well where you will live for the remainder of your excruciatingly long life… Sound fair?"

Tears sting my eyes, so my vision blurs. I stare at the tattoo on the right side of his chest, written in Russian so I wouldn't understand it even if I could see clearly.

I believe him. The man is a snake, a liar, a manipulator, but I believe that he'd punish me for acting out. As much as I want him to be wrong, to be vicious and cruel and vile, the way he pegged James is so on the mark. What he says makes sense. Enough sense for me to believe him about my fiancé too.

And I hate him for it.

I want to scream. I want to take a knife and carve my hatred over that tattoo.

But instead, I nod, letting a tear slip from my eye.

"Good."

And then he leaves. Like a harsh parent, he leaves me to sit in my shame, to be tormented by my thoughts.

Fear turns to anger.

Sadness turns to anger.

And eventually, I get sick of the basement. I go upstairs and knock on the door.