Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

"Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart."

― Fiodor Dosto?evski

Sofiya

After Dasha made sure I ate all my dinner, just like a kid, she wished me goodnight and left.

I hesitated.

Should I stay here like Princess Fiona, waiting for the ogre, or explore the tiny distraction handed to me?

What if the library was a trap?

I couldn't trust anyone, but I was tired of rotting in here with only my depressing thoughts and nostalgic pictures.

I looked out at the stormy night, feeling the need to escape this room.

I paced for what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes before giving in to curiosity. I wanted to see if the stunning library held any of my favorite books or if its owner had a favorite genre. Maybe thrillers, fantasy, or even biographies of serial killers. Who knows?

Books reveal who we truly are, beyond the walls we build to protect our hearts and true selves. They reflect our aspirations, desires, and dreams. I majored in Greek mythology for its enigmatic world where even gods faced peril, showing me that there is beauty in pain and ugliness in success.

I tiptoed quietly to the library, stopping at the door to listen for any signs of life. As my breath quickened, a thought crossed my mind: maybe this was my chance to escape.

But where could I go with no plan, money, passport, or phone? I couldn't even speak their language.

I knew I was doomed from the moment I entered this house.

My shoulders dropped as I forced myself to focus on the small blessing of the library.

A few seconds passed, and I gathered some courage to slowly open the door and enter the dark room, where the only light came from the nearly extinguished fireplace and a few rays of moonlight peeking through the gray clouds. Other than that, the room was almost pitch black. I stopped to admire the grandiosity of the library once again, and my heart started beating fast in my ears. I gently touched the first row of books in front of me with my fingertips and randomly picked one.

My breath quickened as I started to read its title.

Bel Ami by the renowned French author Guy de Maupassant.

This book's as disturbing as it is fascinating. Here is the story of Georges Duroy, a young, underprivileged, retired French soldier from the Algerian War. Aspiring to join Paris's elite, he uses his charm and smooth-talking skills to seduce the wives of influential men and climb the social ladder. His list of lovers grows with each chapter and continues even after he marries the daughter of his influential chief, who is also the daughter of one of his lovers.

Yep, having sex with the mom and the daughter. Never seen something as cliché as that before.

The thought made me roll my eyes.

I put the book back in its place and looked for one that I could read tonight or one that could maybe give me a clue of how to get out of here, like some kind of escape plan involving a damsel in distress.

My eyes landed on Perfume: The Story of a Murderer . Well, the owner had a bizarre taste when it came to literature. I can't read about a serial killer addicted to the scent of his victims to the point where he would… Actually, I would rather not think about the disturbing motives of that character. It was quite a scary book and, to be frank, I may not be able to sleep if I reread it.

My attention stopped on one Russian classic that I had longed to read for quite some time.

Crime and Punishment.

Perfect.

I reached for the hardcover and brushed my fingertips on the golden details on the cover.

"What are you doing here?"

A scream escaped my lips. Jesus, I almost had a heart attack. I thought I was alone. Trembling, I turned around, trying to locate the chilling voice. In the dim light, I recognized the silhouette standing nearby—my walking nightmare. He had been seated on the sofa but was now standing, his eyes fixed on my hands .

His dark mood froze me in place.

I hated how he affected me.

I hugged the book to my chest as he approached me slowly.

Crap. I didn't know he was in the house, let alone this room.

Gathering the little bravery I had left, I inhaled deeply, turned around, put the book back on the shelf, and searched for another one that had caught my interest before. As I tiptoed to reach it, the hairs on my neck rose. A powerful hand with silver-ringed fingers grabbed the book before I could.

"Are you deaf ?" His nose nudged the side of my neck.

He smelled like spices, smoke, faint alcohol, and something else I couldn't identify. The mix was exquisite, and I stopped myself from inhaling deeply, desperately wanting it to envelop me.

It was the first time in days that I heard his husky voice, and the hair on my arms rose at the sound. After I was taken against my will, he would come every night for a few minutes to hand me some pictures, never acknowledging my presence.

Now he demands my devotion whenever he pleases, expecting me to jump at his every whim, like some emotionally deprived housewife.

I took the book from his rough hands, delicately brushing his fingers, and tried to escape the cage his arms formed around me.

"I hate to repeat myself, but I'm in an amiable mood today," he began, his tone laced with annoyance. "So, I am going to ask this question one more time." He took a strand of my hair away from my face. "What are you doing here?" he repeated calmly .

What's wrong with him?

He is the one who allowed me to explore this room.

"I just wanted to read, gosh! Can you give me a break?" I spat, pushing past him toward the door.

I bit my lip to stifle the tears. Then it dawned on me. His aim was to see me beg, to humiliate me.

Coming to a sudden halt, I realized that if I wanted to leave this place with any semblance of dignity, I couldn't let him see me break down. Not again.

"I don't know what you want from me, but I won't follow your orders like some kind of slave."

Still facing the door, I clutched the book to my chest and closed my eyes.

"For someone named Volk, you act more like a dog," I continued, gathering courage from an invisible force.

Turning around, I met his angry gaze for the first time tonight.

"All that barking for nothing," I whispered.

I barely finished before he rushed at me, grabbing my neck painfully. My stomach churned as I tried to swallow the nauseous worry stuck in my throat. His gaze locked with mine, and an electric tension filled the air, our breaths quickening in sync.

"You act as if you're untouchable, as if nothing could ever reach you," I said, my voice strained, my chest tightening with each word. "I feel sorry for you. For not being able to feel anything—joy, sadness, or even pain."

"You don't know what real pain feels like," he spat with rage, his eyes dark as death, his grip around my neck tightening. Instinctively, I put my hands over his, a protective reflex, fearing he might choke me.

"I may not know what real pain is," I continued, gripping his hand tighter, "but I do know that anger can only take you so far."

Something even darker filled his raven eyes, freezing me in place like Medusa's stare.

Refusing to look away, whether out of fear or maybe shame for my outburst, I held his gaze. I had never spoken to anyone in such a manner before. I despised how easily he brought out the worst in me, normally buried deep within my soul.

He seemed to sense my discomfort because he released my throat, stepped back, and ran his hands through his hair.

I coughed and took deep breaths, the air burning my lungs as tears welled up in my eyes.

His dark silky waves of hair stopped right at his jaw making him look even more attractive and powerful. I have never been attracted to men with long hair, but I understood now what the hype was all about. All that dazzling hair, the stubble on his face, his stormy dark eyes, and those hard muscles were almost making my head swirl.

I should have known from the first moment my eyes laid on him in the club that he was a monster in disguise.

Nothing good ever comes from all this enticing beauty.

Like Georges Duroy, he probably manipulated any woman he wanted into submission using his good looks.

He unbuttoned his blood-stained white Armani shirt and threw it on the sofa behind him. Walking to the window in just a slim white tank top and black pantsuit, one of his arms was covered in black ink, making a striking contrast. His defined arms glowed under the moonlight, his back extraordinary.

I had never focused on backs before, but now it was undeniable—I had a thing for his.

"I told you I was in a charitable mood tonight, but don't push your luck," he sneered, still facing the window a few meters away from me. "Insult me again, and I'll cut your tongue out and feed it to you."

That should have been my cue to leave, but I couldn't bear another minute in here without wanting to jump out of the window or bang my head against the door for freedom.

"I want to know why I'm here," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Please, if you let me go, I won't turn you in or say anything. I'll even forgive you."

He laughed, mocking my plea, shattering the lingering tension. Resentment and anger built inside me, making my hands shake.

"Stop believing in forgiveness, Sofiya. It's fucking disgusting," he scoffed, heading to the café table for his drink.

His words left me drained, and our eyes met again, but I only saw exasperation in his.

"The only way to survive is to be heartless," he said, lighting a cigarette. "Your heart is your greatest enemy, the reason you're still here ."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Don't try to mold me into some childish fantasy of yours," he warned, stepping closer. "I'm a killer, Sofiya, not a romantic. I'll suck the life out of you."

I hesitated, not knowing what he was implying or assuming.

I wasn't fantasizing about him, was I?

The urge to put distance between us grew undeniable. Yet, I couldn't move. I had a gut feeling that he wasn't threatening me but warning me.

I was terrified of him .

Sofiya, you're crazy!

He might as well have threatened to kill me and chop me into pieces when he grew bored. Yet, like an immature girl, I tested him, playing with fire. I chewed my lip, reminding myself that every word I spoke fed into his sick games. That realization alone urged me to leave.

An unsettling silence saturated the room, and I turned around aiming for the way out, but his strong hand slammed against the door, blocking my exit.

Petrified, I waited for his anger to hurt my body for real this time, but it never came.

"Let me go, please," I pleaded, my breath catching as he drew nearer. He pressed against me, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

" Nyet ," he whispered, trailing kisses up my neck.

I clenched my jaw, tasting blood as I bit down hard, sealing my lips to prevent further embarrassment. My mind raced with questions, desperate for answers.

"You said my papa was still alive," I said, my voice barely audible. "Where is he?"

"In Colombia," he said, sucking on my skin, his hands tightening on my hips.

I suppressed a moan, forcing myself to stay still. I focused on his words, wondering why my supposed father was in Colombia.

"How did you get the pictures?" I breathed out. "Did you snoop in my drawers?"

"I don't need to snoop to get your panties, Sofiya."

I gasped. "Screw you."

In a sudden buzz, he turned me around, pushing me against the door. A sob escaped my lips as his tall figure loomed over me, blocking my view. His closeness made it hard to think, his eyes drilling into mine .

I let go of the book, and it fell to the floor as I placed my hands on his hard chest, urging him to give me space. Heat surged through me as my fingers brushed against his skin. Still only wearing a tank top, his well-defined chest was visible, but I resisted the urge to touch. He grabbed my wrists, pinning them against the door, above my head.

Well, slap me with a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, what the hell is going on?

Anger flushed my cheeks as I tried to fight back, but he tightened his grip, overpowering any attempt at self-defense.

"Are you always an asshole, or do I get special treatment?" I snapped.

"Are you always a bitch?" he shot back.

"Yes," I responded through clenched teeth.

The fire in my heart burned my chest, and I've never wanted to hit someone so badly before.

He let out a genuine laugh, releasing me.

"Good to know."

I couldn't help but notice the way his hands trembled slightly. Letting my eyes wander over his body, I tried to make out his tattoos, but could only decipher some stars, numbers, and Russian sentences, along with what looked like two silhouettes walking in a dark alley.

"We're heading to Moscow tomorrow," he said. "I expect you to behave, Sofiya. Don't make me repeat it."

Then he slightly pushed me aside to open the door.

Pausing with one hand on the knob, he glanced back at me, raising an eyebrow and curling his lip.

"Don't try anything stupid in here. I'd hate for you to get hurt," he said with a mischievous wink.

Then the door slammed shut behind him.