3. Bella

3

BELLA

I try, very hard, not to let Igor see how afraid I am, on the drive to his estate. I sit up ramrod-straight on my side of the car, jean-clad legs pressed tightly together, my heart speeding up in my chest every time he moves. I'm terrified that he'll try to touch me in some way, take advantage of me before we've even reached his house, his pronouncement that he might keep me for himself ringing in my ears over and over again.

I don't know if I can think of a worse fate. And try as I might to cling to the hope that Gabriel will come and help me, it's difficult to do so. Because deep down, I don't know if he should.

Trying to help me will only put him in further danger—and, by association, his family. I can't be responsible for that again.

I should never have taken the job when he offered it to me. I should have known that this would come back to haunt me, eventually. And I already regret whispering in his ear that I trusted him to save me if he could.

But I was scared. I still am. And as Igor's black SUV pulls up in front of his large, old-world brick mansion and rolls to a stop, my heart beats painfully against my ribs.

I'm probably not going to die today. But as the door opens and I step out of the car, I can't help noticing how the sunlight glints off of the shiny black surface. How green the trees are against the brown brick of Igor's home. How ancient and stately it looks, in comparison to the penthouse I was told I'd live in with Pyotr.

The world narrows in, each of those details in sharp relief, because I know that when I walk through those doors into Igor's home, there will be a before and an after to my life, as there has been in the past. And somehow, I have to survive this one, too.

I can't do this again, I think, bile burning at the back of my throat as it tightens, my stomach swimming with nausea as I follow Igor up the stone path to his door, guards flanking me. There's no escape, but truthfully, I'm not thinking of how to run. I know there's no fleeing this. I'm thinking of what to do if the worst happens. I'm wondering if I'm brave enough to die, instead of living through something that will eventually kill me anyway.

"Follow me," Igor says coldly, not looking behind. He has the confidence of a man who knows that he'll be obeyed without question, and from what I can see, he is. There's no faltering from his men. Whether that's from respect or fear, I have no idea. I suspect it's some combination of both.

I follow him too because I have no other choice.

His home is palatial, cold, and forbidding. Where Gabriel's exuded warmth despite his obvious wealth, everything about Igor's mansion feels as if every surface would chill me to the bone if I touched it. The entryway is marble, the staircase that we pass a gleaming, curved mahogany, the walls a cold white. It's the only soft shape—everything else is sharp edges, whites, dark browns, and blacks, the floors hard and unforgiving. My sneakers slap against the marble, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering. It reminds me far too much of the cold, unwelcoming interior of the mansion I grew up in. I ache to go back to Gabriel's, to the living room with its soft couches and knitted blankets, the plush pillows and soft carpets beneath my feet.

I want to go home. The place I grew up in never felt like home, but in a very short time, Gabriel's house has become that for me. And I miss it more than I ever thought I could.

I can't think about that right now, or I'll start to cry. And I refuse to show Igor any weakness. He can hurt me all he wants, I tell myself as he pushes open a door and gestures for me to walk inside, but I won't cry.

I hope that'll be true.

The room that I step into is small and dark. Igor flicks on a light, and golden warmth floods it, the first warmth I've seen in this house. I immediately realize I must be in his office. The back wall is curved, made up mostly of a large window that looks out onto the rolling green land beyond it, and it's framed by two large mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. An equally large desk that reminds me of my father's, complete with a leather chair behind it, sits squarely in front of the window. The walls are dark green, and the floor is equally dark wood. Two quilted leather chairs sit in front of the desk, on an expensive-looking patterned rug in deep greens and black.

"Sit." Igor points to one chair, and circles around to the back of his desk. "Leave us," he adds, gesturing to his men. "Close the door behind you."

They move instantly to obey. It takes everything in me not to flinch when I hear the click of the door behind me, and I know that I'm alone with Igor in this room.

I sink down stiffly into one of the chairs, the cold leather pressing into the backs of my thighs. The chairs are hard and uncomfortable, as I had a feeling they would be. There's nothing warm or inviting in this house; it reflects the man who lives here. Who owns it.

Who owns me, now . The thought chills me as thoroughly as my surroundings. Igor surveys me from the other side of the desk—an older man with neatly styled iron-grey hair and a thick, trimmed mustache and beard. He's wearing a tailored dark suit, the shirt beneath black, as if he's in mourning. Perhaps he is, although I refuse to think of him as a man with any feelings at all, a man who could grieve for his son.

If he truly felt grief for Pyotr, he wouldn't so easily threaten to impose that same grief on another man.

"I refused to pay a dowry for you," Igor says casually, as if he could hear my thoughts. "I had already paid Enzo D'Amelio one for Gia, you see. And then she was stolen from my son. Did they return the dowry? No. Did they take additional payment that day, in blood? Da ." His gaze is stony. "I heard that the don paid your father what would have been expected, from us. In order to get your father to agree to the marriage. So inadvertently, I still own you, da ?" He studies me, his hands in his lap. "You are mine, Bella, to do with as I please. My son, I imagine, would have enjoyed you, if Don Morelli had not stepped in. And now, I have reclaimed what is mine."

I stay silent, my lips pressed tightly together. I refuse to let him see any emotion, any fear. I won't be able to stay this stoic forever, I'm sure. But I'll maintain it for as long as I can. I'll let him believe his words, his intentions, mean nothing to me. That he means nothing.

"I had planned to give you to my men, as a toy," Igor continues casually, as if he's discussing the weather with me. "A plaything for them to pass around. They are easily bored, so they would have tired of you, eventually. But they're loyal, and I thought they deserved a reward, perhaps. An entertainment, for them to fight over." He shrugs. It sounds as if he's discussing a pack of dogs, not men. But from what I've heard about Bratva soldiers, there's not much difference. Especially when it comes to women.

I sit there, still silent, my hands knotted together in my lap. I can feel a fine tremor starting to make its way through me, at the mention of what Igor had planned for me at the hands of his men. It brings back those memories in a flood—of the men in the hotel room after I was dragged from the wedding, of the leers and threats, the betting over whether they would get to have me or not, and if so, who would get to fuck me first. What they wanted from me, and how.

I learned more in that brief span of time about the things men desire from women than I ever knew before. Enough to disgust me, to make me wonder if I would ever want a man at all.

And then I met Gabriel. Gabriel—who has never asked anything of me that I didn't want to give freely. Who never would. Who didn't show even a flicker of disappointment when I panicked and stopped partway through?—

I shove the thought away, hard. I don't want to think about Gabriel here, in this cold office, in front of this cold man. I don't know if I want to think about him at all. Because I don't want those memories mixed up with what's to come. I don't want them tarnished by it.

"But I liked the way you talked back to me." Igor's voice darkens, thickening with that particular sound of desire, and my skin crawls. "It's been a long time since a woman has dared to do that. I like your fight, Bella. Your fire. I will enjoy taming you. Breaking you. And—" He holds up a hand before I can speak. "You're going to tell me that you can't be broken. That you'll resist me no matter what. Believe me, Bella, when I tell you that I will enjoy that even more."

A cold shudder runs through me, despite how hard I try to repress it. The lasciviousness in Igor's voice is apparent, underneath his cold intonation, as if he doesn't particularly want to hide it. As if he wants me to know, to fear, what's coming for me.

His gaze sweeps over me, intrigued. "Are you still a virgin?" he asks bluntly, and I feel my eyes widen at the frank way he says it aloud. I don't know what the best way to respond is.

A no might save me from his bed, but send me to his men's barracks to be passed around like meat. A yes might damn me to his bed sooner rather than later—tonight, even, if I'm particularly unlucky. My stomach twists, and I take a shaky breath.

I can't bring myself to answer one way or another. The memories of Gabriel fill my mind again, of him leading me into his bedroom, of his soft kisses and touches, his hands and mouth bringing me to the edge of indescribable pleasure, and then spilling me over, again and again, before he ever took anything for himself. Of how he made the first time something more intimate, more treasured, than I ever knew it could be. Than I ever, ever hoped for.

I cling to that, to the knowledge that Igor won't be my first. That he can't have that from me—that no man can, ever again. It's Gabriel's, and his alone. He has that—we do—no matter what else happens.

It's the one thing I had to give that can't be stolen now. And that, at least, eases a little of the painful fear in my chest.

Igor shrugs, clearly picking up on the fact that I don't intend to answer. "No matter. I'll have a doctor come and examine you—today, in fact. If you are a virgin—" his gaze slides over me, as if taking stock of what he'll get to have, to touch, if his conditions are met, "—then I'll marry you."

It takes everything in me not to recoil at that. I feel like he's slapped me. I can't stop my eyes from widening, from sucking a sharp breath of air into my lungs, and from the way the corners of his mouth twitch upwards, he's pleased to have gotten a reaction out of me. I hate that he managed it, but I gather myself quickly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of anything more.

"I need another heir, now that Pyotr is gone," Igor continues. "Since you never married my son, I'll marry you myself. And if I find that you're not a virgin, well—" A cold smile curves the corners of his mouth, deepening the grooves there. "I'll still enjoy you. Perhaps you'll even find pleasure in it. I know my way around a woman's body, Bella. I can just imagine the satisfaction for us both. Yours, physical—mine, knowing I've coaxed pleasure from you that you don't want." His gaze darkens, and heats in a way that's at odds with the chill that's settled down in my bones, and I know he's aroused. My stomach twists, my hands tightening around the arms of the chair until I'm sure my knuckles have gone white.

Igor stands, walking around the desk to where I'm sitting. "Up," he says sharply, and my entire body, my mind, everything rebels against his command. Against the idea that I would ever, ever obey this man.

His hand closes around my upper arm, pulling me out of the chair and turning me to face him. If he notices the way I flinch, the way I can't help but recoil, he doesn't show it. He looks down at me, both of his hands gripping my upper arms—not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make it clear that he, and he alone, controls my fate now.

"You will obey me, Bella," Igor says coldly, smoothly. "Or I will punish you until you understand that defying me is more painful than obedience. It's a lesson I would enjoy teaching you. So I suggest you not test me." He drops one hand, using the other to steer me towards the door. When he opens it, I see that four of his men are waiting some distance away—not close enough to eavesdrop, but close enough to be ready for his command.

Their loyalty frightens me. The way they move towards me chills me to the bone all over again, as does the way their eyes slide over me, the knowledge plain that there's a possibility I could belong to them, before long. Something to be devoured, chewed up, and then thrown away.

There will be no coercing Igor's men to help me. No convincing any of them to betray him. There's no wiles I could employ, even if I thought I was capable of being seductive enough to pull that off. Igor has removed that possibility simply by dangling me in front of them. If they're loyal, they might get me anyway. If Igor keeps me for himself, he'll give them a different reward. A different woman, maybe.

Betraying him would only earn them a painful death. Even I know it would never be worth the risk, for men like these.

"Take her upstairs," Igor directs, and then he slips back into his office, closing the door with finality.

I'm led up the stairs, to the third floor, and a large guest room that's luxurious in the extreme. The door is closed and locked behind me as soon as the men lead me inside and leave me there, and there's nothing for me to do but take stock of my cage.

A hard, gleaming wooden floor, freshly waxed, with a cream-colored rug tufted with dark pink cabbage roses, stretched out in the center of it. A four-poster bed with a matching velvet cream-and-rose duvet, smooth cream-colored sheets tucked neatly below it, and pillows in that same color scheme piled three layers deep, fluffy, and inviting. There's the usual furniture—a vanity, a wardrobe, a dresser—and a dark pink velvet wing chair by a large window, with an embroidered throw pillow on one side. There's also a small bookshelf, but it's empty, as if no one had the imagination to think of what books to stock it with for guests.

Or—more likely—Igor wanted me left without entertainment, so that my imagination could run wild, thinking of all the things that might happen to me if I dare to defy him. All of the ways he could hurt me, if I refuse to bend to his will.

And how can I refuse, anyway? In the end, he'll get what he wants. I'll have the satisfaction of fighting, for a time. But in the end, that satisfaction will turn to pain. He'll win, no matter what. It's what men like him do.

I was a fool to believe I could be free from it.

I pace back and forth, for what feels like hours, trying to think of what to do. And the cruel, crushing knowledge that I keep coming back to is that there's nothing I can do. I'm a prisoner here, and there's no means of escape. Maybe, in time, I could manage it. I could find a way to sneak past Igor on some excursion, some trip, if he ever lets his new bird out of her cage. But it won't be for a long time. And the truth is that no matter how strong I know I can be, no matter how strong I want to believe that I am, I know there's a limit to what I can endure.

Especially when it comes to what I know Igor has planned for me.

And if Gabriel comes for me?

I can't allow myself to hope for that. Not when I know the consequences that it could have for him, and for his family.

The guilt washes over me, hot and thick, because I know what it's like to be traumatized by men with guns, men with rough hands, and rougher threats. It's my fault that Cecelia and Danny will have something to fear, now. My fault, for ever walking into that house knowing what haunted me.

I didn't really believe that they would ever come after me. That Igor would ever think of me again after that day when there were other, bigger targets for his anger. More powerful ones.

But I discounted how much men love to hurt what they consider to be weaker than they are. How much pleasure they get out of destruction for the sake of it. What I can offer Igor is more delicious to him than money or even real revenge against the ones who are actually responsible for Pyotr's death.

He believes he can break me. And even if he can't, he'll enjoy trying until he does—or until he kills me.

The thought makes me so nauseous that I have to flee to the bathroom. The marble tile is cold under my knees as I vomit until my stomach is empty, until there's nothing but burning acid searing along my throat. Then I rest my head against the lip of the porcelain, squeezing my eyes tightly shut and willing myself not to cry. I don't want to give Igor, or anyone else here, the satisfaction of seeing the traces of my tears.

I want a shower, but the idea of stripping naked makes me feel as if I'm going to have a panic attack, so I go and sit on the bed instead. I alternate between pacing and sitting, until a knock comes at the door, and I hear the lock turn. A pretty blonde woman in a black uniform—undoubtedly a maid—walks in with a stack of clothes.

"Mr. Lasilov believes these will be your size," she says primly. "If they're not, you may call down and ask for something else to be brought up for you. Someone else will go out and get them," she adds, as if I could possibly be laboring under any impression that I would get to go out and buy my own clothes. I almost burst into laughter, but I don't want to frighten her, so I swallow it back.

I can see the tension under her prim exterior, the fear that I'll say or do something that could cause trouble that will fall back on her. Every woman in this house is a potential victim, a scapegoat for male rage. I'll have to be careful, now and in the future, to make sure that I do nothing to bring down Igor's rage on the women working here. That I don't give him an excuse to hurt them instead of me.

"Thank you," I manage. I want to ask her name, but I don't dare. If she's not volunteering it, there's probably a reason. I doubt Igor wants me on friendly terms with anyone in the household.

She manages a small, stiff smile, bobs her head, and scurries out of the room. I hear the lock turn behind her, sealing me back inside.

I approach the stack of clothes on the bed. I'm not surprised that my jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt don't pass muster for what Igor expects me to wear in his house. But I intend to keep them on for as long as possible. At some point, I have no doubt, I'll be compelled to put on what he's sent me. I see a few dresses, floaty tops, and what looks like a pair of stylish cigarette pants. A pair of heels lying on top of the pile. I sit down on the edge of the bed next to the clothes, eyeing them as if they might bite. The thought of Igor seeing me in anything that bares my skin to him at all makes shivers run down my spine.

But once again, I know I have no choice. Just as I have no choice when, a few hours later, there's another hard knock at the door, and three men walk inside.

Instantly, panic crawls over me, like a thousand ants biting at my skin. Two of the men are Bratva guards, and they station themselves on either side of the door, eyes straight ahead, as if they've been instructed not to look at me no matter how much they might want to. The third, I assume, is the doctor.

He's wearing normal clothing—slacks and a button-down, thinning grey hair combed backward. There's a medical bag in his hand, and he looks at me with a cool impassivity that I think is meant to calm me down. To let me know that he's not here for his own interests. He's just doing a job.

It doesn't help. I can already feel my hands starting to shake, and I tangle them together in my lap, trying not to let the shaking spread. I don't want him to see how terrified I am. I don't want anyone to see.

He seems to pick up on it, anyway. His cool, assessing gaze slides over me, without lust or lasciviousness, and then he glances back at the two Bratva men. "Wait outside," he says curtly, and one of the men looks at him.

"The pakhan told us to remain in the room."

The doctor's eyes narrow. "And I will not examine her unless you wait outside. So unless you would like to tell Mr. Lasilov what will cause this to take longer, wait outside . You can stand just outside the door, for all I care. Directly in front of it, if you please. But the young lady deserves some privacy."

The guard looks at me then, and a small, cruel smile curves the corners of his mouth. He doesn't need to speak for me to hear what he's thinking— we might see it all anyway, soon enough. But he nods, the threat of having to go and tell Igor that there's a holdup enough to send him and the second guard out of the room, the door closing firmly behind them. I know there's still no escape—there's absolutely no doubt that they're still just outside. I wouldn't make it far. And then they would stay and watch.

The doctor looks at me, and I think I see a flicker of sympathy in his face. Not much, but enough for me to know he'll take no pleasure in this. It doesn't make it any easier to face, although I think he's hoping that it will.

"I'm Dr. Maglin," he says calmly. "You are Bella D'Amelio?"

I nod, my fingers clenching together until I can feel my knuckles turning white. I can't speak. If I do, I think I might fall apart. This man, this strange man, is going to touch me. And even though I know it's not for his own pleasure, even though I know he would prefer not to, it still makes me feel as if I'm going to come apart at the seams, thinking about it.

"I'm sorry," he says apologetically. "But I need you to take off all of your clothing, and lie back on the bed."

For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just let myself shatter. If I stopped trying to be strong, if I stopped holding myself together at the seams with breaking fingernails, and just let it all go. If I screamed, if I cried, if I let myself fall apart and turn into a madwoman, if I let it all come crashing down. I've been through enough. I've endured enough. I shouldn't have to endure anymore.

The thought of Gabriel is all that saves me. The thought that he might still come for me, however much I know I shouldn't wish for it and however much I know that he shouldn't try, makes me take a deep, shuddering breath, and reach for the hem of my shirt. Because I don't want him to try to save me, only to find that I've broken for good.

Dr. Maglin turns his back as I start to undress, a gesture that I can't find in myself to appreciate just now, although I know it's a kind one. He's doing his best to make this easier for me, but there's not really much he can do when he's about to violate me anyway, regardless of how kind and professional he's trying to be about it.

By the time I get my jeans off, my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely undo the clasp of my bra. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, fighting back tears. My throat feels like it's closing up, a constant shudder running over my skin in ripples, like the twitching of a fly-bitten horse. The pressure in my chest is unbearable. I'm on the verge of having a panic attack, and I'm holding on by the barest of threads.

My bra drops to the floor, draped over the stack of clothes that I moved, and I swallow hard, almost choking as I push my panties over my hips. Trembling like a leaf, I lie back against the pillows, my legs pressed tightly together as I stare up at the ceiling.

I don't say anything. I can't. If I say a single word, I think I'll scream. But Dr. Maglin must have heard the shifting of the bed, because he turns, approaching me with his eyes carefully on my face.

It doesn't matter. He's going to touch me everywhere else.

"I'm going to need to give you a full examination," he says calmly. "Lie still, Miss D'Amelio, and it will be over soon."

I tense, stiff and shaking. He takes my silence as acquiescence, and opens his bag.

The start of it is innocuous enough. A light in my eyes, checking my pupils' dilation. His gloved hand touches my mouth, making me flinch as he checks my teeth. His hands begin their methodical exploration of my body, and I clench my jaw as they move over my breasts, down my ribs, palpating my stomach. I try not to think of Gabriel's hands on me, slow and sensual and full of restrained desire, because I don't want those memories marred with this. Even the possibility of slipping away from this brief horror isn't worth tainting what good I have left to remember.

When his hand slips between my legs, I feel tears start to roll down my cheeks. I should have known, repeats over and over in my head, as I try to go somewhere else, somewhere far away from what's happening to me, with every touch and instruction. I should have known better than to hope for something different.

The feeling of Dr. Maglin patting my thigh jolts me out of my dissociation, and I sink my teeth into my lip to stop a scream. I taste blood as I slowly open my eyes, and see him stripping off his gloves.

"You can get dressed, Miss D'Amelio," he says calmly, closing his medical bag. I scramble up to a sitting position, pulling my knees into my chest and wrapping my arms around myself, before I realize that any minute now, the guards are going to come back in and see me like this.

I reach for my clothes, tugging them on as quickly as possible. The doctor says nothing else to me as he walks to the door, rapping on it once and waiting for the click of the lock before opening it. He doesn't look back at me as he leaves, and I let out a shuddering breath as I tug my long-sleeved t-shirt back on, still trembling from head to toe.

The maid that I saw earlier ducks back in, her eyes not quite meeting mine. "You should shower and dress in something that I brought up for you," she says quickly, glancing in the direction of the pile of clothes. "Mr. Lasilov has said that you will join him for dinner."

There's no point in arguing. The maid disappears, and I hear the lock click again. The fear of stripping down for a shower has been replaced by the horror of the doctor's examination. I slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me as I undress and turn on the hot water.

Everything in the bathroom is luxuriously appointed, for all that, it's effectually a prison. The towels are soft and thick, the toiletries are designer, in rich scents of jasmine and lavender. I step under the hot water and close the glass door of the shower behind me, the interior of it steaming and hiding me away for a little while as the glass goes opaque.

There's no razor to shave with, I notice—Igor must have been concerned about the possibility of giving me such an easy out. I go through the rest of the motions of showering: scrubbing myself until my skin feels pink and raw—though it's impossible to shake loose the feeling of the doctor's hands on me—and washing my hair. I stand in the hot water for a long time, until it starts to run cool, trying to find options for myself and coming up with none.

The fear of what's going to happen to me is a constant, living thing, pulsing in my veins as I try to keep it under control. I dry off with the plush towels and wrap my wet hair up in one, wrapping another tightly around myself as I go to sort through the stack of clothing that the maid brought me.

I settle on the pair of black cigarette pants that come to my ankles, and a sky-blue silk top with a bow at the throat and cap sleeves. It leaves my arms bare, but covers most of my chest, and that matters more to me right now. There's a pair of white lace underwear in the pile, and I wince as I see it, my skin crawling at the thought of what it might mean—Igor's hope for a virginal bride who can replace his lost heir for him, in time.

Putting the clothes on makes me feel sick to my stomach, but I know this isn't the battle I should pick to fight. I know it will matter which battles I choose, and if there's a hill I'm going to die on, it shouldn't be this one. In the end, capitulating to Igor's requests for ‘appropriate' clothing and dinner will do nothing more than appease him—which I need to do, if I want to survive whatever comes next.

Rebellion and strength are not always the same thing, I've found.

I dry my hair, letting it fall loose down my back and air-dry until a knock comes at the door sometime later. By then, my hair is dried, thick and shiny, and I put it up atop my head in a loose bun. No jewelry was provided for me, so I slip my feet into the black, red-bottomed, high-heeled pumps that were left with the clothing, and follow the guards down the stairs.

I'm led to another lavishly appointed room, a huge, formal dining room with a mahogany table that could easily seat twenty guests. The floor is marble, and the chandelier hanging above the table is gold and crystal. I wonder if Igor is aware that he's made himself into a fairytale villain, the evil king who steals the princess and demands her hand in marriage.

The only problem is—I don't know if my prince is coming to save me. I don't know if he should, considering the potential cost.

Igor is already at the head of the table, his iron-grey hair neatly combed, and wearing a fresh, dark-grey suit. He looks at me as I walk in, gesturing for me to sit to his right, where a china place setting has already been arranged for me. There's a decanter of red wine between the two settings—his and mine—and Igor pours us both a glass as I sit down, my back stiff and straight and my hands folded in my lap.

"Try the wine," Igor says calmly, as if I were an ordinary guest at an ordinary dinner. "It's from Argentina. Really quite good."

I reach for the glass, trying to keep my hand from trembling. I could use the wine, honestly, to get through the evening, and this is one offer I'm not inclined to refuse.

He remains silent as a maid comes in with a cart, setting out the first courses. A mixed-greens salad studded with dried berries, gorgonzola, and a creamy dressing, a bowl of what looks like a rich tomato bisque swirled with thick cream and a spicy sauce, and a plate of thinly shaved beef carpaccio, sprinkled with green onions and surrounding a small china dish of what looks like a sort of mustard.

Igor spreads his hands magnanimously. "I told my cook to prepare all her best dishes. You'll be astonished at the main course, Bella. Eat up." He motions to the food. "You're a bit on the thin side, I think."

In that, he's not wrong—I've worked hard to put on weight and muscle in the last couple of months, since I recovered enough from the shock of my almost-wedding to Pytor to get out of bed and start to try to recuperate. But I'm still thin, and I'm also hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast this morning, after my run, and those calories are long since gone.

Still, the swirling nerves in my stomach and burgeoning nausea make it hard to do more than take small, dainty bites of the salad and sips of the soup as I wait for Igor to tell me what it is that he plans to do with me. I don't dare venture to try the beef at all.

Igor puts several strips onto a small plate, dipping a piece into the mustard and chewing thoughtfully. He takes a bite of his soup, and another, drinks the wine—and it takes me a moment to realize that he's drawing this out on purpose, extending my fear, making me wait to find out my fate. He's taking pleasure in this, and that's enough to kill what remains of my appetite, despite the undeniable deliciousness of the food.

I drag my spoon through my soup, biting my lip. Igor glances over at me, chewing another piece of the beef at length before drawing in a long breath, and turning to look at me.

"Dr. Maglin has informed me that you are no longer a virgin." His voice and expression betray nothing—he says it flatly, without any hint as to how that affects my fate. "I had a feeling. But of course, you wouldn't tell me." He smirks, reaching for his wine. "You could have avoided that whole nasty business with Dr. Maglin, if you'd only been honest with me, Bella."

"I don't believe you," I tell him, as evenly as I can manage, although there's a tremor in my voice that I can't entirely hide. But it's true—I don't. "I think you would have had him examine me no matter what. Because you enjoy my humiliation, if nothing else."

Igor chuckles, lifting one shoulder in a shrug as he takes another sip of the wine. "Well, you'll never know now, will you? Perhaps you could have kept your modesty here a little longer. Or perhaps not." He smiles cruelly, setting the glass down again. "As to the matter of your innocence—or lack thereof, I suppose?—"

He lets out a heavy sigh, drawing out the moment a little longer. I feel the heavy drop in my stomach, at the thought of being sent out to his men after this. At the idea that this might be a last supper of sorts, a final meal before he throws me to his dogs. He did say, after all, that he only wanted to marry me if I were still a virgin.

Which is better? I can't think of which would be worse at this moment—the cruel but comparably brief torture of being given to his men, who will tear me apart before long, or the long, slow death by inches of being Igor's bride, forced to bear his child, to be torn between a man I would die to escape and a child that I will undoubtedly want to live for.

And that, I realize, in the instant that he tells me his decision, is why he'll keep me for himself, no matter what. Because in the end, marrying me is the cruelest option, by far.

"I've decided your virtue doesn't matter," Igor says, just as the thought enters my mind, as if confirming my suspicions. "At the end of the day, Bella—I need an heir, and you can give me one. And, after all, I think it's fitting." His smile broadens, cruel and cold. "Your family was the reason I lost my son. And you will give me a new one."

I ignore the fact that it was his own decisions that led to Pyotr's death—his choice to make the wedding a trap, to seek retribution. I know he'll always turn it back to the theft of Pyotr's first intended bride, the fact that if my family had just abided by their agreement, supposedly none of this would have happened. Never mind that I think the Bratva would have always sought to betray any agreement that they made with the D'Amelio family, eventually.

I summon the last of my courage, tilting my chin up to look at him. "You can't make me."

Igor laughs at that. "Oh, my dear, I can make you do whatever I please. You're barely more than a girl, and I'm a man with power and influence, money, and the ability to bend almost anyone I want to my will. You'll do as I tell you."

"I could kill myself." I clench my hands together in my lap, stifling my fear. "You can't have me watched every second of every day, and there's a hundred different ways I could manage it. I won't give you a child, Igor. You can hurt me, but a child is a different matter?—"

Igor shakes his head, his smile fading. He turns towards me further, leaning forward over the arm of his chair, as if in confidence. "If I have to lock you in a bare room, without furniture or clothing or a single implement, I will, Bella. Don't test me. I can make your life as comfortable as I please, or I can make it a misery. It's up to you which it will be."

His expression hardens, cold and calculating, and the fear spreads through me as I see his gentlemanly facade fall away. At that moment, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's no mercy, no softness in this man. If I test him, he will pay me back a thousandfold whatever frustrations or pain I cause him. Pyotr was nothing, compared to what his father will do.

The next words out of his mouth prove it entirely.

"I have no interest in a contentious marriage, Bella," he says coldly. "I don't wish to spend my remaining years fighting my bride for every inch of submission I demand. If you refuse me, I will go back to that house where I found you, and I will bring that man and his children here. If you fight me still, I will make you watch while I cut him apart. And the children?" His eyes are like flint, cold, hard steel. "The boy I might raise as my own. He's young and malleable, enough that I could manipulate him. I could make him believe every terrible thing, even his own mother's death, was his father's fault. That I'm his savior, his hero. I could make him mine, a brutal man when he's grown to serve my Bratva. And the girl?"

My stomach twists, nausea flooding me, but Igor doesn't so much as flinch.

"The girl is old enough to make use of soon. Not for me—those aren't my proclivities, but I know of men who would pay good money for her. Perhaps I'd even bring them here, while they bid for her, so you can see her fear. What your defiance will wreak. But of course—" He shrugs. "All of that is avoidable, Bella. All you need to do is accept your place, and submit to me. Accept that you will be my bride, and provide me an heir. As your father's daughter, this was always your purpose, for someone. There's no reason why it shouldn't be me. And then I will leave them alone. They can live their lives, innocent and unharmed. Your Gabriel can keep his pretty family. Don't worry for him, tesoro ," he adds, his gaze still cool and emotionless. "He'll forget you soon enough. In fact, he may even be relieved that I've removed the danger from his door."

I swallow hard, my mouth going dry. I know he's telling the truth. He says all of it, all of these terrible, vicious threats, in a way that's so simple, so casual, as if he has no worry, no fear that I could somehow outwit him.

He leans back, as if he sees the realization that I'm outmatched in my face. "I like your defiant spirit," he says, that cold smile returning to the edges of his mouth. "But you have a little too much of it, my dear. Don't worry. I'll break you of that excess soon enough."

There's anticipation in his voice, and it makes my skin crawl. His gaze sweeps over me, as if he's imagining the ways he might accomplish that, the things he could do.

"But," he adds, sitting up as he reaches again for his glass of wine, "I will give you one concession. I intend to marry you, so we'll do this right." He looks at me, as if expecting gratitude, that I'll appreciate him giving me one small boon when he's tearing my life apart. "I won't take you to bed until our wedding night."

As much as I don't want to show any emotion, I can't help the relief that washes through me at that. I don't know how I could have endured it tonight, after the threats he's just made. Even closing my eyes and trying to imagine myself somewhere else wouldn't have been enough. I feel like it would have broken me.

I feel certain it must show on my face. And from the satisfied look on his, I think it does.

I press my lips together, fighting back anything I might say. The truth is that I don't entirely know what to say—and I think Igor prefers that I don't speak at all. At the moment, all I can think is that at least I have a little time. I don't know what might come of it, but I won't be dragged to Igor's bed tonight, or given to anyone else, and that relief is enough to take my breath away. But behind it is the heavy dread of knowing that the reprieve won't last forever—and that my only chance at salvation might come with a cost too high to pay.

"Well, then. It's settled." Igor looks up as one of the maids comes in with the next course, another uniformed woman just behind her, presumably to clear away what we've been eating. Mine is still almost entirely untouched.

I couldn't have said what was served for the rest of the dinner. It tasted like cardboard in my mouth, as I managed a few small bites, Igor eating heartily next to me. All I can think, as I poke at my food, is that I have time to find a way out.

And I can't help but hope that it means Gabriel will have time to find me, before I'm forced to become Igor's bride.