Arranged By The Bravta King

16

Maria

I'm allowed to wander the penthouse after my ordeal. Mikhail doesn't realize how desperate I am to leave the confinement of my room. The freedom I'm afforded tells me that he knows I won't dare try it again. My previous dress was shredded. What's left of it lies on the floor by my bed. A reminder of how close I came to my death.

I don't want breakfast, but I don't want to stay in this room. The view is breathtaking, yes, but there's no art in this room. And despite everything going to hell impressively, I want to see what other artwork this madman owns.

How dare he laugh at me?

The walk-in closet in my bedroom is empty. I guess a designer wardrobe materializing out of nowhere only exists in fairy tales. I yank the flat sheet off my bed and wrap it around me, twisting the ends together to make a rudimentary dress. My reflection looks passable, if a little trashy.

Briefly, I wonder if he'll demand that I change into something more acceptable. But then I remind myself that I'm his unwilling bride-to-be. So, f**k playing by his rules. Huffing, I shrug my shoulders and hurry downstairs.

In the living room, Mikhail sits on a chocolate leather couch, staring at his phone. I eye it with envy. He doesn't notice me at first until I stand beside the window. The living room isn't all glass; the opposite wall is beige with slick black bookshelves. I approach it slowly as my eyes widen at what looks like a fragment of an ancient Greek vase on a pedestal.

"Care for something to drink? Tea or coffee?" his voice says behind me, but he doesn't turn to look at me at all. "I'll ring the staff."

I shake my head. I'm terrified of the staff, especially the frost queen who explained my near death with such bored precision.

"No, thank you." I point at the vase. "Is this sixth century?"

Finally, he lifts his eyes and when he sees me, he looks startled. His gaze shifts between me and the fragment as if neither makes sense to him. It lingers for a second too long, and I feel traitorous warmth flush across my face. I'm not walking around naked, but I feel vulnerable all the same.

Ugh, I hate how much I'm reacting to him like this. It's not fair!

"Yes," Mikhail finally replies, putting away his phone. "Maybe one of the maids can lend you something to wear." He looks away, as if making it a point to let me know that he's not even bothering to look at me.

I walk toward a beautiful leather couch and flop down on it. "Didn't think about my lack of wardrobe when you snatched me, huh?"

Mikhail gives me a dirty look and gets up quickly, but the elevator chimes before he can summon the staff. I watch with interest the lights blinking as the door opens, then I glance at him watching me, frowning.

The elevator doors open, and my heart jumps into my throat when I catch sight of three rough-looking men. All of them are in dark suits except one. Their faces are hard and unreadable. My fingers tighten around the thin fabric of the flat sheet around me, suddenly wishing that I had put on something more. My body tenses as they spread out across the living room, trapping me between their leering gazes.

One man is at least a head taller than the others, with broad shoulders that make him look like he could easily lift me off the ground. He's older, maybe Dad's age, and has thick silver hair pulled neatly behind his ears. He wears an expensive black tux without a tie—a sharp contrast against the white shirt beneath. There's a poshness to his exterior, but something tells me that it's all for show.

His gaze flicks down my body, lingering at my bruised arms. Unlike when Mikhail stares at me, his gaze has my skin crawling with unease. His eyes continue to roam, stripping me naked with each sweep. I reach for a huge woven pillow and place it on my lap, but cannot stop feeling like it's a futile gesture. He looks at Mikhail for several long moments before finally settling on me again. I stare back, trying to calm myself, though all I want is to scream.

"You must be Maria." He smirks.

I swallow, but my mouth is dry. "Y-yes, I am."

I start to move to stand beside Mikhail, preferring the devil I know to the monsters that I don't.

"Sit." The posh man speaks, and I obey. Though his voice is smooth, it reminds me of worms wriggling in the dirt. "My name is Alexander Vorobyov. I once knew your father."

In their presence, I feel like a small bird surrounded by hungry cats. I try not to let my fear show, but it must be obvious. Alexander grins at me, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips. It sends another wave of revulsion through my stomach.

"Relax, sweetheart," another man grunts. "We're not going to hurt you."

This man is shorter than the others, though still tall enough that he towers over most people. He looks like a bulldog, ready to snap at anyone who comes too close. His face is lined and weathered, but his blue gaze is fierce. Unlike Alexander, he doesn't try to hide his leering gaze. Not once does he try to meet my eyes or look at anything above my neck.

"Call me Gunsyn," the bulldog grins. "Gunsyn Bolotov."

I can't relax in their presence. Something about these men—the air of authority that clings to them like a bad stench, and the way their unblinking gazes rip away the thin sheet covering my body without any effort—twists my stomach into knots. I cast a pleading glance at Mikhail, hoping for a little reassurance, but his eyes are fixed on the three of them even as his hands ball into fists.

The third man steps forward, pushing past the other two. He has the kindest expression out of all of them, but that's not saying much. He tugs at his collar as if uncomfortable in his own clothes. Unlike the rest of the men, he isn't wearing a suit or a tux, just a buttoned-up shirt tucked into jeans. His hair is cut short, which gives him a boyish appearance, though his hair is salt-and-pepper.

"I am Ippolit Tsarnaev." The salt-and-pepper man stands in front of me, his voice whisper-quiet. "We have some questions for you. About your father."

The mention of my father sends a jolt of anxiety through me. A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I swallow hard, trying to calm my nerves. Dad? What would they want to know about my dad? I grip the cushion even tighter. "What do you mean?"

My distress must be vexing because Ippolit sighs and continues. "We're simply concerned about him. We just want to know that he's all right."

I've always known he was secretive, but I never imagined it would lead to this—a group of strange men demanding answers about his whereabouts. And even if I want to help, I don't know what I can tell them.

So much of my own family's past is a mystery to me.

If anything, they might actually know more.

But I'm not stupid. I'll play along only until I figure out how to escape this mess.