It’s right about then that I become convinced I’ve lost my mind.
In the reflection on the TV, it almost looks like someone is standing behind me. Which is obviously insane, because I’m alone here. Totally completely alone.
My heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo though, as it rockets away inside my chest.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
My heart’s beating so hard, I’m sure that if I look down, I’ll see that’s it’s popped right out of my body, shirt stretched to accommodate it, like in Loony Tunes.
Speaking of Loony Tunes, that reminds me. I’m nuts.
I don’t know how long I sit there, frozen, eyes locked on the TV.
I’m certain I must be hallucinating. That there’s no one behind me and that he’s certainly not holding something that looks like a knife.
I’ve gotten myself half-convinced when he moves.
A scream tears its way out of me, shrill and fearful.
The remote falls from my hand to clatter loudly against the wooden floors as I stand, spinning wildly around.
“Hello, baby,” he says with a thick Russian accent, shark-like grin splitting his face. “Miss me?”
I can’t breathe.
I can’t move.
Standing in front of me is someone I was sure I’d never see again.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” he says, his accent even thicker than I remembered. “And here I thought you’d be so glad.”
“Wha—what are you doing here?” I ask. My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
“Why, I’ve come to rescue you!” he says, his eyes shining maliciously as he says it.
I don’t spend long looking at his eyes, though. My gaze is almost immediately drawn to his right hand. Or, more specifically, the butcher knife that it’s wielding.
He seems to notice.
“Oh, this? This is just in case of problems...” He tilts his head, grinning even more broadly. “But we aren’t going to have problems, are we?”
I can only manage to shake my head no.
I liked him better when he was pretending to be a sexy doctor.
Sexy doctors are my type, haven’t you heard?
Russians with knives…not my kink.
Not that it matters.
“Good,” he growls, “now come here.”
17
Michael
“Stella!” I call, rushing inside. “Stella?”
I’m hoping. God, I can’t help myself.
I’m hoping that she’ll just raise that gorgeous face up from the back of the couch and say, Hey, sweetie. What took you so long?
But the apartment is silent and cold.
She’s gone.
I grip the kitchen counter for a second, feeling the pain in my knuckles. I’ve never felt like this before. I used to laugh at men in power who got emotional under pressure. Now here I am—an absolute fucking wreck.
I knew something was wrong the moment I got out of surgery.
And now here it is. Black fucking cloud hanging over my entire fucking house.
In a blind rage, I clench my fists and lash out. Some hand-carved wooden fertility statues from Africa go flying as my fist connects with the wall.
Scratch that.
It goes through the wall.
My knuckles are bleeding. My swing grazed the bookshelf, and now I’ve got shards of wood in my hand.
“Shit,” I mutter, knowing this won’t make surgery fun tomorrow. What a goddamn stupid thing to do! I’ve never lost it like this before…but Stella.
Stella’s the kind of woman worth losing it over.
And now I’ve lost her.
I move over to the sink, gritting my teeth as I pick the splinters out of my knuckles.
Perfect control. Cold as ice fucking doctor. Wincing at the sink with a wrecked hand and an empty bed.
I have to admit it to myself: I’ve never loved anyone before. Not like this. Not ever.
Not like she’s the air I breathe and the only comfort I know in this world.
I shake off the sentimental shit and run my knuckles beneath cold water from the tap.
That’s the great thing about training—it kicks in when you can’t think for yourself. Some of these splinters are pretty big. Might need stitches.
I know how to stitch myself up, at least.
As my hand is soaking, I carefully pull out the splinters. They’re thick, and some over an inch long—I really pulverized that fucking shelf.
Still, even though these wounds aren’t serious, I may have a few micro-fractures. Even if it is just superficial damage, if any of this gets infected, I’ll be out of surgery for a while.
I’d have plenty of time for Stella then.
If she was still fucking here, anyway.
I look up to the ceiling and feel that horrid bunch in my stomach again. Just one more reason why I’m not good enough for her: no self-control. Can’t keep my dick in my pants, can’t keep control of my goddamn fists.
Should have married her first. Bought her as a bride—should have made her one, too.
I dry my hand off with paper towels, looking for a bandage. My mind keeps working methodically and carefully as it always does, solving the problem.
But underneath, I’m seething with self-loathing. I’m getting angrier and angrier—not at Stella, but at myself.
I should have been there when she woke up this morning. Why did I think the perfect woman, the only one who could meet my standards, should sit around like a pretty doll on a shelf?
I should have woken her, taken her with me. I could set her up in a nice café or something to wait for me, sent her to an art museum or given her my black card. Anything instead of just ditching her like a one-night stand.
I’m steadily applying bandages. It hurts, I guess, but at least the entire hand isn’t fucked.
But what does it matter? I’m fucked, my heart is fucked, everything is fucked.
My hand feels kind of irrelevant by comparison.
I have a nip of scotch and take it over to the couch where I collapse for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
I want to go after her. I want to get her back. I want to track her down, wherever she’s gone.
I want to spend every last moment hunting for her just to see her one last time.
But for the first time in my life I am self-aware. I know doing that would be for me, not for her benefit.
This is the moment I decide I’m a changed man.
I’m not going to chase down this gorgeous angel and tear her life apart, trying to make her love me. I shouldn’t have bought her in the first place. I shouldn’t have expected her to stay.
No. She deserves to be free, to be spoiled every second of her life. She deserves someone who will be there and who will cherish her the way she deserves.
She did the right thing. She left. Now I have to do the right thing and let her go.
I bow my head, and I finish my drink.
But then, as I stand up I catch a scent. Iron. Tangy. Like the ER on a bad night.
Blood.
Not mine. I’m all cleaned up, the rags all thrown away. Force of habit. So where can it be coming from?
Feeling a hard anger starting to build inside me, I head down the hall.
Fuck. There!
A dark smear. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s there: a dark smear across the wall and floor.
Someone got hurt here.
My Stella got hurt here.
I inhale again.
No. On second thought…doesn’t smell like her.
I don’t know who else was here in my house…but that’s not Stella’s blood.
My mind’s racing to try and piece it all together, but if there’s one conclusion I’m comfortable to come to…
It’s the one that will give me a little hope.
She didn’t go. She didn’t leave me.
She was taken.
Kidnapped. Fucking kidnapped again.
S
tella does seem to have a penchant for that. But this time…I look at the dark stain again. This time, she made the fucker bleed for his efforts.
The rage within me is like an animal. My mind isn’t clouded. I’m totally clear.
I snap out my phone as I bolt for the door. It’s time to call in every favor I have coming to me. Once I do, I’m going to find this motherfucker, and I’m going to destroy him.
Then, I’m going to get my girl back.
18
Stella
I sit in the front seat, curled up as far away from this fucking psycho as I can get. He’s tied my hands with some nasty nylon cord, and the duct tape across the face really hurts.
You wouldn’t think it would hurt, would you? Everyone on TV does the duct tape thing so regularly. I never imagined it was so fucking painful…but it totally is.
Russian psycho looks over at me constantly. When he slows down for an intersection or something he leers over at me, grazing his eyes across my body.
I’m really fucking scared now, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to take the cunt apart. I made him bleed once, I can do it again.
I wonder if I can get my legs up and kick at him.
The car is small, hot, and fast. If I wasn’t bound and gagged, I’d probably be impressed. He handles it well too, speeding through the streets.
“Well then, krasivoya,” he whispers, “I have feasted upon you with my eyes. Now, I want to hear the pretty bird speak.”
He leans over and tugs the duct tape off my mouth.
Fuck me, that hurts! My eyes tear up as he leans back and gives me an expectant look. I’m so stunned by his idiocy, I can only stare back for all of two seconds before I verbally blast the motherfucker.
“You vodka-chugging fuck! Let me go, you fucking dick. Do you know how much shit you are going to get for this? Do you?”
I know it’s not worth screaming. The car is like a quiet bubble. It blocks out the street sounds.
I’ve ridden in cars like this all my life, and I know they’re designed to keep the occupants separate from the masses of humanity outside. I also know those brain-dead masses won’t give a fuck if I start to scream.
Even if I show my bound hands, they will likely think we’re on our wedding night and just read 50 Shades or something. The shit people get up to these days.
Russian psycho is looking at me with a slightly down-trodden look, like a kicked puppy. I can’t help it, I start giggling. Did he really think I was going to sweetly thank him?
“My sweet one, I want to do you no harm, but you must learn your place. The boys and I thought you were just a nice handy ticket. We needed a girl to send over and there you were. Like an angel sent from heaven. But once I let you go, I could not forget you.”
Psycho Russian is handling the wheel, keeping one eye on me and one eye on the road. He keeps looking over, trying to stare deeply into my eyes, and I just give him a glare. My whole body is rigid, and I’m still wondering if I can get my legs up.
Maybe I could open the door even with bound hands?
“I searched for you krasivoya, I search the web for you. I find you, not just a model, but a princess—daughter of a billionaire! My love for you only grows from there. I try to forget. I take the drugs. I drink vodka. I quench myself in every Russian whore I can find, but you torture my dreams, krasivoya. All I see behind my eyes is you, dancing through my dreams.”
“Listen, cunt, this all entertaining, and all that shit, but for a seduction, it fucking sucks! What the fuck is going on with you? Are you seriously deranged?”
It’s not fear. Well, not all of it. I’ve never been angry in this way before.
Okay, maybe once or twice but now I see the difference between a real problem and the latest shoes not being in the right color to match my dress.
“Shut up!” he snaps. “You must learn your place! You are not some casual fuck, no. I don’t do this if I want to ravish you. If all I want is your cunt, then I can take that back at fancy apartment! I could fuck you right now if I wanted to.”
We roll slowly to a stop at a light. When he leans over, I can smell the vodka on his breath and his warm, damp hand gripping my knee.
He’s taking slow, even breaths and seems utterly calm. I have to say that wigs me out a bit, and the hand on my knee gives me a sick feeling in my guts.
“I don’t want fucking, lovely one…Well, I do, but that comes after.”
He moves back as the lights change. Fuck, I just missed a great chance to headbutt him or something.
Actually, that’s a fucking laugh. Who the fuck do I think I am? Headbutting. For fuck’s sake.
My face is my money-maker. I need to stop being ridiculous.
“Okay, I’ll bite. After what?”
“After wedding, my darling! You will be my lovely bride!”
I can’t understand the words for a second. He’s grinning and looking between the road and me.
Honestly, I think he’s actually waiting for my overjoyed reaction.
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.
The insulted look on his face! Oh, just like that idiot Paul Tucker at senior prom. May I have a kiss from the prom queen? Fuck no, you little perv!
And once I start laughing, I can’t stop. His expression just makes me laugh harder.
“Be quiet, krasivoya,” he growls. “This is first thing you must learn. You obey husband. Respect me. Good Russian wife does this.”
I still can’t stop laughing.
“You absolute dick,” I finally squeeze a word out through laughter. Oh shit, my eyes are watering, and I can’t wipe them with tied hands. “You do know that marriage—at least in this country—has to be consented to by both parties? How the fuck do you expect to get away with this?”
“This is why I take you to Russia, sweet girl! I have cousin who marry us, no problem. He also get all papers you need to live in Russia as my wife. Then we go and we live, ja? We drink vodka, make the babies.”
He has a dull, dreamy look on his face. All of that sounds quite scary, actually. Surely this can’t happen in this day and age…can it?
“I’ll fight you.” I’m staring at him with the full impact of my rage. I can’t even raise my voice—I’m that angry. “I will fight you every single fucking day.”
He pulls up at a red light and leans over to grip my knee again. He grips me fiercely, just a few fingers digging into my knee, but it really hurts. His hands are strong.
He looks deep into my eyes, and I am intimidated—he is giving off one nasty vibe.
“That is why I break you first, lovely creature,” he growls it through his teeth, and I can smell the vodka again. Oh, it’s disgusting. Horrid breath leering all over my face and cold, angry eyes.
“I do not want to hurt you, sweet thing...” He moves back and starts moving forward again. “But I will break you. If you are too nasty, we have to go straight to hard break. Do you know what that means?”
I shake my head, starting to feel tired and really fucking scared.
“Most girls, soft break works fine. Bit of threat, intimidation, within a short time, they make good wives. Some girls, though, they won’t give up. Too much spirit. They have to be tied down at all times. If you cannot be trusted to move around while bound, then we have to tie you to bed.”
He leers over, feral grin sneaking across his face as he thinks about it. “And then krasivoya, I fuck you silly. Every fucking hour, as hard as I can, until your spirit is gone. I can have my brothers help. We can sell rides on you to poor men on the street.
“None of that matter at all, because you rise from bed a new woman. My bride. Old bitch Stella gone. Dead. Nice, quiet wife. You see?”
Okay. Now I’m not laughing anymore.
Now, I’m fucking crying, I can’t help it, tears are pouring down my face.
Not because I’m sad or scared.
No, right now I’m so fucking enraged, I can’t see straight.
“You just try it,
” I snarl. “You just fucking try it! The guy who bought me? He’s ex-military, black ops-trained. He will find me! He will! He will fuck you up, you psycho prick!”
He laughs, “And where is he now, sweet thing? Where is this military man? If he that good, how come he not track us down yet? Huh? I think you lie, pretty one.”
“Think what you like,” I hiss at him, “He will come for me. If I’m not harmed, he may even let you go. If anything happens to me, he will kill you.”
Psycho grunts and starts whistling.
I glare out the window. I haven’t even spoken to Michael in nearly a whole day. I don’t even know where he went.
My chest feels empty and sharp, as I think of how everything that happened between us might have meant nothing to him. The thought of never seeing him again is almost as bad as the thought that he won’t come for me.
That he won’t even notice I’m gone.
19
Michael
The engine has barely started to cool as I slam into my car and get her revving up again. As I push my foot hard to the floor and peel out of the underground, I slap my phone into the cradle and wake the screen.
“You hear me, chief?”
The phone flashes obligingly, “I hear you, doc. Any favor under the sun for you. I almost bought my ticket that night, but I’m out here catching crime because of you.”
I can’t stifle my laugh. “Yeah, well, I think you do better at this than as target practice. Where are they?”
“We have units closing in. I’ll send it to your GPS. The roads are blocked, thanks to our pal, the mayor.”
Another laugh from me. Quite a bit harder this time. “Yeah, well, he owes me. His wang was six different colors after Bangkok.”
My pal the police chief guffaws back at me. “Yet another story that we can’t share. Well, not outside the poker ring anyway.”
“I told you I’ll take your money anytime you want to give it to me. You got those details?”
“Sending it now, doc.”
The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance Page 25
