He wraps a possessive hand around my hip and I shiver as he speaks calmly, “You would have left?”
“Yes,” I whisper truthfully, because there’s no use in lying now. He’ll see straight through it.
“But how would you have left when you’re monitored?”
I lift my chin. “I would’ve found a way.”
“Like…”
“Dressing as a maid or a delivery man or something.”
His lips tilt in what resembles a smile, yet isn’t. I’ve seen him every day for a whole week and I’ve never seen him smile, not even when he talks to his son. “How would you escape my guards and security?”
“I don’t know. One of them would surely take pity on me and help me out.”
“Take pity and help you out. Interesting.” The way he mulls the words over makes it seem like this entire thing is a real situation, not a hypothetical one.
I shrug. “Not everyone is as heartless as you.”
“And then?” he probes.
“Then, what?”
“Let’s say you succeeded in escaping. How would you survive in the outside world?”
“I’d leave the state and go to the South and work as a waitress or something.”
“And you think you’d get rid of me that easily?”
“I could try.”
“What if I caught you? What if you failed?”
“I’d try again. I wouldn’t stop trying until I succeeded.”
His jaw clenches as if I’ve landed a punch to his face, and his fingers dig painfully into my side. “You will not succeed, Lia. Never.”
“It’s just a hypothetical situation.” I squirm. “Ow. That hurts.”
He loosens his grip on my hip, but he doesn’t let me go. His face is still closed off and I’m lost as to why. Is it because Lia tried to escape before? I hope she succeeded.
An eerie feeling grabs hold of me at the thought that her escape could’ve only succeeded because she ended up dead.
The conversation has darkened his features, his cheekbones appear sharper, harder, like they’re able to cut. I really don’t want him in a sullen mood when I need that drink right now, so I clear my throat, motioning at the library. “Did you read any of these?”
“Why? Interested in reading one?”
“No, thanks. I’m barely finishing that thick as hell document.”
“Not a reader?”
“Nope. I prefer music.” I pause. “You’re probably not a reader either and only keep them for show.”
“I’ve read every book in this office.”
“No way.”
“Yes, I used to sit down and read as much as possible when my father was working here.”
I recall the memos from the document that mentioned his father, Georgy Volkov, who was a leader in the Bratva, too. His picture showed that he had grim, scary features, like he’d snap a person in two if they so much as spoke to him. Adrian shares some of his traits, but his looks and physique are more sophisticated than his father’s. He can easily be considered an honorable gentleman in public, when he’s actually a devil’s minion.
Georgy passed away when Adrian was in his early twenties, and Adrian inherited everything, expanding his influence until he became who he is today.
There was no mention of his mother, though, so I ask, “Did your mother have an influence on your reading habits?”
He raises a brow as if he didn’t expect that question. “Maybe.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Neither. That’s why it’s a maybe.”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is he teasing me?
“Why wasn’t your mother in the document?”
“Because she didn’t exist.”
“Oh. Did she die while you were young?”
“Something like that.”
All his answers are vague at best. I can’t figure out what he’s trying to say or what he isn’t, but at the same time, he’s not completely refusing my questions. If anything, the small conversation has loosened him up a little to the point where his hold around my waist feels intimate. It’s no longer to ensure his control on me, but more like he wants to touch me.
“Did you have a childhood like Jeremy’s?” I ask.
“Like Jeremy’s?”
“As in, your father was absent and your mother had to take care of you?”
“It was the other way around.”
“Your mom was absent?”
He says nothing, his eyes looking at me but not seeming like they’re seeing me. I feel as if I’m losing hold of him, so I blurt, “If you had an absentee parent yourself, shouldn’t you feel Jeremy’s situation more?”
Some of the light goes back to his eyes at the mention of his son. “What about Jeremy’s situation?”
“He barely sees you, even though you mostly work from home.”
“We see each other fine.”
“Have you ever read him a bedtime story?”
“He outgrew those.”
“He’s only five, Adrian. He didn’t outgrow bedtime stories. Besides, he misses you.”
“How would you know that?”
“Every time we do something, he never fails to mention when he did it with you or what you told him about it. He’s looking at you all the time; why don’t you look at him?” My voice chokes and I try to clear my throat.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is to have an angel like Jeremy as a son. Adrian wipes a thumb under my eye, his expression warmer, almost like he doesn’t want me to cry. The asshole doesn’t seem to mind when I’m sobbing out my orgasms while he’s punishing me.
“How about you?” he whispers.
“Me?”
“Do you look at me?”
“I have no reason to look at you.”
“No?”
“No. I’m sorry if you think I’m your wife, but I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, Lia.”
“My name is Winter.”
The darkness I thought was gone slams back into his eyes. “That’s six.”
“You can’t erase my name. It’s Winter. At least call me that when it’s the two of us.”
“Seven, Lia.”
I squeeze my lips shut, feeling more tears barging to my eyes. I don’t know why the fact that he refuses to call me by my name has this effect on me, why it feels like he’s cutting me open more than any of his punishments would. It shouldn’t, and yet, a morbid feeling gnaws at my insides, demanding I win this.
Because with each passing day, my real identity is disintegrating and I feel like I’ll become Lia in no time.
“You can play your sick games all you want, Adrian, but you won’t be able to wipe away who I am. What I am.”
“Eight.”
I should cut my losses and keep my mouth shut, but I don’t. I can’t. He has to know that I am my own person, that he can’t transform me into his dead wife.
“My name is Winter Cavanaugh and I was born in Michigan. My father died when I was a toddler, and my mom relocated us to New York for work reasons.”
“Shut up.”
“No! You’ll listen, because I’m not just some blow-up doll who’s playing the sick role of your dead wife. I’m human. I have feelings. I feel.” I suck in a harsh breath before I continue, “After my mom relocated us here, I took ballet classes, even though they were expensive as fuck. When Mom couldn’t afford to pay for them anymore, my teacher took me under her wing as a charity case and paid for them on my mom’s behalf because she couldn’t stand to see my talent go to waste. And you know what? I was a fucking brilliant ballerina. I made all my classmates green with envy because I had strong ankles and could stand on pointe from the time I was goddamn eleven. I was that good. But that was also when the rich kids started ganging up on me, calling me a charity case. Do you know what it feels like to grow up poor, Adrian? Of course, you don’t. You had your rich mob father.”