He has the audacity to sigh. As though I’m the unreasonable one. “I’m sure, if you prove that you can be trusted, I can schedule some sunlight for you once a day.”
My eyes pop open. I’m not sure where to start with that statement so I just go for the practical thing to be outraged about. “‘Once a day’? That’s it? Like I’m some kind of shady criminal who can only be let out for my daily hour of prison yard time?”
“It won’t be like this forever.”
“So you say. But the fact that you have this basement set up in the first place suggests otherwise.” I stretch my neck from side to side because every muscle in my body is spasming miserably at the thought of endless solitary confinement. “Who is it that stayed here before me?”
Immediately, I know I’ve asked the wrong question. His eyes get tight and his jaw does that clenching thing that makes his cheekbones look so much sharper. “That’s none of your concern.”
Play the good little hostage. Don’t engage. Don’t snap at him. Don’t—
“Actually, considering I’m clearly your latest prisoner in a long line of them, it is my concern. I’ve spent the last few hours in here combing through all the stuff I can find and I can’t decide if you’re kidnapping model plane enthusiasts or little boys. Either way, it doesn’t look—”
“As I said, it’s none of your concern. Asking questions is not in your best interests, Alyssa. Being nosy is not in your best interests, either.”
I gulp. On second thought, I think I prefer his subtler threats.
Uri strides past me towards the door. Despite how little I like him right now, the thought of watching him walk out the door terrifies me. It’s got nothing to do with him; it just feels like the room is ten times smaller when I’m in here alone.
Almost like the walls are closing in on me.
Elle likes to say that the only reason I became a travel writer is because I’m claustrophobic. This country got to be too small for me. Well, if a country wasn’t big enough, this room sure as hell isn’t.
“Wait!” I cry out. To my surprise, Uri pauses at the threshold. “Can I at least go back home long enough to pack a bag? Get some of my things?”
It feels like a pretty reasonable request in my opinion but his lips purse up tight. “There’s a bunch of papers and pens in that desk over by the fireplace. You can write a list of all the stuff you want and I’ll retrieve it for you.”
I’m wondering just how much I can get away with when he nips that thought in the bud. “And just so you know, I’m not getting you your cellphone or laptop.”
“So I really am your prisoner?”
He glowers at me. “For now… yes.”
I square my shoulders but I refuse to let my face fall. I may be at his mercy but he doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing my fear. “I have friends and family, you know. They’re gonna get suspicious if they don’t hear from me.”
“Of course. I’m sure ‘Elle’ will be wondering what’s taking her purple dildo so long.”
“I have other friends besides Elle!”
What am I doing? Why am I engaging?
He takes a few steps back towards me. “Do you? Are you talking about the other senior citizens who live on this hill? Mrs. Heidegger will be just fine with her cats.”
“What are you implying?” I demand. “Because I got news for you, buddy: those women you parade around here every night aren’t ‘friends,’ either. Neither are your bodyguards or security crew or any of the other goons you hire to keep everyone else out!”
One eyebrow twitches. Uri doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then: “This is not about me, is it? This is about you.”
I don’t take that obvious piece of bait. “I need to be able to call my friends. My parents. My job.”
But Uri has already turned his back on me again. “We’ll sort something out,” he drawls without elaborating in the slightest. “Get that list ready and I’ll make sure everything is brought to you.”
Then the door slams. I’m alone again.
And strangely—I feel it.
I’m not saying I enjoyed the way he grabbed me before. But I’m not saying I didn’t not enjoy it, either. It was this intense combination of get me outta here along with don’t ever let go.
The first instinct was normal, entirely expected. The second was more confusing. Why on Earth wouldn’t I want him to let me go?
Instinct is telling me that it wasn’t about Uri. Well—it wasn’t only about him. It was about the feeling of being held like that. It didn’t feel claustrophobic or invasive. It was almost… nurturing. Protective, in a way. It was like he was trying to hold me together while I was falling apart.
And the only person who’s ever really done that for me was Ziva.
I take a deep breath and walk over to the bed. I collapse onto it and try to think of nothing, but I keep going back to that feeling. The needy desire to be held.
I pound my fists against the bed in frustration. It makes no sense that I would feel anything remotely close to comfort in this place, from that man. As it stands, I do loathe him. I just feel a lot of other things for him, too…
Before tonight, he was my dark, broody, mysterious billionaire neighbor with a chip on his shoulder. He was the guy who stormed into the city zoning committee to threaten them about tearing down my house. He was the guy who tore through women like those women tore through clothes. He was the guy who was so stinking rich he could get away with blue murder.
But after the fence, the bandage, dinner… he became someone else.
Turns out he wasn’t the mustache-twirling villain I’d created in my head. I mean, he was that, yes, but there’s more to Uri Bugrov’s story than meets the eye. And I’m not talking severed body parts, either. I’m talking about the family he refuses to talk about. The lovingly furnished basement that’s currently my home.
This place wasn’t built to be a prison; it was built to be a sanctuary.
But for whom?
I lie back and close my eyes. I do what I do whenever I feel stressed or anxious. I run my hands over my body, touching myself gently. When other girls, normal girls feel this way, they go partying. They go to a nice club, catch the eye of a cute boy, and work out their frustrations the ol’ fashioned way.
By getting good and hammered, then good and laid.
But me? Give me a little light background music and some peace and I’m good to go. I call myself independent. Elle calls me a coward. The scientific term she uses is “scaredy-cat.”
Right now, I’m not interested in trying to wade through the recesses of my subconscious. I just want to feel better. And nothing calms me down faster than a good orgasm.
I’m fondling my breasts when I flash back to a few minutes ago.
Uri. Me. My back pressed up against his chest. His erection grinding hard against my hip.
My eyes fly open and my hand freezes on my boobs.
Oh, hell no.