Prisoner (Russian Tattoos Book 2) Read Online Free

the airport, you’d be at the mercy of Maksim Ovechkin, the pakhan of our rival Bratva . Trust me. If Maksim ever gets his hands on you—” He pursed his lips, deciding not to reveal the vile thought in his head.
    “What will he do?”
    “Pray you never find out.”
    “What about my family?”
    “Everyone is fine,” Boris said. “As for you, you will remain here as our guest until I am certain you are out of danger. I picked you up because you’re being stalked by our enemies and need my protection—no other reason. When the conflict is over, you will return to your family in America. While you are here, you will get healthy, dry up your tears, and be grateful for all the measures Vladimir has taken to ensure your safety.”
    “Where is he? He doesn’t love me anymore. Why does he care what happens to me?” I blinked my eyes to stay awake, but I didn’t have any strength left in my body.
    “Get some rest.”
    Dmitri laid me back down on the bed.
    “From this point on, I expect you to calm yourself down, stop fighting me over every little thing, and try not to give yourself another concussion.” Boris patted my cheek. “Dmitri would greatly appreciate it if you would stop trying to kill yourself. You’re making his job difficult.”
    “What’s his job?” I whispered, barely able to keep my eyes open.
    “To keep you alive.”
    “What if he fails?” My words came out slurry.
    “He’s a dead man.”
    Holy shit. The Russian Bratva played for keeps. I closed my eyes and escaped my nightmare.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 4
     
     
    Mind Game
     
    The aroma of savory soup drew me out of my deep sleep that had lasted hours or maybe even days. I lifted my head to see who was in the room. I was alone, sans a steaming bowl of red soup on the bedside table. I desperately needed to eat, but my wrists were restrained to the side rail with handcuffs.
    My previously athletic frame felt bony and frail, and according to my estimated downtime, I hadn’t eaten for several days. The last thing I had in my stomach was the spiked vodka cocktail Boris forced me to drink when he abducted me from the airport.
    I was hopeful whoever had brought the food would return. While I waited, salivating, I noticed my IV had been removed, my bed linens had been changed, and I no longer smelled sour from vomit. The lavender blanket I’d gotten sick on had been replaced with a cheerful yellow dotted bedspread, and I had on a floral beachy dress I’d packed for Punta Cana. I pushed the thought away of Boris or the thug taking off my clothes, wiping my body clean, and redressing me—that was the least of my worries.
    The door creaked open and Dmitri strolled in smelling like he’d just smoked a cigarette. He held a small loaf of dark bread in his hand. It was the Russian kind Vladimir and I used to nosh on when we drank vodka back home. In my barely conscious stupor the last time I’d seen him, I’d measured how much time had passed by the stages of the bruises on his face. This time, they were light brown and greenish yellow. All in, it takes nine or ten days for a bruise to fade away. I had probably been out another day or two.
    “ Dobryy den .” Dmitri chatted away as he unlocked the cuffs from my wrists and positioned me into a sitting position. I didn’t recognize any Russian words besides “good afternoon,” but his tone wasn’t mean or rude, more like he was making small talk. Caring for kidnapped women was just another day on the job for a low-ranking member of the Bratva .
    I rubbed my wrists to soothe the pain and scratched the scabby ligature marks on my wrists caused by the cable ties that had cut into my skin from my initial abduction. “You don’t have to handcuff me. What do you think I’m going to do? Overpower you, bust down the door, and hail a cab to the airport?” Since he couldn’t understand me, I felt empowered knowing I could say whatever I wanted.
    Dmitri lifted the soup from the tray