Hostage Meal

-TATIANA-

Tatiana was destroying the bedroom. Drawers hung open, clothes scattered across the floor like she was searching for something that might magically appear if she just kept tearing through everything. 

The broken lamp base she tried to cave my skull in with earlier skidded across the hardwood when she kicked it. 

She was breathing hard, hair sticking to her neck, eyes scanning every corner.

There was nothing she could use on me or on herself. I had Dmitri make sure of it.

Her parents, Viktor and Yeva deserved what they got. Every single one of them at that table did. 

Viktor took me in after my father vanished, played the hero, then destroyed everything that mattered. 

He killed Sonya. He killed our baby before she even had a chance. I still heard that phone call sometimes, Sonya’s happy tears slipping through the line when she shared the news that she was carrying my child. Three months gone. 

I felt nothing when I pulled the trigger on the rest of them at the table.  

Except when it came to her.  

Tatiana’s face filled the monitor in my office again. Her grey eyes looked like my mother’s. Lana. 

She even carried herself like her sometimes, that stubborn lift of her chin. That was the only reason she was still breathing.  

I pushed up from the chair, grabbed the tray from the table, and headed down the hall. 

The soup I made was my mother’s recipe, measured out by feel the way she taught me. I didn’t know why I cooked it. 

Habit, maybe. Or some stupid part of me that still wanted to care for someone.  

The lock clicked under my hand.  

I met her standing in the middle of the chaos when I stepped inside, shoulders squared like she was ready for round two. The second her eyes landed on me, her jaw tightened, hands curling into fists.  

“Back again? I was starting to think you had a more exciting hobby than checking on your hostage every few hours. Do all kidnappers keep these weird schedules, or am I just lucky?”  

I set the tray on the dresser, the only surface she hadn’t trashed and stepped back.  

She eyed the bowl of soup like it personally insulted her. Then she leaned down and spat directly into it. A perfect little glob landed right in the center.  

“Oops.” She straightened, fake-sweet smile in place. “Guess I’m not hungry. You know what they say about girls who watched their parents get murdered. They have terrible table manners.”  

“Nobody says that. If you are not hungry then don't eat.”  

I turned to leave.  

“Wait.”  

Her tone changed. I stopped, hand still on the door.  

“Your hand,” she said. “The cut.”  

I glanced down at the fresh pink line across my palm.

Was she concerned about me?

It stung a little when I flexed my fingers. She did that with the lamp.  

“You did that,” I said quietly.  

A small, mean smile tugged at her mouth. “At least I drew blood. Tiny victory, but I’ll take it.”  

She stepped closer. I could see the faint flush on her cheeks and the way her pulse jumped in her throat. Her eyes flicked up to mine. 

“Let me go,” she said, voice low and rough. “If you keep me here like this, I swear I’ll make your life hell. I’ll become the worst thing that ever happened to you.”  

Her gaze darted to the lamp still sitting on the side table, then back to me.   

The silence stretched and her breathing shifted. 

She was scared and angry. That much was obvious. 

“It’s better for you if you stop fighting the walls,” I told her.  

I walked out and locked the door behind me.  

She started pounding on it almost immediately, both fists. “Let me out!” Her voice cracked. “I’ll kill you, you bastard! I’ll kill everyone you care about, just like you did mine!”  

The last word broke into a sob.    

I headed back to the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves, and started making her a second tray. She’d need the strength.  

She had fire, more than I expected and she was nowhere near done fighting me.