Midnight Purgatory (Bugrov Bratva #1)(30)

“It figures you’d be one of the jaded ones.”

“I’m not jaded.” He shrugs. “I just see things for what they are. Paris is a city just like any other city. It smells like piss, simmers with unrest, and hides pickpockets round every corner. Sure, they make a good hot chocolate—but I can make you the same one right here, right now. And you don’t have to stand in line for it.”

“I just have to stay in this basement for God knows how long?”

“Until otherwise noted.” He picks up the bottle of wine and tops up my glass. “At least there’s good booze.”

I lift my wine glass and hide behind it for a second. The last couple of hours have flown by. It’s annoying how easy it is to talk to him. Not that we’ve spoken about anything overly personal, but then again, isn’t everything personal in one way or another?

“Getting me drunk is not gonna make me forget anything, Uri.”

His eyes connect with mine for a moment, but he looks away just as quickly. Contrary to what Uri seems to think, the alcohol hasn’t made me goofy or wiped my memory—it’s relaxed me. It’s made me feel like sitting down to dinner with my captor is totally normal. Charming, even.

But I can’t help wondering how many other women have experienced this very same thing in this very same basement. How is he getting away with this?

It can’t be just because he’s handsome and charming, can it? No, that’s too simplistic an answer. Maybe it has more to do with the women he chooses. Maybe I’m here not because I chose to scale a fence to retrieve my package, but because he looked into my soul during our first dinner and saw the loneliness inside me. He saw that I was lost; he saw that I was broken. He saw that I needed to lose myself in something else in order to survive.

That was another thing that the therapist said to me in those hazy, miserable post-Ziva days. You like immersing yourself in experiences and people to avoid your own issues.

Of course, I told her that I had no issues to avoid and stormed out.

Maybe that should have been my first clue that she was right.

Laughter bursts through my lips unexpectedly, taking even me by surprise. Uri watches me carefully, not saying a word until after it’s subsided.

“What’s so funny?”

Nothing’s funny, I want to tell him. It’s all just different kinds of pain, and if you don’t laugh, you’ll end up crying.

But opening up to Uri Bugrov is firmly off the table. “I was just thinking… this would be so much like a date if it weren’t for the fact that I can’t just leave once dessert is over.”

“I’m not seeing the humor in that,” he drawls.

“It’s not funny in a ha-ha kinda way. It’s funny in a look at where my life is at kind of way. I’ll bet all the women who came before me thought the same thing.”

His nostrils flare for a second. His chest rises and falls as he picks up his wine glass and gives it a practiced twirl. “Do you even realize how serious this is?” His voice is tight and thrumming with tension. It’s as though he’s trying his best to stay calm.

A little thrill runs down my spine. It’s nice to know that I have the power to rile him up. “Of course I realize it. I’m the one who’s been trapped here all day.”

The blue of his eyes is really something. It’s a bright aquamarine, the kind of color you see only way out in the ocean on a hot day.

“You are the first woman to stay down here. And, I can say with some confidence, you’ll be the last.”

“If that’s supposed to be reassuring, try again.”

“It’s a statement of fact. You’ll return to your life once I’ve handled this threat and I’ll get my basement back.”

“Your basement, huh?” I ask. “Does that mean you enjoy video games and Legos?”

I’m fishing and we both know it, but Uri’s expression doesn’t change. “On occasion. It can be very therapeutic.”

I snort derisively. “So… are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Who the finger belonged to?”

His demeanor doesn’t change. He has very few tells that I can see. It’s gonna take me longer to crack his code than I’d hoped for. Although maybe I shouldn’t want to crack his code at all. In fact, that might be the safer option.

“What did I tell you about asking questions?” he rumbles.

That’s the thing about sitting down to dinner with a person: you start talking. And when you start talking, you get a feel of the person you’re eating with. You don’t even have to swap personal stories to get to know them. Sometimes, getting to know a person is as simple as finding out that he likes his fish undersalted and his pasta swimming in butter.

His rippling anger would have freaked me out twenty-four hours ago. In fact, it did. But now? I find myself shrugging it off like a child who refuses to listen.

“I like questions. They get to the point.”

“The point here is your safety,” he tells me firmly. “The finger is my problem and the moment I deal with it, you will be free to go.”

“And until then?”

“Until then, you are safe here. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”

I sigh. “Unless of course I ask for my phone.”