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He tuts softly. “Not my game. The game.”
“What?”
His lips curve into a smile. “You were born to play this one.”
I still don’t follow, and he laughs at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you everything you need to know to win. But for now, I’ll take you to see your father, free of charge.” He winks. “It will be my second kindness for the day.”
The man is crazy. “You call stalking me across the house kind?”
He takes a step closer to me and I retreat. Two more steps, and I’m backed against the bookshelf with nowhere to turn. I can taste the metallic scent in the air near him, but the bleeding has lessened to a slow trickle.
Mikhail’s palm on my cheek slides down to my jaw and holds on tight. He wrenches my face up to meet his eyes.
“I bring you gifts,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling like thunder, “and you not only make me bleed, but you run from me. That’s a double insult. Then you walk over to me, and instead of apologizing, you start making demands.” He leans closer, his warm amber eyes half-lidded, and I almost expect him to kiss me.
My eyes widen and my breath hitches in anticipation, my heart stuttering in my chest.
This is all kinds of fucked up. Everything about today. Everything about this man. Everything that he makes me feel.
Breathless. From fear and desire and my own kind of crazy.
Turning my head roughly to the side, he crowds in closer and brushes his lips against my pulse point. A shiver rolls through him, and he kisses the sensitive spot like a lover. “You’re trembling, yet you’re brave enough to let me get close. To make demands of me.” His chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, and my toes curl without my consent.
“I’m not apologizing,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“I don’t want you to.” Mikhail stands back up and brushes the pad of his thumb against my lips. “A queen never apologizes.”
His eyes linger on my lips for a moment longer before he lets me go and gestures toward the exit, his expression turning serious. “I’ll take you to see your father, Valentina.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and watch Mikhail for signs of crazy or betrayal. “Just like that?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather me drag you kicking and screaming back to your room?”
My defenses flare. “No, but...you’re injured.” My eyes flicker up to the deep cut on his forehead. “Shouldn’t you get that checked out first?”
With a short shake of his head, he plants his hand on my lower back and steers me out of the library. “Not important.”
I fail to see how a head wound isn’t important, and guilt eats at me the longer we walk through the house. I injured him. He’s right. He brought me clothes in all those designer bags, and the first thing I do is throw a lamp at him. Then I ran away. Now, he’s taking me to see my father—the one reason I came to this fucking place to begin with—and isn’t demanding anything in return.
I don’t know what kind of game Mikhail is playing at with these strange acts of kindness, especially after everything I just put him through. I should feel good about it, right? I’m getting what I wanted, apparently free of charge.
The whole reason I came here was to get answers from my father, and now it’s finally happening.
And yet. . .
I have a feeling that Mikhail’s the one calling the shots after all.
Chapter 7
Valentina
My father’s gravestone looks nothing like I imagined. I’m not sure what I imagined, but this isn’t it. Plain, gray stone, its edges hard and sharp, juts into the sky like a monolith. Singular. Striking.
Lonely.
There are no words of wisdom etched on its face. No titles, such as loving father or fearless leader. Just his name, Mikolov Tolkotsky, and his birth and death dates.
Two years. He’s been gone almost half the time I was away, and no one told me. I find it hard to believe that my grandmother didn’t catch wind of the news; she’s got friends in high places within the city. I doubt she went completely dark after we left.
