I watched them like a fucking predator.
Still as stone. Shoulders squared. Elbows planted on the table, fingers laced together in front of my mouth. My gaze never wavered. Every flicker of her eyes, every roll of her shoulder, every shift of her posture—I tracked it like a sniper.
She looked bored. Not the polite kind of bored—truly, profoundly unimpressed. Stirring her drink with the straw like she was itching to stab him with it. Her eyes glazed over as Stanislav talked, his arms moving too much, smile stretching too wide. I could almost hear his voice from here—loud, obnoxious, full of fake confidence.
And then the bastard tried to feed her.
Picked up a shrimp with two fingers and held it toward her mouth. I saw her freeze. Saw the way her lip curled. She didn’t even swat his hand away—just gave him a look that could’ve set the place on fire.
I clenched my fists under the table. My jaw ached and I nearly got out of my seat.
What would I even do? Drag her out again? Break his jaw?
Calm the fuck down, Maksym.
It was none of my business. None.
I told myself it was about keeping her safe. But that was a lie, and I knew it. I just didn’t want her looking at anyone else like she’d looked at me that night. The night she stood half-naked in her room and challenged me with those wild, unblinking eyes.
God help me.
My phone buzzed on the table, pulling me out of the spiral.
Job was supposed to be done by 8. Boss is asking.
I looked back at her one more time. Still untouched. Still annoyed. Still pretending to listen to that fucker like she didn’t want to leap over the table and leave.
Fine.
He was no threat. Just another idiot with money and no sense.
I stood, gave the table one last glance, and walked out without making a sound. My job was waiting—one I should’ve been at hours ago, if I hadn’t wasted time watching her with him. The reminder hit like a slap of cold water. Enough. Back to work.
—Kira—
Itold myself I was going to be a good girl.
That was the plan as the car rolled through the city and up toward the rooftop lounge this prick had chosen. I wore exactly what my father ordered—something a man like Stanislav would like. Short black dress, fitted in all the wrong places, heels high enough to hurt. I would sit through the date, smile whennecessary, and then end it politely. I would tell him I didn’t feel a connection and walk away. My father could yell, could threaten, could even hit me again if he wanted. I was stone now. I’d decided that much.
Stanislav talked the moment we sat down and didn’t stop. About business. About oil. About his father’s influence. About the view, which I’d already seen. He was sweating lightly despite the cool night air, dabbing at his forehead with a linen napkin.
He ordered everything without asking me. Plates of seafood arrived—oysters, shrimp, things he proudly announced were aphrodisiacs. I stared at them without appetite, without interest. There wasn’t enough seafood or black magic in the world to make me want to sleep with him.
He didn’t really think this date was going anywhere past this stupid dinner, did he?
I kept stirring my drink, nodding just enough to appear civil. He kept smiling, leaning closer, explaining money to me as if it were impressive. As if I didn’t already live inside it. As if wealth made a man worth touching.
I thought of my father’s voice. Of his hand.
Neither money nor power impressed me. If this man planned to treat me the way my father did, I would rather live on the street than in his house.
At some point, he picked up a shrimp, leaned in, and said, “You’ll vanish if you keep starving yourself. Come on. Just one bite.”
I looked at him.
Just looked.
He withdrew his hand immediately.
