Page 65 of Cruel Demands

I tell myself not to look. I look. He’s sitting at the table exactly where I left him, one arm draped along the back of his chair, his expression unreadable. Viktoriya is talking to him, but his eyes are on me.

No. Not on me. On Nikolai’s hand at my waist. The look on his face isn’t anger. Anger would be easier. Anger would be clean. This is colder. Possessive, maybe. A warning I have no right to recognize. My pulse stutters.

Nikolai turns me again, blocking my view, and I let him because I need it. I need distance. I need proof that Mikhail doesn’t get to summon heat beneath my skin from across a room and call it nothing. I need proof that I can be touched by someone else without feeling like I’m betraying a man who isn’t mine and can’t be mine and would probably ruin my life without meaning to.

When the song ends, Nikolai doesn’t let go immediately. “Another?” he asks.

“One was one,” I remind him.

“Cruel.”

“I’m practicing.”

His smile deepens. “Can I at least ask for your number, Taylor?”

There it is. The normal next step. I should feel a little thrill, an excitement that he might call and we might go out and maybe kiss and who knows what else, but his hand is still at my waist, and I still just feel squirmy that it isn’t Mikhail’s. I want to say no. I look toward the table before I can stop myself.

Mikhail’s eyes are glued to Nikolai’s hand at my waist, his jaw tight, his knuckles white around his glass. Good. No, not good. I need this to end. To cut the tie before it tightens.

The room narrows around me as his words echo in my head: I can make things easier for you, kotik. Sweat beads at my temple as I picture the closed door. The darkened glass wall. The way every success I have here could become suspect if I’m stupid enough to let him too close. I can’t jeopardize this internship.

I can’t become a story whispered in Russian while everyone pretends not to look at me. I can’t let Mikhail think all he has to do is follow me into a bar and I’ll orbit around him like everyone else.

So, I turn back to Nikolai and smile. “Sure,” I say.

His eyes are past me on Mikhail too, and I haven’t even noticed that his hand has mercifully let go of me. “Are you sure your boss won’t have something to say about it?”

“I’m sure,” I tell him, holding out my hand. He gives me his phone, and my fingers shake only a little as I type in my number.

When I hand it back, Nikolai glances at the screen, then at me. “I’ll call.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to walk you back to your table?”

“No,” I say too quickly. Then I soften it. “No, thank you. I don’t want the unfortunate boss thinking I’m rubbing it in his face.”

He nods, still smiling, and disappears toward the bar. I let out a breath I don’t remember holding.

I stand there for a second alone in the middle of the crowd, my heart beating too hard for what I’ve actually done. It’s only a phone number. A normal thing. A smart thing, maybe. A hint, that’s all. I don’t actually have to answer when he calls.

If Mikhail sees me giving another man my number, maybe he’ll remember what he already knows. That I’m temporary. That I’m not his. That I’m here for work and school and language practice and nothing else. Maybe throwing myself toward someone else will make him step back. Maybe it’ll make me step back.

Viktoriya appears at my side as if summoned by drama. “So,” she says.

“Please don’t.”

“You gave him your number.”

“I did.”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s nice.”

She makes a face. “Nice is not an answer.”

“Nice is an answer.”