Page 71 of Lethal Obsession

And most of all—does he want to repeat the experience?

I grip the wooden doorframe, breathing through my body’s fierce, primal reaction to that thought. I’ve always been afraid of this part of myself, of the savage desire that lives deep inside me. When I was younger, I was certain it wasn’t normal to feel this way. I remember looking at the boys at school and wondering what it would be like to be touched by them. Wanting that, as fiercely as I did, made me terrified of being around people my own age, of indulging in the innocent hand-holding and kisses that characterized those early relationships. I was acutely aware that I wanted much, much more and scared that if I got close to anyone, they would sense it and judge me for it.

That internal conflict—and with nobody to talk to about how I felt—made me a silent, angry teenager, lashing out at the world and anyone who tried to get close to me. Right up until Darya entered our lives, when for the first time I had the feeling that I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t that I talked to Darya about any of those feelings; I never talked to anyone about them, then or now. But watching the way she and Papa were together helped me to understand that what I felt wasn’t abnormal. Rather than being disturbed by their almost tangible sexual tension, the way they looked at each other, the fleeting touches they shared when they thought we weren’t watching, I found it almost comforting, a reassurance that perhaps what I felt was, if not normal, exactly, at least natural.

But my fear of that part of me has never quite gone away. I sense it’s a force so powerful that, once unleashed, can never be harnessed again.

It stops me from allowing the music to take me, as Dittorio urged. The thought of exposing that part of myself in public, on a stage, sends cold terror through my body. I feel like I can’t control it, that it would betray me. That somehow everyone would know the dark fantasies that live inside my head.

Fantasies that all revolve around Alexei Petrovsky and his lethal touch.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud. I’ve been living in this weird sexual limbo for almost as long as I can remember. And for better or worse, ever since the kidnapping, that dark desire has been inextricably linked to Alexei.

I bite my lip, then hit Lars’s number.

He answers on the second ring. “Darling,” he says cheerfully. I can hear the raucous sound of some party in the background.

“Hey, Lars.” I take a deep breath, summoning my courage. “Do you remember that present you gave me on my twenty-first birthday?”

“A week on my yacht for you and your friends?” He laughs. “Of course. But please tell me you don’t want to claim it right now.”

My smile falters. “Why not?”

“Mickey and I are in Greece, darling, and then we’re headed for France. The yacht is booked up for the next two months at least.”

Which means Alexei is probably there too. I imagine him, suntanned and unsmiling, a half-naked girl on his knee, and have the familiar, sharp, visceral urge to kill something.

Preferably the fucking girl.

“Oh” is all I manage.

“But hey.” Lars’s voice lowers, and he’s clearly moved away from the crowd, because the background noise fades. “I’ve got friends with a yacht in the area. Why don’t I give them a call and see what they can do?”

But that yacht won’t have Alexei on it, I think dully. That was the only reason I wanted to take Lars up on his invitation. Not because I cared about having some party week on a yacht in the Mediterranean, but because I hoped, vainly as it turns out, that it might be an excuse to see Alexei again.

Only Alexei is clearly otherwise occupied. And just as clearly not interested in talking to me, if Lars is carrying the phone away from the party.

It’s the same as it ever was.

I’m just a kid. Mickey’s sister, Roman’s daughter. Not someone to be trusted with whatever is really going on with Alexei. And certainly not important enough to pull him away from Lars’s yacht and whatever wild party is going on there.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound grateful. “That’s nice of you, Lars.”

“Yeah.” His laugh has an oddly sharp edge to it. “I’m a stand-up guy, huh. I’ll get back to you, okay?” He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment, then returns to the line. “Mickey says hi, by the way. Oh, and your friend Benny sends his love.”

Benny?

I’m about to ask what the hell, but Lars has already ended the call.

I text Benny immediately. WTF???? You didn’t tell me you’re in Greece!!

A few moments later, Benny’s response pings my phone. Just happened last night. The Viking sent a car for me, and next thing I knew, I was in Athens. Now we’re moored on the island of Paxos and gurrrrrllll . . . it’s WILD. In more ways than one.

Corrosive jealousy twists in my belly. It only gets worse when, a moment later, he sends a link to the Darkside. My heart thudding, I click on it and see a batch of photographs of Lars’s yacht, thronging with beautiful people. I can see Mickey grinning in the background, some leggy blonde sprawled over his lap. But it isn’t my brother I’m looking at. Nor at the picture of Lars with his arm slung around Benny’s shoulders, grinning openly into the camera.

It’s another photo, at the bottom of the batch. Of a tall man in a dark T-shirt, leaning up against the railing in the background. He’s only shown in profile, like he’s hiding from the camera—but his eye patch is unmistakable.

Alexei.