Page 7

Four

LeeAnn

My eyes snap open, fear slamming into me like a sledgehammer. Scanning the unfamiliar room, I search for any sign of where I am and how I had ended up here. Everything around me is dark—dark walls, dark bedding, dark furniture. If it wasn’t for the crack in the black curtains, I wouldn’t be able to see anything at all. The smell of the room finally breaks through the panic, and I'm reminded of the ghost in the shadows from the party. Now my heart is racing for a completely different reason.

“Get your damn hormones under control,” I grumble to myself.

“I didn’t take you for being choknutiy (crazy),” the same voice from last night says from a dark corner.

He appears in front of me like a ghost, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop the ungodly high-pitched scream that is coming from me. With him so close once again, I can take in how truly stunning his eyes are. We sit there, neither one of us seeming to breathe as we search each other’s eyes for something that I can’t yet identify. Expecting a threat from him before removing his hand, I’m shocked when he just removes his hand and moves away from me.

“Why do you keep doing that?” is the only thing that I can seem to get out.

“What exactly are you asking about?” His question stuns me because most people would just start talking.

Waving a hand in front of me at what I assume is body, I reply, “That.”

He just tilts his head to the side, studying me. “Again, what are you asking about? I do a lot of things.”

Groaning, I plop back onto the bed. “Why’re you being so obtuse right now?”

“Obtuse,” he says the word as if tasting it for the first time. “You’re going to have to tell me what that means and what exactly you're asking me about.”

Sitting up, I search for him in the dark. “Can we turn on some lights or open the curtains or something so I can see your face?”

He moves without a sound and, with no warning, the curtains are flung open, revealing massive floor to ceiling windows with the most stunning view of the falls. Gasping both at the shock of the bright sun and the pure beauty before me, I cover my mouth. The magnificent man in black sweats and a gray t-shirt spins to look at me, confusion written on his face. I try to come up with something, anything to say, but nothing comes out.

I should be terrified right now. I’m in the home of a man whom I don’t know. In a home that could be anywhere. I have no idea how long I was out. Hell, at this point, I don’t even know if the man in front of me will hurt me or not, and yet my warped, messed-up psyche only sees a magnificent man I want to climb and claim. He steps away from the window, striding to a chair that faces the bed. He takes a seat and leans his elbows on his knees. I pull my knees to my chest and realize for the first time that part of my skirt is missing.

Fingering the frayed edges, I ask, “What happened to my skirt?”

“There was too much fucking fabric,” my personal ghost shrugs.

“Too much fabric for what? Do you have any idea what this dress cost?” I gasp looking over at him wide-eyed.

He leans back. “I’ll pay you for it. I don’t know why you need so much fabric, anyway.”

Closing my eyes, I lay my cheek on my knees, watching him. “It’s all good. To be honest, my father paid for it, and I’m all good with wasting his money.”

“So, the vibe of you not caring for your father wasn’t misunderstood?” he wonders.

“Not at all. There is so much bullshit, self-centered, and downright nasty behavior that if he died right now, I wouldn’t be sad.” I tell him for some reason, deciding to be completely honest.

“Moya golovolomka,” he murmurs. “I could make that happen if you really wanted.”

Staring at him with shock, I feel the need to crawl into his lap and soak in all the protection he is offering. Dropping my hands onto the bed, I grip the sheets to keep me from doing just that.

“What does that mean?” I ask fighting against myself.

“That if you really wanted him to involuntarily stop breathing, I could make that happen before the end of the day,” he answers me flatly.

“No,” I shake my head. “Moya golovolomka.” I know I butcher the annunciation of the words.

“In time you will learn,” he answers me, running a finger across his top lip.

“Can I at least know the name of the man offering to kill my father?” I murmur, still not sure what exactly is going on.

“Nikolay,” he answers.