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Giving her a sharp look, I put my hands into my pockets. “Turn you down.”
Her lips shake and I frown when I feel something yank at my heart strings. Is it because of her? Is she making me feel guilty?
“B...but you tricked me. You made me think you’d say yes.” Lyla looks at me and I have never felt more like a moustache twirling villain in my life.
Tilting my head to the side, I say, “Did I?” I chuckle, “Don’t get me wrong I would still very much like to fuck you until you scream but something tells me you’d be less obliged to agree if you do not get anything in return.”
Her body wobbles and my brows rise in surprise when her soft palm lands on my cheek, stinging it slightly. She slapped me. A small thing like her, actually dared to slap a mobster.
Her face turns red and her eyes fire as if I deserved it. Probably I did. I straighten, smiling because I elate in her touch, enjoy it in whichever form she chooses to give it.
“Do you think this is funny?” Her voice trembles from anger. And from fear of me retaliating because she hit me. “Maybe you do, because maybe mobsters like you don’t have any respect for human life.”
“We’re starting to understand each other,” I drawl but she shakes her head, her eyes filling with disappointment and it does something to me. I don’t want her to look at me like that ever again.
“No, I’ll never understand someone like you. I can’t believe I came here and...and...”
“Offered me to play with your pussy,” I finish somberly and she lets out a choked, horrified sound. With trembling limbs she hurries over to the couch and wraps her great shawl around her. It’s a heavenly blue color, bringing out the color of her skin and something starts tearing me up from the inside.
An instinct telling me to do anything to keep her here. The same one that tells me that she’s mine.
But she doesn’t know what I’m like. Or what I’ve done.
“You should be grateful,” I tell her as she storms out into the hallway, “I am doing you a favor letting you go.”
She throws me a defiant look, showing me just how much she dislikes me now. I wanted her to, I wanted to make her dislike me but now that I managed I regret it wholeheartedly.
When she reaches for the doorknob something snaps inside of me and I clasp my fingers around her arm, a little harder than intended.
Looking down at her I rasp, “If anyone tries to give you trouble, tell them you know Alecsily Dolokhov.”
My name functions as a weapon. Few people know it but those who do are under my protection. I want to give it to her because it will keep her safe.
Lyla on the other hand doesn’t seem to appreciate my generosity and she yanks her arm back. “Thank you but no. I don’t want or need anything from you anymore.”
I yank her back again, causing her body to slam against mine and her eyes flare. There’s a tinge of panic in them and I reluctantly let her go, watching in the doorway as she stumbles her way through my courtyard, her head bent against the harsh wind.
Standing like that until she disappears out of my view, I slam the door shut, cursing to myself. My fists clench and I grind my jaw, my whole body straining with need and I grab a bust that’s staring at me with empty eyes in the corner and I smash it against a wall.
Blyat!
I want her. Want her back, want to breathe her again. Without her the air suddenly feels toxic and thin, the walls claustrophobic. I need to make her mine. But it will not be pretty. When she finds out what I have done, she will hate me.
Tensing, my ears perk when sounds start spreading through the mansion. They’re only hearable if you know what to listen to and I grind my jaw, punishingly stomping my foot against the floor.
The noise stops and I straighten.
If only Lyla knew... If she ever finds out she will hate me with a passion. But maybe her hate will be worth it for even a small piece of her affection.
3
Lyla
I’m still shaking when I enter my apartment.Its’s located just above the dance studio and so tiny that I don’t even have a kitchen and have all my meals down in the cafeteria. My trembling fingers are stiff and cold from the harsh weather when I unbutton my clothes.
I borrowed them from one of the other dancers, because flared jeans and knitted sweaters isn’t my usual style. I suppose that subconsciously I was terrified that Dolokhov would agree to my second offer, agree to take my body as payment.
But now that he didn’t I’m furious with myself for not having made more of an effort. Maybe I should have showed up in stilettos and fishnets. Anything to save Trev, right? Inhaling, I neatly put the clothes away then drag my pajamas over my head.
