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His bathroom was another creation of beauty, Venetian marble in stark black accentuated by the cold, hard color of steel, the shower larger than my kitchen in the apartment. There were four showerheads, other small indentations in the wall indicating even more capability for water flow. The single picture was as austere as the room, the nearly naked woman standing with her back toward the artist, one hand over her shoulder, her head slightly turned. I’d believe the piece was a photograph of someone he cared about except it was a painting, rich in detail and beautiful. Perhaps he’d hired someone to create it for him.
What intrigued me about the picture was the look in the model’s eye. She appeared terrified. Is that what I looked like? Vulnerable?
The room was dark, as foreboding as the man.
Even the large borderless mirror did little to reflect the small pendant-style lights. The space was appropriate and very much like the man. I glanced at the picture again, then studied my reflection, exhaling as I noticed the glow on my skin. He’d done that to me.
After a few seconds, I wandered out, moving toward the huge window that had another gorgeous view of the city. Then I noticed another door. This time, there was no hesitation before I headed toward it, surprised to find it unlocked. Maybe I’d expected to find his private office. The gym, complete with a punching bag, was a welcome surprise.
This was his private space, somewhere that allowed him to be the man he’d been turned into, the area far removed from his duties or other requirements. If I had to guess, I’d say no one was allowed inside the hallowed space.
I felt more comfortable in here, closer to him, even though I doubted anyone had ever gotten but so close to Kirill. This section of the condo wasn’t a mirror representation of the other side, which made it seem even more special, a hidden gem. There were still sweeping views of the city along one wall, another holding a bank of oversized mirrors. Inside this room there was almost too much light, the glow accentuating the cold vibe in the room, but I liked it. A lot.
I’d seen my cousin, Jack, boxing only once, practicing another time, but I’d enjoyed every minute of the brutal event. Nothing about the circuit Jack was on was fake, the blows bloody and body altering. I moved closer to the bag, realizing it was an exact duplicate of the one Kirill had hung in his ‘fake’ apartment. Fisting my hands, I issued one punch then another, exhaling from the blunt force driven into my fingers.
“Whew,” I breathed, shaking my arms and pacing the floor for a few seconds. Then I repeated the action, bending over and taking several deep breaths. How in the hell could anyone do this?
Whap. Whap.
The sound of my fists hitting the thick bag wasn’t nearly as loud as the ones Kirill had issued and I was standing right next to the swinging hunk of leather. I doubted I’d be able to quit my night job. The thought brought a strangled laugh, the entire situation ridiculous.
“You can do this,” I said, taking another deep breath then smashing my fists against it again.
Even though pain rolled up both arms, my muscles already feeling the effects of facing the concrete-like object, I repeated the two punches. There was a freeing feeling about it, the violent action allowing me to get rid of some of the anxiety. I shook my arms then smacked it again. And again. “Ow.” Half laughing, I flexed my fingers several times, staring down at them as if I’d expected instant bruises. Those only happened deep inside your heart. But I had a feeling I’d feel the effects of my foray into the world of amateur boxing within hours.
I wasn’t certain why I’d bothered in the first place, but a portion of the dense sensations I’d felt all morning long had disappeared. Maybe I needed to feel closer to the man, to feel the kind of anguish I sensed he carried with him. Even if I did, that wouldn’t provide any answers or make things easier.
I sucked in a breath, sensing a presence, just like had happened at the bar.
When I lifted my head, I was startled by Kirill’s appearance in the mirror, his reflection entirely different than before. He exuded danger as always, his presence even more formidable, a force to be reckoned with. He also seemed detached, as if he’d performed a heinous act and would soon find it necessary to explain the reasons why.
And he was angry, furious with me. He’d been told or had found out that I’d almost attempted to escape.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. There was the same sense of arousal, but there was also an entirely different level of urgency in both of us.
How long had he been watching me? Wanting me? He remained the same as before, determined to have me follow his orders or face consequences. However, he seemed impassive as to the fact I was standing in his private space. Or perhaps he was furious with me, so much so he was preparing how to handle the egregious infraction, his anger so intense that he was ascertaining whether he could control himself around me. The brutal man wore no expression but the stark, icy look in his eyes was mirrored by his change in clothes.
Seeing him dressed in dark jeans and a shirt so black it appeared to have an iridescent blue glow, the draw to him was as strong as it had been before, perhaps more so. Only it seemed as if he wanted me to continue fearing him.
Hating him.
I was forced to remind myself that his world revolved around brutality, using his position with the ruthless family to inflict pain as an everyday practice. Unfortunately, even that didn’t change the way I felt about him. I’d fallen hard and even though it didn’t make any sense, it was useless to deny it. He allowed his gaze to travel to the floor then back up again, obviously trying to control his emotions.
My throat was tight, trying to figure what to say. The last thing I wanted to do was find out that he’d ignored my plea. At least a full minute passed. I was now so anxious, I could no longer control that damn nervous tic on the corner of my mouth. He could steal my breath while standing still.
Kirill was so stiff, unmoving and that continued to add to my anxiety. Not only had I broken one of few rules he’d laid down like the law, but I’d also broken the limited trust he’d placed in me by allowing me to roam freely in his house.
My stomach churned, more than a trickle of fear remaining. I knew what he was capable of. Had I pushed him too far?
As soon as he took a step inside, I noticed his bruised knuckles and backed away. All I could think about was that he’d beaten a man to death, the images violent and bloody. As he took another step into the room, I flinched, expecting him to drag me into another part of the house, whipping me for whatever sin I’d committed. I wanted to scream at him to get it over with but held my tongue in another moment of defiance.
He remained silent as he closed the distance, shifting to a small cabinet nestled against the wall. With no mirror on that wall, his large frame blocked my ability to see what he was doing. When he finally turned around, there was a roll of athletic tape in his hand.
“Hold out your arms,” he instructed.
I was confused, uncertain what he had planned. Then I noticed what had to be dried blood on his neck, a few speckles on his jaw. My gaze was immediately pulled down to his shirt, able to gather a slight coppery smell. What had he done?
“I said hold out your arms, Candy.”
