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Hate her.
“Okay, fine. Don’t answer.” She pauses. “I want to speak to my family.”
I nearly spit out the vodka. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna let you call anyone.”
“You can’t just pull me away from my life. There are people who care about me, people who expect things of me, people who will want to know where the fuck I am.”
“You’re not in a position to make demands.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Well, then. Maybe I should ask again in a few hours when you’re so tanked you won’t even be able to speak.”
“You know I’m Russian, right?” I step toward her, holding the bottle by the neck. “That will never happen.”
“Maybe I should just stab you in the eye with a pencil while you sleep.”
I slam the bottle on the counter and loop my arm around hers, forcing it behind her back and pulling her toward me. “You’d never get close enough to try. I would smell you...smell the fear and the lust and the anger. I’d have you on your back before you could raise your hand to me.”
Her face screws up and she spits at me. It should piss me off. But it only makes me want her more.
My cock throbs, straining against the fabric of my basketball shorts.
Her eyes widen and I swallow a smile. She feels it too. And judging by the glimmer in her eyes and the sweep of her tongue over her lips, she wants to experience more than just a graze against her thigh.
“You want something,” I murmur. “Ask me for it. Nicely.”
Spots of color flood her cheeks.
“I have music lessons today. At least let me call the music academy and tell them I won’t be there. Don’t make me look like an irresponsible idiot for missing my sessions. It wouldn’t be fair to my students or their parents.”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Suck it.”
“That’s two words. How would it work if I used them on you instead?”
An expression of disdain settles into her features. “Let’s just say you’d be lucky if I didn’t castrate you with my teeth.”
“Eat something and I’ll consider it.”
She folds her arms over her chest, but I catch her glance behind me at the sizzling pans on my stove. And I don’t miss the angry growl of her empty stomach. “I’m not hungry.”
“Then I don’t have a working phone.” I release her, turning back to the stove where I’m preparing eggs Benedict, her go-to every Sunday morning at The Miami Diner after she runs the Miami Beach boardwalk.
“Hey, Luka,” she says. “I changed my mind about stabbing you in the eye with a pencil.”
I glance back at her over my shoulder. “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. I am going to sever your balls with a meat cleaver instead.”
She stomps back to the safe room and slams the door so hard, the walls shake. I lean forward onto the counter, covering my face with my hands.
I played with fire when I agreed to watch her. Then the flames swallowed me whole.
It’s a perpetual hell — sweltering, scorching, and smothering.
My quest was all about getting revenge, and the purpose was to make Ivan suffer.
To humiliate him, to emasculate him in the eyes of the underworld.
