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3
MIKA
It’s been a week since my father decided that I needed around-the-clock surveillance courtesy of Dominik. I absolutely hate having him around all the time, especially because he’s too stoic and unemotional. My former bodyguard, Isaac, was much more expressive and easier to be around for extended periods of time. I can already tell that having Dominik around all the time is going to fray my nerves down to threads.
My last bodyguard was much less authoritarian, which is maybe why my father replaced him in the first place. He and I got along very well, but he was kind of a pushover, and he’d let me run free for entire days at a time as long as I came home. I always did, and that was how we kept such a good relationship throughout the time that he was here.
I wouldn’t even say that what I’d do wasbad,but it was bad enough for my father to choose to lock me up in the house for the majority of the day. He says it’s because I’m out of control and bound to get pregnant or addicted to drugs, but I have a feeling that there’s more going on that he’s not willing to tell me. He has a lot of enemies in this city, and they’re getting smarter every day. It used to be enough that I had taken my mother’s last name instead of my fathers, but eventually they caught on to that and started following us places.
Even though the windows were replaced within days, I still regretted my decision to smash them up in the first place. It’s clear that my father is dead-set on his choice to have Dominik around, and no amount of kicking and screaming is going to change that.
Not this time, at least.
Even though Dominik takes himself too seriously and has no personality, he’s been drawing my attention more as the days go on. The first thing I really noticed about him was his sharp jawline and defined cheekbones. I wondered momentarily how he managed to get those features to appear sostrong, so commanding. Maybe it’s just genes, but I feel like none of the men around here look like him, not even in the Russian-dominated neighborhoods. Whatever it is, it’s certainly caught my attention.
It took me a few days to notice his eyes because I refused to look straight at him at all. I didn’t want to feel like he could see through me, which I now understand is a justified fear. His eyes are a honeyed amber, not quite as striking as the blue eyes of Isaac but just as, if not more, intense. If someone told me that he could secretly read my mind when he looked at me, I would believe them for a split second. His eyes hold gravity, and the longer I look into them, the more pulled into his gaze I become.
The trouble is that I don’t want him to believe that I’m attracted to him at all. Despite finding his presence repulsive and annoying, he would gain the upper hand entirely if he knew I was secretly aroused by him. Just the other day, he lifted his arms to take off a sweatshirt, and I got a brief peek at the well-defined muscles in his hips and abs. I felt my knees grow weak, but I knew I needed to collect myself before he noticed.
What Dominik doesn’t know about me, like most people, is that I’m a virgin. Given the way I behave around men, my age and otherwise, most people would assume I’m rather experienced in that respect. To be honest, I’m not certain why I haven’t had sex with any of the many men who have thrown themselves at my feet. I don’t feel any personal or religious motivations for remainingpure, but the idea of Dominik finding out about it makes me feel desperate to let it slip.
Would he think it was attractive? Would it be a turnoff?
God, why the hell do I even care?
As I gaze out the window at the rain as it coats the pavement, Dominik returns from his meeting with my father. He’s just as unreadable as ever, sitting back in his chair as if he’s cosmically chained to it.
“You know, my old bodyguard used to take me out of the house a lot. He thought it was good for me,” I say, breaking the agonizing silence. “He would take me shopping, out to restaurants, wherever I wanted.”
He glances at me with curiosity, but I can tell that most of his interest is based on trying to placate me. This is the first time I’ve initiated a real conversation all week, and he doesn’t want to lose an opportunity to get on my good side.
“Hmm, that sounds fun.”
His response is so empty and shallow that it makes my face burn for a moment, but I persist. “Yeah, there was this one café we used to go to all the time on Fridays. We went so often that they had a special table for us and knew our orders by heart.”
I don’t want to seem too eager for his approval, but I pause for a moment to give him the chance to reply. At the very least, he could be making an effort to get to know me. If we’re being forced to spend every waking minute together, the least he could do is pretend to take an interest in me as a person. He’s getting paid for this arrangement, not me.
“That sounds like something I’ve heard lots of people say,” he replies, his voice disinterested and distant.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s just not that uncommon for people at coffee shops to remember people's orders, that’s all. Didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, blinking unemotionally.
The fact that his tone is so impossible to read is more infuriating than I could have imagined. Is he trying to be funny? Is he trying to be sarcastic?
“You’re just trying to say that I think I’m special, aren’t you?” I press, sitting on my bed and crossing my arms as my irritation climbs up my spine again.
“I’m not trying to make any observations, it’s just a statement,” he says, shrugging.
Okay, this is going nowhere. I’ve been sentenced to spend every moment of my life with this person who has the conversational skills of someone who was raised by wolves.
“I was supposed to start college at the beginning of September, but my father decided I wasn’t trustworthy enough to be let out of the house long enough to be in classes.”
Suddenly, I notice a brief glimmer in his eye. He wants to ask more, maybe to see what it is I’ve been getting into all this time that warranted his intervention in my life. Of course, he’d likely be disappointed to learn that I haven’t been getting Eiffel Towered in bathroom stalls.
I give him a moment to reply, to request some kind of follow-up that would help us find some common ground. At the very least, it could open up a conversation that gave me more information abouthim.
“That’s interesting, I guess,” he replies, just as detached as before.
