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“The jet is here. Flying out of Philadelphia was better than commercial through New York.”
Or maybe that is the real answer. Maybe, at most, his showing up has something to do with Leo and absolutely nothing to do with me.
Nick starts walking again. Something inside me recognizes this as a defining moment.
Fight or flight.
Sink or swim.
The easiest way to mask love is with hatred. The opposite extreme. But, by definition, the true opposite of love is indifference. Utter apathy is the furthest you can flee from love. Caring the most versus not caring at all.
Apathy isn’t,“Are you fucking him?”
Apathy isn’t tense shoulders and unspoken words.
He could have called or texted to announce his arrival in town. He could have taken his jet and left immediately. He could have said he was happy to see me settling in.
Instead, he’s striding away like being around me is painful.
“I miss you.” The admission comes out without permission. Desperation coats it, and I hate that. Hate how Nick isalwaysthe one in control. Hate how even here—in my country, in my condo, which he pays for—he pulls the strings.
Nick is almost to the door. I don’t think he’ll stop.
But he does.
“You can’t just appear in my living room, Nick. Legal or not. You told me this is my apartment. Owning the building doesn’t give you the right to barge in here and scare the shit out of me.”
Impossibly, Nick’s shoulders tense even more. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.” His tone is as stiff as the suit he’s wearing.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
I’m not sure if he hears me. The words are soft. A secret spoken aloud. I say them so they’ll stop bouncing around in my head, expelling the truth like sucking poison from a rattlesnake bite—in some desperate attempt to heal.
When Nick doesn’t move, I know he did. He’s inches from the door, and then he’s suddenly much closer—near enough I can smell the spicy musk of his cologne and feel the heat of his body.
“You don’t want me to leave? What do youwant meto do? You decide, like usual.”
“Like usual?” I echo, disbelieving. “I didn’t decideanything, Nick!”
“No? Then, how the hell did you end up back here? Because that wasn’t my fucking call, Lyla. It was yours.”
“It wasn’t—I needed—”
Half-formed sentences fall out of my mouth.
I can’t decide how much to tell him.
That when I wake up in the middle of the night now, I see Dmitriy’s blank eyes?
That I was worried if I didn’t leave right away, I wouldn’t be able to?
“I’m not fucking him.” I finally answer Nick’s earlier question about Michael. I know doing so will appeal to his overbearing nature and the alpha possessiveness.
Sure enough, his eyes flare. “What do you want, Lyla?”
I hate how much I love the sound of him saying my name. How his accent peeks out when he says my name, like he’s leaving some special stamp on the syllables.
“I want you to fuck me.” I step closer, inhaling his scent and letting it flood my veins with fire. “Hard.” My head tilts back, meeting his stoic gaze without flinching from the flint. “Rough.” I tuck a piece of hair behind one ear and swallow. “I want you to fuck me like you hate me.” As soon as the words are out, I bite my bottom lip.
