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My eyes roam around while I try my hardest to bite back my next few words, but they come out anyway. “With your ego, definitely not.”
He stops but doesn’t turn around to address me. His muscles stretch out the back of his white button-down shirt. Clearing his throat, he says, “Be ready in an hour. I expect to see you at dinner.”
With his hands in his pockets, he walks off around the corner, leaving me with an awful taste in my mouth. I plan on getting the answers I deserve at this dinner, and he’d better give them to me.
* * *
As I ransack the dresser, I’m only able to find clothes that are white and blue. While they’re all my clothes, he forgot all the other colors as if they never existed. I do everything in my power to find something other than the dress hanging on the back of the door, but it’s my only option. As tempting as it might be to show up to his dinner with a pair of sweatpants on, I’ll listen to himjustthis once.
I take the dress off the hanger and hold it against my body. He’s got taste, I’ll give him that. The cerulean-colored dress looks faded, and the bottom of the material is ruffled. Sighing, I put it on and notice it fits smoothly against my skin. The fabric has a bohemian stitch around my waist and a subtle V down my chest. He knows my size for everything—even the heels I put on are the perfect fit.
I take a deep breath as I close the bedroom door behind me. The thought of seeing Mikhail again has me nervous. One look from him and I start to question if I’m in a nightmare I’ll never wake up from. I really should watch my attitude when I’m near him, but my comments seem to slip out no matter how hard I try to hold them back.
Mikhail never mentioned where this dinner would be held, so I spend a good ten minutes looking around for him, only to find him sitting at a table on the opposite end of the ship where I shared breakfast with him a few days ago. The space is welcoming. The wooden table has white chairs surrounding one side and a bench on the other, but only one person is seated.
Mikhail sits at the end of the table with his eyes devouring every move I make. “Sloane.” My name rolls sharply off his tongue. “Sit,” he commands.
Ignoring his demand, I admire the space around me. The dining room has a perfect view of the open ocean, and the sky takes my breath away. With only a few clouds visible, the light takes over everything my eyes can see just before the ocean swallows the sun. Many shades of orange and yellow blend together seamlessly like a work of art. It looks unreal.
The warm breeze surrounds my skin like a soft, warm towel. The sound of trickling water overpowers the jazz playing in the background. Candles that smell of roses line the table.
This is a view I could never tire of, but I’d love to have different company.
Mikhail looks distressing, contradicting the feeling of calm the space gives off. But the candles—what is he doing? Walking up to the table, I take a seat on the bench so I’m sitting far away from him.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, lifting the flute of champagne and bringing it to my lips.
After I gulp down a couple of sips, I look at him. His eyes are fixed on mine. The candlelight creates a small sparkle in his pupils, giving him a look of innocence—everything he isn’t.
“Eat.”
“No ‘how was your day?’ Mine was good, thanks for asking.” At a dinner as nice as this one, I’d expect to have some kind of conversation with humanity, but that might be asking too much of a person like him. He isn’t a gentleman, and I don’t expect him to be.
I look down at my plate and see a meal that looks and smells delicious. Potatoes, pork, and asparagus. He doesn’t have to tell me twice to eat.
He places his elbows on the table, his white shirt rolled halfway up his arms. He wears silver rings on each hand, and tattoos take over his skin. “Eat,” he demands again.
I was going to eat, but now he’s demanding it of me, I’ll take my time doing so. “Not that hungry,” I lie and smile from ear to ear. Anything he tells me to do, I’m bound to do the opposite.Does he think I care about what he does to me?I don’t. When I said I would rather die out in the world doing something dangerous than rot in my room back home, I wasn’t lying.
“I could just skip past your punishment and move right to your family. But that’s your decision.”
This gets my attention. If he has something against my family, he has something against me. But what could they have done to him? My dad respected his till the end. I hate how he uses my family against me. How lovely it is to come to a dinner and have my family threatened because I refuse to take a bite of potato ... I could roll my eyes at the thought, but based on our few interactions, I already know that would piss him off. It doesn’t take much to push his buttons.
“What is your problem?” The words spill freely from my mouth before I can hold them back.
He taps his fingers on the table and says, “You’re my problem. You got my brother killed.”
I wince at his words. He says them like they mean nothing to him. I’m the reason his brother is dead, and he can’t even show a drop of remorse for his bother? For some reason, he thinks I’m capable of getting someone killed.Does he think I go on killing sprees?
“I’ve never killed anyone,” I argue.
The muscles in my face relax once I realize. I should have connected the dots before—I don’t know how I didn’t. This is a revenge plan. I’m collateral damage, and taking me is his way of getting back at them.
“I can’t undo what they did,” I say steadily.
My realization seems to please him. His brows crease together slightly as he fidgets with the ring on his finger. “No, and I don’t expect you to.”
I lean in closer to the table and pat the palms of my hands on the bottom of my dress as I grow anxious. “So how is this my fault? Why am I here if I didn’t do anything to hurt you?”
