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As I think about what our conversation might sound like tonight, a spike of anxiety spears through me. I need to talk myself through this, consider all the possibilities so I can be prepared. I start with the good, offering myself a potential for something besides catastrophic failure.
If Ilya wants to talk about the contract and where it’s heading, then what if he wants to renew it, or maybe extend it a little longer?Excitement zings through my veins at the possibility.But is that really what I want? Just a deadline extension to see if anyone more interesting catches his eye in that time?No, I can’t do this indefinitely, and dragging out the inevitable will only make it harder when the time comes that he does decide to let me go.
So, what then? Do I propose that we give a real relationship a try?God, he’ll think I’m an idiot. He told me from the start that he doesn’t do relationships. He explicitly said he’s broken contracts with women before when they get too attached. That’s the whole point of our scenes, of him playing Dom and me his sub–to keep emotions out of the physical pleasure. No, if I suggest we try having a real relationship. He’ll most likely drop me on my ass today.
But the last few times we’ve been together, Ilya hasn’t created a scene. Does that mean anything?
I only allow myself a sliver of hope as the possibility enters my mind. Then I bring myself back down with the more likely reality that it doesn’t mean what I want it to. Groaning, I set my coffee mug down and slump back on my couch. He probably wants to talk to me today about the contract because he can see I’ve gotten in too deep. After the way I lost my shit in the dance studio, it’s probably perfectly clear to him that I’m too emotionally involved and he needs to cut me loose.
Abandoning my coffee, I head to my bathroom to take a shower, preparing to put myself through a long and grueling process of getting ready for our date. Hopefully, I can find enough things to distract myself until four. I shower, scrubbing every inch of my skin, then shave meticulously, and stand beneath the water until long after my fingers turn to prunes. When I finally get out, I take extra care with each step of getting ready: my hair, makeup, jewelry. I even paint my nails a deep shade of wine red. I spend more hours on my appearance today than I collectively do in a week’s time, but I just can’t sit still.
As my final step, I pick a silver dress with a plunging neckline that cuts a deep V all the way down past my navel before the fabric cinches at my hips, wrapping around my waist and thighs almost like a miniskirt. The halter top leaves my back exposed, and I know I’m going to be freezing with the weather outside, so I pick my knee-length Dakota coat, hooded with Toscana sheepskin lining and accents. It hangs lower than my dress, and this outfit along with my rhinestone peep-toe booties are sure to catch Ilya’s eye.
I give myself a final once over, and then a knock signals that my time is up. I can hardly believe I made it through this forever long day. And now that Ilya’s arrived, I suddenly wish I could turn back time because I’m not ready. I don’t want to hear him say goodbye, which I fear this just might be.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a moment, pulling myself together. Then I stride confidently toward the door and open it. Ilya stands before me dressed to the nines and looking insanely handsome in a black suit and white dress shirt, his simple black tie somehow making the outfit look more dressy.
Hair styled to perfection with the perfect amount of stubble covering his jawline and upper lip, Ilya’s strong face takes my breath away. His dark eyes peer down at me with an intensity that sets my skin on fire, and if I weren’t so nervous, I would be sorely tempted to grab him by the lapels and haul him inside, right here, right now to have my way with him. But I am just that nervous. My hands are trembling, and I grip the folds of my coat, pulling it tighter around me to mask them.
“Hi,” I breathe, staring up at him with my heart in my throat.
A charming smile graces his full lips, hinting at mild amusement. “You look stunning. Are you ready?”
I nod, and Ilya guides me out into the hall and to the elevator.
It’s a quick drive into downtown Chicago, and I glance out the windshield as we pull onto the Magnificent Mile and stop at the Lake Pointe Tower, which holds my favorite fancy restaurant, Cité. My heart skips a beat as I wonder if it’s just coincidence or if he remembers me saying how much I like it. When I glance back at Ilya, his knowing smile says it all.
“Did you bring me here to make up for something?” I ask suspiciously, my eyes narrowing.
He chuckles. “Something like that.”
The car doors open, and Ilya steps from the car, tossing the valet his keys as he walks around the front of his blue Lamborghini to offer me his arm. We take the elevator up to the seventieth floor, a false levity lingering between us as we keep the topics light. And while Ilya seems perfectly at ease, I’m bursting to cut to the chase and talk about what’s really on my mind.
“How did things end up with your Bratva conflict?” I ask, shifting from our small talk of school and family to a more serious topic when I can’t stand it any longer. “You said you think you’ve resolved it, right?”
Ilya grows serious, his brows creasing as he looks at me more closely. “I don’t want to get into the specifics about it. But yes, I believe it’s over. It took about every ounce of my patience and sanity, but we finally tracked down the culprits causing so much destruction and death.”
“Death?” My heart stutters at the haunted look on Ilya’s face. “What do you mean? Did you find your missing men?” I recall him saying several have gone missing over the past year of raids from his rivals.
Ilya tilts his head in momentary confusion, and then realization dawns in his eyes. He releases a heavy sigh as his lips curve down at the corners. “I’m sorry. I’ve been under so much pressure and had such little time–and sleep–lately. I must not have told you.” He rubs his eyes with a finger and thumb, suddenly looking exhausted.
“Tell me what?” I press.
Ilya’s eyes meet mine, his expression sad. “The fuckers killed my best captain and seven of his men.” He shakes his head and lets it drop. “Used their heads to send me an official declaration of war.”
My stomach drops, and I stare mutely at Ilya as the elevator doors ding open onto the seventieth floor. Reading my horrified expression, Ilya reaches out and gives my palm a squeeze.
“Now is not the time or place to go into details. Someday, I’ll tell you everything that’s happened since that night, but I promise, they won’t be coming after my Bratva again.”
His conviction makes my pulse race, and as he tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow, I let him lead me toward the host stand, though I’m dying to know more. The hostess greets us with an amiable smile before guiding us to our table right next to the window looking out over the stunning sunset view of Chicago. Ilya doesn’t bother with the menu, ordering each of our dishes along with a bottle of wine before the hostess has time to depart.
Then he turns his focus on me, and his eyes flick down to my body as he sees me without my coat on for the first time tonight. A flicker or intense appreciation fills his gaze, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he folds his hands on the table, taking up a businesslike demeanor. I still have a million questions about what happened between Ilya’s Bratva and this threat he’s been trying to manage for a year. But I can’t ask them now. We’re in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and based on the intense look, Ilya’s leveled on me, he has something he wants to say.
“I’ve tried to come up with a good way to ease into this conversation, but when it comes down to it, I’m better with direct communication, and I figure you won’t mind too much since you’re not one for beating around the bush either,” he says gruffly.
I chuckle with nervous relief. Blunt honesty really is my best policy when it comes to communication, and truth be told, it’s one of the things I found incredibly attractive about Ilya from the start. He likes when I cut to the chase, and he’s not afraid to do so either.
“Whitney, I’ve thought a lot recently about how our contract will be coming to an end soon.”
