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The image does blatantly demonstrate how intensely attractive I find him.
“Hmm,” Pyotr says, the smile tugging at his lips, seeming silently pleased. Then his eyes flick to mine. “Well, thank you.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I simply nod, letting my curtain of dark hair fall in front of my face to hide a fraction of my embarrassment.
Several pages later, he stumbles across another more recent drawing of him. The deep shadows marring his face give him a fierce, almost demonic expression, and my gut tightens as I realize this is the drawing I did right after he made me go down on him. The drawing is dark, haunting. It showcases the depths to which I sank after such a mortifying, hurtful encounter.
I’d been so lost and upset, with no one to turn to or tell. My only outlet was through drawing, and it’s visible in the dark, dramatic lines, the hard edges of his face. I’ve captured the smug sneer he wore with incredible accuracy. My heart stutters as I fear the new drawing might undo all the progress we’ve made.
Pyotr’s stunned, his fingers holding the page as if he intended to turn past it but can’t. A muscle in his jaw works beneath his five-o’clock shadow. I watch him tentatively from my position behind his shoulder, viewing the tension in his neck.
“I’ve fallen far in your esteem since the night we met,” he observes, his voice hollow.
Anxiety tightens my chest as I lock up. I don’t know what to say. If I tell him I drew this after going down on him, I could obliterate all the progress we’ve made this weekend. Just thinking about the darkness that had swallowed me then drags me back into despair. Tears sting my eyes, and when I drop my eyes, one escapes to trickle down my cheek.
I can’t look back on that day if I want to move forward with Pyotr–which I need to do.
Pyotr turns to face me fully on the bed, keeping the sketchbook open to the haunting image of him. His eyes are the troubled gray of the clouds when a storm is on the horizon, and his full lips turn down in a grim expression. “Please tell me.”
I shake my head, brushing the tear away angrily. “I drew that after the day in the supply closet,” I manage before the knot in my throat strangles me, and the tears start to fall more quickly.
A gentle brush of fingertips wipes away my tears and comb my veil of dark hair back, tucking it behind my ear. Then his hand falls from my face. “It’s never going to work,” he mutters so quietly I’m not sure that’s actually what I heard. “I’ve done too much damage.”
“What?” I want him to repeat himself because I’m terrified I heard him correctly and that he thinkswewon’t work. Because I can’t do a lifetime of his anger–or the distant silence he showed me after I gave him a blow job.
He shakes his head, his eyes dropping. “I never should have made you do that. Not without your consent.”
I don’t know what to say. It means so much to hear him say that. To know he regrets what happened between us. And still, I can’t just bring myself to forgive all that happened. The best I can try for is to forget. That’s why I need to keep my focus on the future.
Still, I’m starting to understand that perhaps all the tension between Pyotr and me hasn’t been about me at all. Yes, he used the wrong outlet to release his frustration over lacking free will.
But in truth, we’re far more similar than I had ever imagined. Because we’re both trapped. Only Pyotr’s still fighting his imprisonment, whereas I resigned myself to my fate long ago. In truth, I respect him for that–even if that means I got caught in the crosshairs accidentally.
While I’ve let my father dictate my life, Pyotr is still trying to make waves to show that he has a choice about liking me, even if he can’t choose whether he marries me or not. He’s just been showing it in the only way he knows how.
Families like ours make statements through pain and punishment. That’s all we know. And because he can’t punish anyone else, he’s been taking it out on me. At least, that’s the best I can guess for his motivations.
His brows continue to press into a deep frown as he keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. All the happiness and charm he’s carried through the day appears to be consumed by a cloud of mercurial introspection.
I need to lighten the mood. To bring back the charming, smiling Pyotr. Because we’re treading too close to the horrific things he’s done to me. If he’s going to be a part of the rest of my life, maybe even the father of my children one day, I can’t go back there. I need to keep moving forward.
Weneed to keep moving forward. And to do that, I have to focus on the good times, the man he’s proven he can be during this trip to New York.
“So,” I say, sniffing back the last of my tears and using my peppiest voice, “what else do you have in store for me this weekend? Because the fun can’t stop here. You have me for another day.”
My distraction seems to work, and Pyotr’s eyes snap up to meet mine again. The scowl eases from his face, bringing back the knowing grin that makes my stomach tremble.
“Actually, since you asked, I wanted to formally invite you to come to the ball my family is throwing in honor of our engagement. Tomorrow night. Here, at our house. Will you come as my honored guest?” His eyes hold a sincerity that tells me he truly means this is an invitation. He’s giving me a choice. Even though we’re being forced to marry–whether we like it or not–he wants me to come as his date becauseIwant to. Maybe this is him trying to make up for what he’s done, showing me he’s attempting to make things right.
The significance of his invitation brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away forcefully. While I’m touched by his offer, I don’t want him to think the thought of being his date makes me cry.
Breathless, I nod enthusiastically. I love fancy parties and am overwhelmed with excitement because this won’t just be a fancy one, I’m sure. Based on what I’ve seen of the Veles family, our engagement party will probably be a chic and high-class affair that the best of New York society will come to attend.
“Yes,” I gasp when I find my voice. “I would love that.”
Then, in my feverish elation, I close the distance between us to kiss him. It’s the first time I’ve initiated contact, and I seem to catch Pyotr off guard as he stiffens against me momentarily. Then he softens, his warm lips moving with my own as his hand gently cups the back of my head.
A shiver of arousal trickles down my spine, and the now familiar sensation lights my core on fire. In two days, I’ve gone from fearing Pyotr, sure we could never be happy together, to falling head over heels for the guy. Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic. But when he kisses me like this, the passion making my body tremble, I don’t even mind.
