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“Research?” I glance up at the deep, accented voice.
Kirill, great. My least favorite of the Devils.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
To my dismay, he sits opposite me, unloading his backpack onto the desk in front of him.
He can’t see my screen, and I quickly get out of the news archives and bring up some research papers on the representations of poverty in Victorian literature for my Dickens assignment.
He looks at me across the desk, peering around his own computer. “Do you know anything about the price mechanism when it comes to economics?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Oh. How about inflationary pressures on consumer cycles?”
“No, and no.”
I ignore him, hoping he’ll get the message. Instead, he gets up and comes to sit next to me, leaning close.
“Why so unfriendly, Mack?”
I glare at him. “Maybe I don’t like guys who put drugs in girls’ champagne,” I snap.
His face turns dark and something truly angry grows in his icy gaze. “What did you say?”
“You heard. I was so drunk that night, and I know I didn’t have enough champagne to be so trashed. I saw you pour my drink. You could have easily put something in it.”
“I don’t fucking drug girls,” he snaps.
I laugh at his indignation. “Oh, you’re too good for that, are you?”
He watches me and, so quickly it takes me by surprise, grabs the bottom of my chair and spins it, so I’m facing him. He widens his legs and captures my knees between his. His hands come down on either side of me, trapping me in place.
“No, I’m not too good for anything, Mackenzie, but drugging little girls isn’t how I get my kicks.”
“I’m supposed to believe you?”
“Da. Yes.”
“Just because you say so? You don’t like me, and you’ve intimidated me before, so why would I believe you?”
He grins at me, slowly and a little nasty. “You said it yourself, Duchess. I intimidated you. I like to see pretty girls like you unsure.”
Reaching out, he brushes a lock of hair from my face, his fingers trailing slowly back down my cheek, to my jaw, which he grips gently. I notice his fingernails are painted black today. He angles my face and brings his lips so close to mine they are almost touching, but not quite. I can barely breathe.
He smells of vanilla and spices, musky and sweet at the same time. His breath blows over my face, minty and warm.
“Your mouth is divine,” he says.
His rough thumb brushes over my lower lip, and my nipples pebble against my thin bra and t-shirt. He glances down, and his smirk tells me he’s seen.
“You see that? Now, are they hard from excitement or fear? Maybe, Duchess, it’s a mix of both, and that’s fucking heady. That’s what I like. Fear and excitement. Lust and hate. I like it when those things mix, and the person doesn’t know how to react.”
I try to take my chin from his grip, but he tightens it.
“Do you want to make a bet?” he asks.
“You haven’t got anything you can offer me that I’d take,” I reply.
