Page 49

For better or for worse…

“Since you live here now?—”

"I live here?" I interrupt. My voice is dry and mocking because if I don't make it a joke, the truth might slip out—and I can’t have that. "Bold of you to assume."

He doesn’t blink. "It’s a fact, and you know it, you little brat."

"You’re very bold, Mr. Cliché.She’s going to have my babies; she’s mine,” I mock. “Yeah, I got you ever since the time you wrote on my wall in that red." I tip my head to the side. "How did you get rid of it so fast anyway?"

He shrugs. “A magician never shows his hand."

I point my finger in the air with a dramatic flourish. "So you admit you did it.”

His eyes darken, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. Any other motherfucker did that, I’d kill him."

I swallow. He’s telling the truth.

There’s no bravado, no need to raise his voice. His control is a blade pressed to my throat, and the worst part is… I crave pressing back. Feeling the metal scrape my skin.

I want to see if he’ll cut me. I want him to bleed for me too.

This is not how this is supposed to go.

"The tour," he rasps.

I nod, hyperaware of the fact that I’m naked under this ridiculous T-shirt and we’re somehow standing toe to toe. "The tour," I repeat.

I trail after him, cheeks flaming no matter how hard I try to control my reaction as he moves through the house, my bare feet silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. The house is exactly what I’d expect from him—dark wood, expensive, brutally elegant. Not a single soft edge anywhere. Maybe I’ll be the soft edge. Once I get my hands on one of his credit cards, I’m getting some fucking pink in here. Maybe even some witchy crystals—a little rose quartz to soften his edges and some obsidian to give me some goddamn protection.

He opens a door off the hall, revealing a laundry room—modern, spotless, efficient. Shelves are stacked with neatly folded clothes, softener and detergent lined up like soldiers. Even his damn laundry room looks like it’s ready for war.

“Housekeeper?"

I just want to fill the silence, but I also want to know who’s going to come in and see me half-naked because that’s definitely what’s going to happen. Some people drink to relieve stress. Others take drugs.

Maybe Matveiisa drug.

He shrugs. "Sometimes, yeah. Mostly, it’s just me. I’m not here a lot."

“Oh?”

“But that’s going to change."

That throws me. I look down at his massive hands, the same ones that pinned me down and held me, and imagine him carefully folding… towels. It’s disturbingly intimate. Domestic. Because now I can’t stop imagining those hands back on me, peeling my clothes off instead of washing them.

I swallow hard and wish I had a pile of dirty clothes to wash, suddenly eager for distance. I need a break from the intensity already. His gaze drops, dragging down the curve of my back, and I feel it—his desire, a little hum between us.

"I’m surprised you care as much as you do," he says suddenly, his voice low, cutting.

I straighten slowly and turn to face him. "About what?"

Don’t tell me he’s seen through my fake nonchalance already.

He takes a step toward me, closing the space until my back hits the dryer. "About how you look. About what my family thinks. About what I see when I look at you."

Fuck.

"Okay, get over yourself, Matvei,” I snap, but my voice betrays me. "I don’t really care about any of that."