Page 77 of Filthy Little Fix

Instead of clenching his fists, gritting his teeth, hurting me, he leans in. He bends down toward me, and my smile dies at his proximity. It's intimate, seeing him like this, in a dark room, in the dim light. It's intimate that he looks at me this way.

He kisses me. No tongue, no biting. Just a kiss, a lingering press of his lips that erases any logical thought that dares to cross my mind.

"Now sleep," he orders softly.

I don't let him go. My hand fists in his damp shirt, pulling him back. I want the real thing.

This time, he gives it.

I hold the back of his neck, running my fingers through his hair, and he slides a hand over the outline of my body over the blanket. He touches my jaw, holds my face, ruins me all over again.

I'm breathless when we separate. I trace my fingers down, from his neck to the defined line of his collarbone. He watches me, torn between curiosity, irritation, and that softness that hides where it can.

"Thank you," I whisper.

I take my hands off him, and he takes his off me. He straightens up, smoothing his wet shirt.

My head hasn't been this silent in years. Tonight, the silence is the color of Dante's eyes.

I wakeup and Dante is gone.

I wish he wasn't. Wish I could start my day with him. Every day. But he's Dante Volkov. Empires don't run themselves.

A guard I don't know knocks on the door. He tells me that Mr. Volkov's orders are for me to eat.

Being his property doesn't sound bad.

The cooks lay out a feast. Eggs, fruit, bread, oatmeal. All of it cut into small, manageable bites. For my newly restored tooth. A detail. He thinks of the details. And for that, I want to repay him.

A crescendo of high-heeled footsteps draws my attention to the hallways. The cooks tense up, though the guards remain motionless, and Svetlana appears in a beige blazer and a high ponytail.

She looks at me. At my plate, at the guards. And says, specifically to the cooks, "Out."

She doesn't have to say it twice. It's an almost visible relief for them to leave Svetlana's clinical scrutiny. Dante is an eruption. Svetlana is a surgical frost. You fear them both.

She glides to the table. I watch the cooks vanish down the hall. "You must have had fun yesterday," I say to the space they left behind. "I heard the fixture break from my room."

She assesses me in silence. I eat my scrambled eggs.

She rests a hand on a chair back, a staccato tap of red nails on wood. Ignoring the bait. "My brother informed me of your lack of rest. An exhausted asset is prone to errors."

So that was his angle—functionality. An exhausted asset makes mistakes. Pragmatism. The language she understands.

"But that's not what I came to talk about," she continues. "I heard about your atypical reactions to pain. But you're black and blue, Leonel. As I assumed, you acquire mysterious fresh wounds each time my brother comes to you. That can't be sustainable."

And she sees the wounds. Of course she does. I forgot to cover my neck. A map of his ownership—the hickeys, the red band where his hand squeezed the air from my lungs, the blossoming constellation of teeth marks. All on display.

I shrug. I don't care that she sees. Not really.

"What can I say? He has a strong hand."

She doesn't find that amusing. "Are you being forced? I need to understand the nature of this relationship, and there are places where this family draws the line."

The word "relationship" is amusing. There is no relationship, no rules, and certainly no lines to draw. Yet, he cares. He orders me to stay alive.

"Mrs. Volkov, your brother is the sole reason I haven't jumped off a bridge. He can do whatever he pleases—I won't stop him."

She stares. The gears are turning, but the math isn't working for her. No one would get the math. "Dante has a temper, Leo. His urges are unpredictable."