Page 14 of Savage Lies

“No problem,” I reply smoothly. “Just a misunderstanding.”

The waiter nods and escorts the drunk to the door, leaving Katya and me alone again.

“Well done,” I tell her.

She lets out a long, excited breath. “My body just reacted.”

“Good instincts. Though most people would have called for help instead of handling it themselves.”

“I don’t like feeling helpless.”

“No,” I agree. “I don’t think you do.”

She looks troubled by her reaction, like she’s starting to question the story I’ve told her about who she is. I need to redirect her attention before she starts asking the wrong questions.

I reach across the table and cup her face in my hand, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at me.

“You’re safe with me,” I tell her. “Always.”

Well, maybe not always. I can’t always guarantee my control around you.

Then, I lean across the table and kiss her.

It’s meant to be a distraction, a way to defuse her growing suspicions. But the moment our lips meet, something electric passes between us that catches me off-guard just like it did when I kissed her yesterday. When she parts her lips to let me dip my tongue into her mouth, my control slips.

Her hand comes up to rest against my chest, and my heart hammers against my ribs so hard that it’s almost painful. This is supposed to be performance and manipulation. Part of my larger plan for revenge.

It doesn’t feel like a performance.

4

Katya

Dmitri’s jaw twitches when I ask about my parents.

That’s all the answer I need.

We’re back in the penthouse now, with him nursing a glass of vodka while I curl up on the leather sofa.

The evening at Beluga was lovely, but something about the dinner felt staged.

Everything tonight felt rehearsed. He seemed on edge anytime I deviated from the script, and I didn’t want to make a scene, especially after that incident with the drunk, so I let it go.

Now, in the somewhat familiar surroundings of what’s supposed to be my home, I want answers.

I asked about my childhood: family traditions, holiday memories, anything to anchor me. He said my parents were dead. When I pressed for details, his demeanor shifted. Of course, that only made me push harder.

“What happened to them?” I press. “My parents, I mean.”

“Car accident.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Three years ago. You were devastated.”

“Where are they buried?”

“Cremated,” he responds, clipped. “You scattered their ashes in the Volga. Said they would have wanted to return to the water.”

The story flows too easily, and it’s too perfectly crafted to answer questions I might ask. Like he’s prepared responses for every inquiry about my fictional past.

“Did I have siblings? Close friends from before we met?”