Page 50

Veronica

E verything feels like a nightmare, a cruel unending slumber.

Veronica has scrubbed a hand continuously over her face and pinched her skin hard enough to bruise, but nothing changes. Nothing feels real. Except that it’s real, and the reality belongs to her.

It has been an hour since they were driven from the church to his apartment, but an hour isn’t nearly enough to process the wreckage of her life. Fear coils around her ribs, suffocating. Bitterness sours her tongue. Confusion makes her dizzy. But more than anything.

She is terrified.

And she misses Shiro.

Her gaze lifts from where she is on the bed the moment the door opens and Kael walks in. Her lips part to ask him questions about Shiro, but she snaps them shut seeing a phone pressed against his ear. And he looks pretty angry at whoever is on the other end.

“What’s going on, Takahashi?” he demands, his steps lithe and impatient as he crosses the room to the table where a bottle of his infamous American Whiskey sits, pouring himself a glass.

“It’s been over a week.” Her eyes follow him as he walks over to the window, looking into the dark night. “Where the fuck is my vineyard?” The latter is said in Japanese, and for a moment, while drowning in the depth of her despair, she can’t help thinking about how utterly super attractive and smart he looks and sounds whenever he speaks a foreign language.

So far, she has learned he speaks roughly up to nine languages. Out of those nine, she has walked into him or heard him speak about six. The perfect thing about all these is the way he automatically adapts to the local accent of the language he is speaking that he will never pass as just a foreigner speaking a foreign language. Every language turns to his mother’s tongue the moment he gets into character. Commendably, he is an intelligent man, not so far from a genius. But he is evil and that rules out anything else.

“Fix it,” he says, still in Japanese as he veers away from the window, heading to the couch at the corner of the room. “I don’t want to have to take over because I really don’t want to spill any blood on this project.”

Veronica can’t help but wonder what he is talking about. It doesn’t matter who he is speaking with. She wonders if he is talking about her. But he hasn’t, for once, spared her a glance since he walked in, so she doubts it’s about her. She hopes the topic doesn’t involve him having to kill another person before leaving the States tomorrow.

Speaking of leaving the state. Anxiety weaves into her nerves again; her palms turn clammy. By this time tomorrow, she will be in Russia, in a mansion miles away from civilization, stuck with soldiers that have eyes as cold as stone.

What kind of future is ahead for her?

“Come here,” he says, his voice husky and commanding. Her gaze flickers to him. He is fully settled on the couch, an empty wine glass placed on the glass stool beside the couch.

“Come on now,” he urges, patting his lap, a ghostly smirk tucked under the curve of his full lips. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.”

Say what now?

She stares in defiance at him across the room, her brows pinched in irritation, fingers clenching around the polished wooden edge of the bed.

He exhales tiredly. “Don’t make this difficult, Mrs. Volkov.”

With an uneager sigh, she lifts herself off the bed, the muscles in her calf snapping as she drags her feet across the room to him.

Barely an arm’s length away from him, he pulls her by her wrist to his lap, one hand immediately snaking around her waist, holding her in place.

And even though she has so much anger and resentment trapped inside her, she can’t help yet again as her body defies her resolve. Being so close to him has a way of shattering her defense. One whiff of his intoxicating cologne makes her lightheaded.

“My darling wife,” he teases and heat spreads across her exposed thigh where his free hand rests, tingles shooting up her spine when he runs the tip of his nose along the curve of her neck.

“Shiro,” she whispers, her eyes burning, her heart aching not for anything else, but for the fact that no matter how she fights this today, she will still bend to his desire, give him anything he asks because she is so stupid she can’t even make her body cooperate with her head.

How badly has the world made her feel worthless that she can no longer fight the slightest attention given to her body?

“It’s our wedding night,” he murmurs, his tone growing raspy as he presses his lips to a sensitive spot below her ear, his palm squeezing her thigh sensually. “Keep another man’s name off your lips.”

Her eyes squeeze shut to stop the embarrassing sound sitting on her throat, hands clenched tightly on the hem of her skirt as he assaults her neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses.

She can feel the heat pooling between her thighs. And if his exploring palm dives further under her skirt, he would feel just how much amidst the chaos, she wants him.

How is she supposed to maintain the rage inside her, prove to him that this isn’t the end when she falls apart at the mere touch of his hand? How will he take her seriously if she rebels and fights but can’t stop moaning his name and begging for more of him?

Really, what sort of cruel fate is this? How is she still sexually attracted to a man who murdered multiple, forced a human heart down her throat, and pressed a gun to her best friend’s head?

Is she really human herself at this point?

“I need…” She violently bites down a moan by sinking her canine into her lower lip, almost drawing blood. “I need to know if he’s okay.”

Hissing, he pulls his head away, a disapproving look blending into the darkening ember of his eyes.

“He is fine,” he bites out. “Back at his home, fucking fine!”

“Okay.” She nods, her palms laying flat on her thighs, her chest heaving. She knows he isn’t lying. His eyes show genuineness. That information relieves her a little. She couldn’t have slept well today, not knowing how he was doing, if he was alive or dead.

She scans the room, looking anywhere else but his face. Her body still carries the residue of the fire he has lit with his touch.

“Why are you acting so miserable?” he suddenly asks, and it isn’t out of spite, but curiosity. And she wonders what the mystery is when the answer is clearly there.

“Forgive me for not leaping in joy,” she says, bitter sarcasm lacing her tone as she glares at him. “After all, it has always been my dream to marry a man who threatens me with my friend’s life, subdues me into cannibalism and oh, who also killed two of my teachers!”

He scoffs, his finger trailing mindless, phantom lines on her thigh. “Am I really that bad? Do you think I’ll be such a terrible husband?”

She looks away instead of answering him. Then she suddenly feels his fingers curling under her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“We are never gonna be holding hands and running into the sunset.” His hand drops from her chin and returns to her thigh. “You will definitely not be happy with me. But one thing is for sure, I’ll give you power.”

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His storm-dark gaze locks onto hers, dragging her under, pulling her into the relentless abyss of him. She feels herself spiraling, caught in the violent whirlpool of his sanity, unable to fight the current.

“I’m gonna make you so powerful.” His voice is thick with promise, dark with conviction—more than a vow, more than an oath. It feels like blood seeping into stone, irreversible. “So fucking powerful that no one will ever dare to stand against you.”

His words strike like thunderclaps, sending shivers cascading down her back, rippling through her bones. Her heart slams against her ribs, each beat an echo of something both terrifying and exhilarating.

“You pretend to be simple, to want simple things.” His gaze flickers with something wild. Something knowing, as his hand lifts—slow, deliberate—to press a fingertip against a spot just above her left breast. “But I see through you.” Her breath stutters. “Deep down, you crave it just like I do.” His voice dips lower, coiling around her like smoke. “Power.”

His touch lingers. A silent claim, a branding against her skin.

“Together, we’ll be unstoppable.” His smirk widens, dark amusement dancing in his eyes. “Indomitable.”

She isn’t sure how accurate his words are. He always speaks as if he knows her more than she knows herself. His comments about how darkness lives inside her have proven to be true. Is he also right about this one? She is sure she would have loved a little cottage in Castle Combe with the right amount of books and healthy storage of coffee beans. Maybe a simple husband who does a simple job and returns home at 5pm to help her make dinner. And maybe have a child or two to run around the field in summer.

Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that satisfying and perfect? Has she always wanted more? Has she always desired a part where men who have always treated her like she doesn’t matter, shivers at the sight of her shadow?

“We leave for Russia in two hours.” His voice snaps her out of her thoughts. “You can see your friend one more time.”

Is that supposed to make her throw a series of thank-yous? How is he about to take her away from the place she basically grew up in, to a strange country, and all she gets as a compensation is to see her best friend only one more time?

“C-can I just stay behind for maybe a week—”

“No.”

“If you are taking me away, the least you can do is let me say my goodbyes properly,” she bites out.

“I said, no.”

Her fingers clench on her thigh, but she shouldn’t trigger him.

“Carla wants me to help her look for Marlene,” she says softly. “And even though her being away has been a breath of fresh air, I’m getting really worried. It’s been weeks.”

“I said, no.”

“Please,” she insists. “Her office said she took a leave. The more I think about it, the more odd it sounds. Marlene will never take a leave in the middle of a case. She doesn’t even take leaves.”

“You are not spending another week here, Veronica,” he grounds out, his expression hardening. “Don’t even bother pushing it.”

“Okay two days,” she bargains. “Let me just give Carla a closure. And besides, I can’t just leave without letting Carla know too. In the absence of Marlene, I am the only one she knows here. I can’t just disappear too when she is already worried that her daughter is missing.”

He exhales, pinching the bridge between his eyebrows. “What exactly do you want, Veronica?”

“Closure.”

“On?”

“The whereabouts of Marlene.”

She sees a gentle tick in his jaw, a beat passes, and something settles in his eyes, something dark, but she can’t place a finger on it. Then slowly, the corner of his lips curl, a grotesque grin crawling out.

“You know what,” he says, lifting her gently from his lap, his hand resting on her waist to steady her on her feet. “I just figured out something we can do to make our wedding night memorable.”

“What about Marlene?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer.