Pushing the door wide, I walk in and clasp my hands in front of me. Nikolai is in black dress pants and a black shirt rolled at the wrists. A tie, the darkest red silk, sits abandoned next to him, his suit jacket slung across the back of the chair. His legs are crossed, long, lean, and powerful, his leather shoes spotless perfection. He’s reading a paper, old school, and a tablet sits next to a cup of coffee.
The room smells faintly of coffee, leather polish, and the dark, wanton spice of him: unsmoked tobacco, earthy, and a hint of jasmine, too. It’s sex. Sophistication. Dark secrets. Warm, tangled sheets. Hot caresses. If this were a different situation, and I didn’t know what he was, I’d swoon. Just a little.
He turns the page, the paper crinkling and dust mites dancing in the air from the light streaming through the windows. “Sit down for fuck’s sake, Rose. You’re like an annoying ghost. Stop hovering.”
I don’t say anything. Instead, I walk hesitantly to the table, not sure where to sit, but without lifting his attention from the paper, he uncrosses his legs and kicks the seat next to him out. I sit, pulling the chair in, my back straight and knees pressed together. I link my hands on the table’s edge and wait.
This isn’t me, the obedient little girl, but fighting him doesn’t work. Maybe if I try to be the good little girl, he’ll get bored of me, maybe relax his control. Either way, there’s a chance I could get out of here, no matter how gossamer thin and fragile.
He keeps saying he’ll kill me, hurt me if I cross a certain line, but I’m honestly not sure about it. He’s capable, very much so, but would he do it? I’m not going to push to find out. So far, he hasn’t hurt me, not properly.
The tenderness of my ass whispers a different kind of story. I can’t deny it. He’s brought me pain, but only to a point, and that pain turned me on more than I want to admit.
I’m about to ask him why I’m here when the door opens, revealing the maid. She blushes at the sight of him, her hand trembling as she puts down a tray, topping off his coffee and serving him an omelet with salad and toast.
“Thanks, Sylvie.” His tone is noncommittal, but pleasant, like he’s a banker or something. Is this what he’s like with others? “And juice, please.”
Then his gaze flickers to me. “Tell her what you want, Rose.”
“Uh…” I lick my lips, suddenly hungry and nauseous at the same time.
“I’ll have the same.”
“Egg whites?” He raises a brow.
Nonplussed, I nod, suddenly wanting to ask if he’s watching his cholesterol.
“She’ll have the same, but egg whites in her omelet.”
I want to call him an asshole, but I bite it down and just say, “Thank you. Sylvie.”
The girl just nods and scurries out.
“You make her nervous,” Nikolai says, reaching for his coffee.
“I think she has a crush.” Horrified, I slap a hand over my mouth.
All he does is laugh. “On you?”
I shake my head, my voice softer than before in my complete embarrassment. “You.”
“I didn’t hire her.” He turns a page, continuing to read his paper and not look at me. “That was Mia.”
“Who-” I stop myself again. My stomach rumbles and he sighs, then pushes his food at me. Heat floods my skin. “I can’t-”
“Yeah, you can. I can wait.” He sighs again, folding the paper and setting it down once it’s clear I’m not picking up the fork. “You know,
Rose, it’s rude to wait.”
“It’s rude to eat when you’re waiting.”
“Did you read your book?” There’s a softer spark to his gaze, one a foolish girl might take as flirtation. “Manners dictate that it’s rude to wait when the food is hot and rude not to wait when the food is cold.”
“So if I wait, and it goes cold, it’s not rude?”
He laughs again. “Now, there’s a take on it. Just eat, Rose.”
I dig in, and almost don’t notice when another tray arrives. We eat together, like this is normal, just breakfast for a regular couple. We chat, like I’m here because I chose to be and he isn’t a psychotic killer.
“So, Rose,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Why the beauty pageants?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
His face remains expressionless, but I pick up a hint of annoyance in the air. Either that, or I’m paranoid. “That isn’t an answer.”
“It is. I mean, they’re something to do.” I pause. It’s not like I had a normal path, and online degrees compared to going to a great college? This just seemed smart. Plus, it was a way to get out there, be seen. I liked being visible again, but I don’t tell him that.
He studies me with a quizzical look. “You could do anything.”
“Not here.” I bite my lip. “It just seemed a fast path to be seen, get ahead to do what I want to do with my life.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and no doubt my little slip is being played as an unintentional act of defiance in his mind. Nikolai is probably deciding how much he’s going to punish me.
“So, what do you want to do with your life?” he asks. “Be an ambassador?”
I jolt, almost dropping my fork. Regaining my composure, I carefully lay it down and take a sip of my juice.
He watched my pageant. Of course he did. I talked about it the night… the night… I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and carefully skirt what he did to Uncle Max. I talked about it the night he took me.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You think that’ll make a difference? You, a beauty queen?” There’s no sting to his words, just curiosity, however mild. I go with it, pretending the niceness is normal, that this isn’t life and death, imprisonment and freedom.
“I was-am.” I stop. “I’d use the exposure as a stepping stone. I got my degree online, and I want to use it. I want to cut through the red tape and get ahead.”
“You want to jump the line of regular, plain people?”
“People aren’t plain,” I say quietly. “Everyone can be interesting and beautiful, and they all deserve a chance. I want to cut to the chase so I can do just that.”
“Oh, fuck me.” He tilts his head, considering my words as he sips his coffee. “You’re a bleeding heart, soft as marshmallow in the center. Noble.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I squint my eyes at him in protest.
“It’s a lie.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It isn’t. You’re just cynical.”
He tsks at my accusation. “No, Rose, I call things as I see them, as they are. Cruel. Violent. I see commodity. People, places. Territories.” He snorts.
“Acknowledging costs doesn’t make me a cynic, no matter what Oscar
Wilde said.”
I don’t know what to say. I pick up my cutlery and try to eat calmly. Inside, though, I’m a bubbling sea of acid and confusion. Part of me thinks he’s protesting too much. He wants to sell himself as the big bad wolf. Except… he is the big bad wolf; still, he’s more. I sense it. Regardless, I’m treading a fine line, and I need to watch my step. He’s not someone I should sympathize with.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have a goal for your life or is this house all you’ve got?”
“I’ve no interest in being a beauty queen or helping others. At least, not unless helping others gets me what I want.” I nod.
“Rose?”
I look up, curious this time. “Yes?”
“When you leave here, you’ll change. I don’t like that dress.”
I frown. “You want the other one?”
“No. I’ve decided you don’t need any of them.”
What the hell? He wants me naked again? Or… I look at him. “I don’t need clothes anymore?”
He shrugs. “I’ll leave something.” This time, his gaze levels on me and my stomach bottoms out.
“Are… Are you almost done with your plan?” My voice holds a waver I hate.
He doesn’t smile. “Yes.”
I drop the fork. It slips from suddenly nervous fingers; I swallow, but I force myself to look at him. “Are you going to kill me?”
Fear rips into me, now that I’ve voiced it, really, actually voiced it, not a spit of words or a taunt. It’s a genuine question, one from deep in my soul that I need to know the answer to.
His eyes lock onto mine, and he stares at me for a long time, the air around us thickening, crackling and whispering. It’s a strange connection, one of both fear and the underlying need for erotic fulfilment.
There’s also ice, but the ice shifts into consideration and that scares me even more. I want to pick up the fork and continue eating like I don’t care. Alas, I do care. I’m trapped in his little web, awareness sliding down into my bones.
“I’m not sure yet, Rose.”
Sudden tears push at my eyes, and my vision blurs as I turn to stare at my plate, my food sitting like a lump in my stomach, and I wonder what he’d do if I threw up. Miraculously, I don’t throw up. I don’t cry. Instead, I take in a slow, deep breath and look at him again.
“I really haven’t decided.”
I nod. “What-what will it take to keep me alive? What can I do?” He shrugs, reaching for his tablet, suddenly completely disinterested. We could’ve been talking about the weather. He glances at me a moment before lifting a finger to his screen and swiping. “I guess you just need to keep me happy.”