I don’t even know how I make it through rehearsal today.
Due to the thorough fucking like I’ve never experienced in my entire life, I woke up sore and groggy and…in a haze of pleasure.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to move, let alone rehearse.
But sometime in the early morning, I felt Adrian wipe between my legs with a warm cloth. The sensation alone was enough to make me moan in absolute bliss.
After I woke up, I was rolled in a clean duvet, and the one stained with the evidence of our sexual activities was in the washing machine.
I found breakfast on my nightstand. Coffee without sugar, my salt-free toast with bio cheese, and an apple. There were also painkillers with a bottle of water.
I should wonder how he knows what I eat for breakfast, but it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out since that’s all I have in my kitchen.
Despite wanting to question him, I was oddly touched by the fact that he brought me breakfast in bed. No one has ever done that for me before, and in my own house, no less.
But the fact remains, he disappeared.
There was no trace of him or his clothes. If it weren’t for the tender ache between my legs and his red handprints on my ass, I would’ve suspected he was never here in the first place. That everything which had happened last night was another cruel punishment created in my head.
But he was here. I can still feel his merciless thrusts and savage touch that oddly turned caring afterward. My nipples still ache from how he bit and fondled and twisted them. My ass still burns from how he spanked me while fucking me as if knowing how much it drives me mad.
But after he exhausted my body till I was spent, he left.
Again.
We didn’t even get to talk or anything like normal people after he announced he’d never be done with me.
He just used me and left.
However, is it considered using if I enjoyed every second of it? If I touched myself to thoughts of him while I was sleeping?
God. Maybe I’m broken beyond repair for liking it, for reveling in his rough handling and unapologetic fucking when I hate the man. I should be glad that he disappeared, not disappointed.
I went through the motions during today’s rehearsal, trying to distract my head from any thoughts about Adrian Volkov.
Philippe and Stephanie gave me an earful about how I left without notice last night. I apologized, but it’s not like I could tell them what actually happened, or that I possibly had the best sex of my life just to wake up to an empty apartment.
And no, I’m not still salty about that.
One thing changed, though—or one person. Ryan.
Starting this morning, he didn’t try to touch me outside of rehearsal. He hasn’t looked into my eyes too long either, as if he’s afraid of what I—or someone else—will do to him.
At least he learned his lesson and will keep the distance he was supposed to a long time ago.
“Lia.”
I turn around at Stephanie’s voice. She catches up to me so that we’re standing in front of my car, my keys dangling from my fingers.
She takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling, then exhaling a large cloud.
“What is it, Steph? Please don’t tell me it’s another night out.”
“No, but that was a dick move yesterday.” She puts her hand on her hip.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well.” And I really wasn’t until Adrian fucked me like a savage before he disappeared.
Is he going to make this a habit and keep leaving after taking care of his sexual needs like I’m some sort of slut?
Damn him.
Why the hell am I so hung up on that part, anyway? After all, I allowed for everything to happen just so he would leave.
He’s a killer, Lia. A fucking killer.
I wait for the disgust to invade me at that reminder. I wait to feel nausea at allowing a murderer to touch me so intimately.
Yet nothing comes.
Am I that broken?
“Whatever.” Stephanie stares me down as if she doesn’t believe me. “Anyway, I learned something I thought you’d be interested to know.”
“What?”
“That Russian mafia guy you were asking about yesterday. Matt’s associate?”
My grip tightens on my keys as I try to hold on to my cool. “What did you learn?”
Stephanie gets closer, searches her surroundings, then half-cups her mouth before she whispers, “Apparently, he’s a higher-up in the Bratva. Like very higher-up.”
I swallow. Even though this information shouldn’t be a surprise, it hits differently than I’d expect when I learn about it.
“How do you know?” I murmur back, dread getting the better of me.
“I heard Matt mention it to one of his minions.”
Stephanie is a true eavesdropper and loves gossip to a fault.
She steps back and takes another drag of her cigarette. “Now, girl, tell me why you’re interested in knowing about him?”
“I-I’m not.”
“Uh-huh. Lie to someone else. I can see that gleam in your eyes whenever he’s mentioned.”
Shit. Am I that obvious? “It’s really nothing. I just…find him scary.”
“That’s because he is.” She rubs my arm. “There’s a crowd we should never mingle with. He belongs to that crowd.”
Too late, Steph.
I offer her a reassuring smile and get to my car. By the time I arrive home, I’m hungry, exhausted, and my mind is fried from the number of theories I’ve been conjuring about Adrian.
He told me he’s a strategist, so according to what Stephanie said, he plots the Bratva’s movements.
God. He’s part of the freaking Russian mafia.
A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. I don’t know anything about the mafia except for The Godfather trilogy, and those films are a far cry from reality.
The real thing must be more dangerous.
Wiping my clammy fingers on my skirt, I tap in my code and get inside.
I throw my bag and keys on the entrance table, trying not to think about what happened on that same table last night. How he owned every inch of me and gave me a dark type of pleasure I’ll never be able to forget.
Shaking my head, I hang my coat and freeze.
Between my two other coats, there’s a different one. Gray. Male.
His.
I kick my shoes away and step inside, the sinking weight that’s been settled over my stomach since this morning lifting with each step I take. My feet come to a halt on the heated flooring at the scene in front of me.
Adrian is placing a few plates on the small dining table situated between the kitchen and the living room.
He’s dressed in his usual black pants and shirt, the first few buttons undone, revealing his hard, muscular chest that I buried my face into last night. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing the intricate design of his tattoos. Both extend in sleeves from his shoulders to above his wrists. Surprisingly, there are none on his chest or back like I’d expect from a gangster.
“You’re back,” he says without lifting his head from his task. There’s a frittata and a big bowl of salad as well as a few cut apples.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, unable to make sense of the situation.
“What does it look like I’m doing? Preparing you dinner.” He still hasn’t met my gaze. “Go wash your hands.”
My feet carry me toward him as if I’m floating on air and I grab his bicep. “I said, what are you doing in my apartment, Adrian? How did you get in?”
He continues setting the plates in a meticulous kind of way—geometric, even. “I saw you put in the code yesterday. Not that it would’ve been a problem if I hadn’t.”
“This is called breaking and entering.”
“Do you always feel the need to label everything, Lenochka?” This time, his gray eyes that are the color of harsh winters collide with mine. “Does it make you feel better?”
“I’m naming things by what they’re called.”
“By all means, do what makes you feel comfortable. Now, go wash your hands so we can eat.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
He releases a breath. “This is one of the situations where you pick your battles. If you don’t, I’ll be happy to sit you on my lap and shove food down your throat.”
I glare at him, then storm to the bathroom to wash my hands. By the time I get back, he’s already seated with a plate of what looks like ham frittata.
With a sigh, I settle opposite him and stab a fork in my salad that’s placed in front of me, while the frittata is for him. I hate that he knows what I eat and doesn’t act like other people who are constantly telling me, “Hey, some comfort food won’t hurt.” I didn’t get this far by allowing myself luxuries.
To be at the top, there’s always a dire price to pay. I don’t even smoke like many of the other ballerinas, so I have no way to kill my appetite except for sheer determination.
For a moment, we eat in silence. We both take our time. Me, because it makes me full faster. Adrian, because he seems like the type who savors his food, deliberately taking every bite. I try not to watch how his masculine fingers wrap around the fork and knife. He’s so sophisticated, like someone who’s upper class, not a mobster.
“Is the salad to your liking?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “It’s fine.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“So I’ll get drunk like last time? No, thanks.”
His lips twitch in what resembles a smile but isn’t quite there. “Your drunk version is more honest.”
“Or more stupid.”
“I’ll go with honest.”
I lift my head, my fork playing between the tomatoes and lettuce. “You want honesty, Adrian?”
He places his utensils beside his plate and takes a sip of his water. “Sure, let’s hear it.”
“I think you’re sick and twisted. You’re the type who gets off on subduing someone weaker than you, closing all doors in their face so they’re forced to have dinner with you. Are you that lonely?”
Although I think my words will trigger anger, he merely taps his finger on the table twice. “If sick and twisted is what you like to label me, we’ll go with it. But you’re wrong. If there’s anyone who’s lonely between us, it’s you, Lia.”
“I’m not lonely.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“What gave you the idea that I’m lonely?”
“Aside from your obvious lack of friends and your uneventful life, you also chose ballet when you knew full well it would make you hated when you climbed to the top. You didn’t fight the process of being envied and gossiped about. If anything, you used it to bury yourself deeper in your lonely bubble where no one can reach you.”
My lips part at his careful and horrifyingly precise analysis of my life. This man will swallow me under if I’m not careful.
“You did,” I counter with more venom than needed.
“I did what?”
“You reached inside my bubble.”
He picks up his utensils and cuts into his food. “That’s because you didn’t have a choice in the matter.”
“What if I want to have a choice?”
“Too late.” He stares at me with those unnerving eyes. “I already claimed you as mine and there’s no going back.”
My fingers tremble at that word. Mine. But it’s not out of fear, it’s something else that I can’t quite pinpoint, so I blurt, “That’s called coercion.”
“Always with the labels, Lia. It’s getting tedious.”
“I told you. I’m giving things their name.”
“It changes nothing except offering you some sense of fragile justice.”
“Justice is not fragile.”
“Oh, but it is. Those who believe in it fail or are slapped in the face by harsh truths.”
“Then what do you believe in?”
“Patterns.”
I’m taken aback by that. After I take a bite of my salad and swallow, I speak, “How does someone believe in patterns?”
“Patterns are a powerful tool that allow me to see the outcome before it happens.”
I scoff. Of course someone like Adrian would like that type of power.
“You don’t agree, Lia?”
“Not particularly. I’m just not surprised you’d be attracted to that sort of thing.”
“You’re starting to get to know me. That’s progress.”
“I don’t know you, Adrian, and I prefer it stays that way.”
“Why? Because you can bury your head in the sand and pretend like none of this is happening? You do realize that’s useless, right? The more you resist, the more pain you bring upon yourself.”
“Let me worry about that. Whatever I feel or don’t feel is none of your business.”
“Watch that tone, Lia.” His voice lowers with an unveiled threat.
“Or what?”
“Or I will take my belt to your ass.”
“You…”
“Go on.” His eyes spark with pure sadism. “By all means, give me a reason to punish you.”
Fire explodes in my chest and I try to swallow it down, to no avail.
Jesus. This man is a true devil.
I stuff my face with the salad to keep from spouting whatever is trying to come out.
“Slower,” he reprimands. “Or you’ll get indigestion.”
“As if you’d care.”
“Of course I would. I’m not that heartless.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I truly am not—under the right circumstances.”
“You mean the ones you lay out?”
“Correct.”
“So it’s your way or the highway?”
“More or less.”
I bite my lower lip, then quickly release it when I find him watching it with undivided attention and a frightening sheen of lust.
“What’s going to happen when you’re done with me?” I ask the question that’s been niggling at the back of my mind.
“I said I won’t be.”
“Surely you’ll get bored. Everyone does.”
“I’m not everyone, and it’d be wise not to compare me to anyone you know.”
As if I would ever find someone like him.
Luca is a bit elusive, like Adrian, but he’s not as intense, and I’ve always considered him a friend, so he doesn’t really count.
I clear my throat. “Point is, this phase will end. Like everything about life.”
“I’ll think about that when it comes to it.”
“Is that what you did to the others? You thought about their fate when the time came.”
“The others?”
“The ones who came before me.”
“I’ve never done this with anyone before you, Lenochka.”
Bolts of both thrill and fear spark through me. For some perverse reason, I like that this is also a first for him, that we’re at least equal in that regard. But knowing I’m his first, that he broke a pattern for me when he appreciates them so much, is also enough to make me imagine the worst.
Shooing that thought away, I ask. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“Lenochka?”
“Bright light.”
My lips part, not believing he just called me that. Surely, it must be a play of my imagination. “You think I’m a bright light?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But you think I’m lonely.”
“That doesn’t make you gloomy. A rose shines brighter alone than when it’s in a field.”
“Is that why you plucked me?” My voice lowers as I stare at the bowl of salad.
“Possibly.”
“Just so you know, the prettiest roses have the deadliest thorns.”
He stands up. The motion isn’t abrupt, but I sink in my chair, partially regretting what I said and partially proud of it.
The proud part wins, because I lift my chin. Fuck him. If he thinks I’ll just cower away because he tells me to, he’ll be disappointed.
He stands beside me, his sheer size towering over me like doom. “You think that scares me?”
“I didn’t say it to scare you. I’m just relaying facts.”
“Here’s a fact for you, Lia. Deadly thorns thrill me.”
I swallow. “But they injure you.”
“It’s worth it.” He motions at my forgotten plate of food. “Are you finished?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because I’m going to fuck you until you scream, my deadly thorn.” And with that, he picks me up and carries me in his arms toward the bedroom.
