My knee-jerk reaction is to yell or somehow run from him.
But I’m logical enough to know that won’t deter him. If anything, it could—and would—put me in danger.
However, if he thinks I’m changing in front of him, he has another thing coming. He may be a terrifying monster, but I won’t be his willing prey.
I loosen the pins in my hair, then remove them and throw them on the dressing table beside him not so gently. I’m sweaty from rehearsal and in desperate need of a shower, but that will have to wait because there’s no way in hell this stranger and my naked body will exist in the same room.
My dark locks loosen, falling to my shoulders, and I resist the need to sigh in relief.
He’s watching my every movement like he did when he sat in the audience. His gaze zeroes in on my actions instead of my body in a mechanical kind of way, and although he doesn’t seem to be weighing me up sexually, I’m suddenly self-conscious about my skirt that barely covers the crack of my ass and my leotard, which molds against the curve of my breasts.
I open my locker with unsteady hands and retrieve one of the dresses I keep here, then throw it on over my clothes. He raises a brow when the material falls to my knees. It’s tight at the top with a full skirt.
I give him what I’m sure appears to be a smug look as I reach back to close the zipper. The pervert must’ve believed he’d see me naked and even sat down for the show, but I just abolished his plan.
He stands and I jerk against the locker, my victory dance coming to a screeching halt.
“I thought you said you were going to change.” He stops a foot away.
He’s so close, like that day when he held the gun to my forehead, and even though the weapon is currently absent, it’s as if its cold muzzle is there again.
My senses are so heightened that I feel every intake of air and the goosebumps breaking out over my bare arms. His smell shoots straight to my head and nothing prepares me for the subtle mixture of woods and leather. On the surface, it’s a harmless scent, but on him, it’s a translation of his lethality.
Despite my need to cower, I lift my chin. “I did change.”
“That you did.” He grabs me by the shoulder and spins me around. Then he holds my hand that’s still on the zipper, sending a shiver down my spine.
I expect him to pull it down and force me to get out of the dress, but he uses my fingers to zip it up. The sound reverberates in the silence of the room and I gulp as his lips lower to the shell of my ear. “It’d be wise to not provoke me. I dislike it and I’ll make sure you dislike it, too.”
He releases my hand and swiftly turns me back around to face him. It’s completely unfair that a devil like him has such an intimidating physique and a handsome face to go with it.
“Shall we?” He motions at the door.
After changing into flats, I grab my coat and bag, then follow him.
Thankfully, almost everyone has left. I don’t want them to see me in the company of this stranger. But I need to know why the hell he was allowed entrance into our rehearsal. Only producers and their selected associates can attend. Not even our family and friends are allowed in.
Though he was sitting beside Matt, our executive producer. Does that mean he knows him?
I stay one step behind him, feeling like I need to watch him and get a read on when he’ll make his next move.
He stops abruptly and I crash into him, my head colliding against a wall of muscle. I wince, taking a step back.
The stranger tilts his head to the side. “Walk beside me.”
When I don’t make a move to comply, he continues, “Or I can hold you with an arm around your waist.”
“I’ll do it,” I blurt, falling in step at his side. I don’t look at him the entire way until we reach the parking lot.
A black Mercedes waits for us there. It’s the spitting image of the one I saw that night, but there are no bullet holes anywhere.
The passenger door opens and the lean man with long hair steps out and opens the back door.
Seeing him brings back memories from last week and it takes everything in me not to give in to nausea.
“I have my car,” I whisper.
“Give me your keys and it’ll be at your apartment building.”
“No, thanks.” There’s no way in hell I’m letting him—or his men—near me more than need be.
He watches me for a beat before he continues guiding me to his car. He gently ushers me inside and follows after me. The man with long hair slides into the front seat, and the other man, the bulky blond, Kolya, is behind the wheel.
Are they his guards or something? Just what type of man is he if he needs guards?
The car leaves the parking lot and I keep a careful eye on the city through the window, trying to memorize as many twists and turns as possible. If I somehow end up getting kidnapped, I need to know where the hell he’s taking me.
“How come you haven’t asked about my name?”
The stranger’s calmly spoken words pull me out of my observation. He’s watching me with a particular interest that makes my skin crawl.
“Does it make a difference whether I know it or not?” I try to keep the venom out of my voice.
“I suppose it doesn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. It’s Adrian Volkov.”
I briefly close my eyes to rein in the pain. Now that I know his name, he’ll never let me go. For some reason, I feel like I’ve signed my fate.
First, my death certificate, and now, my fate.
Just what more is he going to take from me?
The car comes to a halt in front of a cozy-looking diner. I don’t know why I expected him to take me to some high-end restaurant with a waiting list. This is surprising, and not in a good way.
He gets out first and offers me his hand. I’m about to ignore it, but he grabs my palm and pulls me out. We step into the restaurant, and the guards remain outside in the car.
The inside of the restaurant is as cozy as the exterior. The soft yellow lighting casts a warm hue on the red banquettes. The tables are dark wood and there are multiple creative quotes about eating for the soul hanging on the walls. A few people are scattered throughout, chatting joyfully. I wonder if they’ll help me if I say the man holding my clammy hand is a serial killer or if they will be killed themselves.
The stranger, Adrian, leads me to a back table that’s separate from other people and away from doors and windows. I realize it’s on purpose when he pushes me to the end of the booth that’s near the wall.
He settles opposite me, and when the waiter comes, he doesn’t even touch the menu as he says, “An unopened bottle of your best wine.”
“Salad,” I whisper, opting not to check the menu myself. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.
“What type, miss?”
“The simplest one you have.”
The waiter nods and leaves.
I’m acutely aware of Adrian watching me, his fingers casually interlaced on the table. They’re lean, masculine, and have veins etched across the surface.
And now I’m ogling them.
I can’t believe I’m ogling the same fingers that held a gun to my forehead. Or maybe I’m watching them because of that fact. I know people like him exist, but I’ve always wondered how they could so easily end lives. Do they not feel, or have they become desensitized to it like I have to haters?
However, when I had that question, I never thought I’d ever be this close to one of his kind.
Adrian taps his finger once against the wooden surface. “You have an expressive face. Did you know that, Lia?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Maybe it’s not visible to others, but it’s almost impossible for you to hide your emotions.”
“Is that why you brought me here? To tell me I have an expressive face?”
“I told you why I brought you here. To talk.”
“Then talk.”
“I would rather you do the talking. Tell me more about yourself.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’ll determine whether you get to walk out of this restaurant breathing or not.”
My chest jolts and I bunch a napkin in my fists to stop my hands from shaking. “Why are you doing this? You already let me go.”
The dark depth of his gray eyes is similar to deep cloudy skies—blank, composed, and cold. “I only let you go until further notice. Now is the time for that notice. Are you going to tell me about yourself?”
There’s no winning with this asshole, is there? He’s already come with a purpose and he won’t stop until it’s met.
“What do you want to know?” I snap so he’ll get it over with and let me go.
“I don’t want to know anything in that tone. Repeat the question without the anger part.”
“Do you enjoy this?”
“What?”
“Being the Grim Reaper over others’ lives.”
“Not if I can help it, no. Being the Grim Reaper doesn’t actually give me answers…just bodies.”
A lump rises in my throat and I stiffen at his unspoken threat.
The waiter returns with a bottle of wine and my salad. Adrian motions at him to leave when he opts to open the bottle.
As soon as the waiter is gone, he does it with sure movements. He doesn’t hurry or get flustered, like a typical person who’s confident about himself and his surroundings. While I’m usually the same in my own world, I seem to lose all my confidence in his company.
Being held at gunpoint will do that, I guess.
Adrian pours me a glass and one for himself, and although I wasn’t planning on drinking, I need some liquid courage right now.
I take a long sip, then sigh. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s your last name?”
“I’m sure you could’ve figured it out on your own. It’s all over the rehearsal hall.”
“Or I could easily run a background check on you to find out everything.”
My head tips up at that. He’s telling me without stating it that he’s powerful enough to figure out whatever he wants about me.
I take another sip of wine. “Does that mean you haven’t already?”
“It wouldn’t make a difference to you whether I have or not.”
“Of course it would.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It makes a difference to me because I would acquire information. You, however, have nothing to lose or gain.”
“I have everything to lose with you.”
He taps his forefinger against the table, lips twitching, but like the other time, he doesn’t smile. “You’re smart enough to recognize that. Continue being smart and answer my question.”
“Morelli.” I stab my fork into the salad and bring it to my mouth, chewing with aggressiveness.
“Lia Morelli. Were you born in the States or in Italy?”
“Italy.”
“Both parents Italian?”
“Mom was American. Dad was Italian.”
“Both dead?”
“Yes,” I snap, gulping what remains in the glass in one go. “Is your questioning over?”
“That’s one.” He takes a leisurely sip of his wine.
“One?”
“One strike. I told you not to speak to me in that tone.”
“What tone should I speak in then? Is there a fucking manual on how to talk to a murderer?” I hiss the last word under my breath.
“Two. And while there’s no manual, you ought to use that clever head of yours and not provoke me.”
I snatch the bottle and pour until the glass almost overflows. Some surrounding tables gawk at my lack of manners, but I’m past the point of caring. I’m fuming, and the more he probes about my past, the faster the wounds I’ve kept hidden sting, ripping at the stitches so I’ll set them free.
“How did your parents die?” he asks ever so languidly, obviously not reading my mood. Or maybe he asks in spite of it.
He’s probably taking pleasure in this.
Sighing, I say, “An accident.”
“What type of accident?”
“Gas asphyxiation.” The words leave my throat in a pained whisper. My fingers tremble around the wine glass as I bring it to my lips. I don’t want to think about that time, but my demons swirl from the background, wrapping their tentacles tightly around my throat.
“Breathe, Lia.” A hand flattens against mine, pulling it and the glass down to rest on the table.
That’s when I realize I’m balling my other hand and moisture is stinging my lids.
I stare at him, at the eternal calm that’s in his eyes despite the chaos he’s inflicted with merely a few questions. “Why are you doing this?”
“To get to know you.”
“You can’t force someone to talk about their life. That’s not getting to know them.”
“It is for me.”
“Then shouldn’t I get to know you, too?”
He pulls his hand from mine. “If you want.”
“Does this mean I can ask you questions?”
“Sure.”
“What do you do exactly?” I probably shouldn’t try to find out more about him, but I already know his name. If I want to survive him, I need to look further into who he is and what he does.
“I’m a strategist.”
“A strategist who kills?” I lower my voice.
His lips curve in a small smirk as he tips his glass at me. “Exactly.”
“A strategist for whom?”
“I don’t think it would make a difference if you knew.”
“You said I could ask questions.”
“I never said I would answer them all.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair is for weak people, Lia. You’ve been in a monstrous world long enough to realize fairness doesn’t really exist.”
“It does exist, even if people like you are doing their best to erase it.”
He lifts a brow as he swirls his wine. “People like me?”
“You know.”
“No, not really. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“Criminals.”
“Criminals. Interesting analogy.”
“It’s not an analogy when it’s true.” I push back against my faux leather seat, giving up on the salad and sipping the wine. It’s helping to loosen the nerves that have been on high alert since I first met this man.
“According to you, perhaps.”
“According to the world. You killed people.”
“People like me, criminals per your words.”
“That doesn’t make you a hero.”
“A hero is the last thing I want to be. Selflessness has never been my thing.”
“So you would rather be the villain?”
“A villain is the hero in his own story, so why not?”
“The villain always loses.”
“In Disney films. In your ballet performances, perhaps. In real life, however, the villain is the one who always wins.”
This man has absolutely no regard for morality or societal standards. While I’m not shocked such people exist, I’ve only met them in ballet. The spiteful mean girls—and boys. I’ve never met a person with a destructive mindset who wouldn’t hesitate to use a gun.
It makes him even more dangerous.
I lift my chin. “But wouldn’t you eventually be killed by a villain just like yourself?”
“Probably. Until then, I’ll do what I do best.”
“Which is?”
“Nothing you should worry about. Yet. Now, back to you, prima ballerina, when did you come to the States?”
I empty half the glass, needing more loosening of my nerves. “When I was five.”
“With whom?”
“My grandmother raised me.”
“The American one, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“Is she still alive?”
“She passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. It’s more like those apathetic condolences people offer.
“If you were sorry, you’d stop asking me these questions.”
“Any other family members?” he continues as if I said nothing.
“None.”
“Friends?”
“No.” I finish the wine, refusing to tell him about Luca. That’s my secret from the world.
He slides his glass across the table, and I’m once again drawn to the masculine fingers and how they casually wrap around it, how his nonchalance is as breathtaking as his actions. “I understand now.”
I pour more wine to stop myself from ogling him. “Understand what?”
“The loneliness in your eyes. You managed to transform it and translate it with your body language on the stage. That is very creative.”
“I’m not lonely.” My voice lowers at the end, betraying my defensiveness.
“If you say so.”
“I’m not. I have…I have three million followers on Instagram.”
“Wow. Impressive.”
“Stop mocking me.”
“Wasn’t that the reaction you were hoping for? Validation by showcasing your fake followers?”
“They’re not fake. They’re real people.”
“What do they know about you aside from your pre-performance and workout selfies?”
“Have you been stalking me?”
“Your Instagram is public. There was no stalking involved. But yes, Lia, I’ve been through it, and I think it’s rather…dull.”
My blood boils, bubbling to the surface, but I mutter, “I don’t care what you think.”
“But you care about what others think. That’s why you keep that page. Be it because of the need for some sort of twisted validation or for attention. Though I don’t think you’re consciously pursuing the latter.”
How does this man read so much into details? How does he go to depths even I haven’t thought about? Consciously, at least.
“Are you trying to prove how much you have a hold on me? Is that it?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything. As I said, I’m just getting to know you, Lia.”
“And then what? After you get to know me, what are you planning to do with me?”
“What makes you believe I plan to do something?
“I’m not an idiot. I know this is only a phase before you move on to the next step.”
He pauses with his glass of wine halfway to his lips. “What do you think I’ll do?”
“Fuck me?”
“Eventually.”
The single word, though calmly spoken, crashes my world and splinters it into a million bloody pieces. My stomach sinks with a mixture of feelings. There’s the sharp tang of disappointment, but that’s not all. Malevolent butterflies claw at my skin with a dark sense of enthrallment.
All the nightmares I had after that night start to scroll through my mind’s eye. The shadowy, blurry images morph into two figures on a bed as one of them rams into the other.
I never wanted to identify them, but now, one of them is as clear as the face in front of me.
Him.
His strong body is pounding what seems to be both pleasure and pain into the person lying beneath him.
One of them is still faceless, and I desperately want it to be me.
“Even if I say no?” I murmur.
“If I were a rapist, I would’ve broken into your apartment in the middle of the night and taken what I wanted. I would not have asked you to dinner.”
“Am I supposed to appreciate the gesture?” There’s a slight slur at the end of my speech. This is probably my third glass of wine.
Shit.
In my attempt to loosen my nerves, I went ahead and got drunk in the company of a monster who wouldn’t hesitate to use it against me.
This is the absolute worst. I not only have a low alcohol tolerance, but I also lose my inhibitions in all senses possible even when slightly intoxicated.
Adrian raises his glass to his mouth, barely sipping. He hasn’t poured himself anything aside from his first. “It’s not obligatory, no.”
“I…I want to go home.” I stand on unsteady feet, then fall back on the seat. I’m still catching my breath when a large presence appears by my side.
He clutches my arm and gently pulls the glass of wine from my fingers. “I believe you’ve had enough to drink for one night.”
“I want to leave.”
“Then let’s leave.” He places a few bills on the table and wraps a strong arm around my waist as he leads me out of the restaurant.
I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or everything that’s transpired tonight, but I feel like I’m levitating. My nostrils fill with his masculine scent and his firm hold on me only heightens it.
But somewhere at the back of my mind, I still recognize that he’s dangerous. That he’s a monster hidden under a composed façade and gentlemen’s clothes.
I wiggle away from him. “I can walk on my own.”
He releases me, and before I can be relieved, I stumble. Adrian holds me by the elbow and pulls me to him so that my front is flat against his hard chest.
I’m so small compared to him, barely reaching his broad shoulders. I’m thin and tiny in contrast to his large physique and monstrous aura. As if the asshole could use another thing to intimidate me with—aside from my life.
We’re standing at what I assume is the back entrance of the restaurant, because it’s not the same one we used when coming in. The place is empty except for a few cars in the parking lot.
Only a single streetlight is in view. Even in the semi-darkness, Adrian’s eyes are intense but have that sheen of utter calmness. I wonder what it’d take to disturb that look.
To disturb him.
“Why did you wait a week to find me?” I murmur.
“I was busy.”
“Busy gathering information about me?”
“Probably. Why? Have you been thinking about me, Lenochka?” His voice drops with the last word.
I don’t tell him he’s the only one I’ve been thinking about, in the most terrifying way possible, and that when I saw him again in the audience, something inside me unlocked. That I think I had my best performance yet, just because I knew he was there.
Instead, I say, “Everyone thinks about their Grim Reaper.”
He strokes a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is gentle, but the undertone is far from it. If anything, it’s charged, dark, stifling.
“Then don’t make me into yours.”
“How— Mmmm.” My question is interrupted when he crashes his lips to mine.
His hand holds my face in place as his tongue forces its way inside my mouth. I place my palms on his chest, intent on pushing him, on slapping him, but instead, my fingers curl into his coat as a helpless sound escapes my throat. His tongue invades my mouth, conquering it, then swirls against mine with a feral need.
The man kisses as confidently as he walks and talks, but there’s none of his calm behind it. Nothing to hold his stoic face in place. He gives as hard as he takes, tilting my head back so he can deepen the full invasion.
I’m no virgin. But this kiss alone is more intense than any sex I’ve ever had.
More claiming, too.
When he pulls back, a desperate moan echoes in the air.
Mine.
Staring into his shadowed eyes in the dark, I’m fully aware that things have shifted between us after that kiss.
I just signed away something else. No idea what, but it’s now in his hands and there’s no way I’ll be able to get it back.
Just like my fate and my death.
