Chapter 10
2693words
THE NEXT NIGHT
Water runs in fast circles around my feet. Some of it gets in my eyes, blurring my vision. It doesn't stop me from watching the drain. It's easy to imagine myself washing away more than just sweat or dirt in this pristine place. The truth is, even if the water runs clear, my sins aren't gone. Nothing can wipe them from my soul.
She hates me, but she agreed to dinner. I remember Camila's face this morning when I came to her door, and how she glared at me through the crack. The thought draws a dark laugh from my throat. She is wild. I have a feeling if I'd stepped into her room, she would have tried to attack me. There are no weapons in there; I made sure of that. But still … I wouldn't put it past her to have found something suitable outside of her bedroom, tucking it away until I came to see her.
Camila has claws; that doesn't make her foolish enough to use them. Bracing my palms on the pure white tiles of my shower, I arch my face upward into the hot spray. How fun it would have been if she had tried though. I could have fought the weapon from her grip … yanked her close … pinned her to the bed.
She's bait, nothing more. I have to keep my focus on my goal. Nothing else matters. Shutting off the water, I grab a fluffy black towel from a hook, drying myself as I step onto the plush rug. In the fogged-up mirror, I see my thick muscles, most of them marred by scars, and the rest saturated in ink.
The tattoos cloak me from my fingers to my elbows. The knives look real enough that when touching them, you'd expect them to cut you. On my shoulders and knees are the eight pointed stars of a pakhan. They are what separates me from the rest of the Bratva: I kneel to no one. Bending sideways, I study my back in the mirror. The spider facing upward would warn away anyone who grasped the meaning. But it's the other art that tells the story.
For a moment I run my left hand across my spine, tracing the intricate lines that create the massive back piece. The Orthodox Church tattoo took multiple hours to complete, but the things I did to earn it took years.
My reflection watches me grimly. Everything you're doing is necessary. This is how it has to be. There was never any other path to take. Consoling myself with these facts doesn't remove the weight of them. Tossing the damp towel into the hamper, I stand naked except for one thing. I never remove my prayer beads, not even for a second.
Stepping into my attached master bedroom, I see the outfit laid out on my bed. I chuckle at the sight of it—Layla can't resist meddling. Why else would she iron my best three-piece suit? The fabric is dark enough that it sucks in all light from the lamps like a black hole. The only color is the gold tie coiled on top like a cobra. I dress with precision, until all that's left is to slide on my polished shoes.
I wonder what Camila will wear. It's a pointless thought. Our meal is about settling her nerves and convincing her she must rely on me. It's the only way to prime her for the next part of my plan. Still, my mind conjures up memories of how she looked last night when we met for drinks. Her sweater-dress clung to her curves, the front straining over her chest with every annoyed breath she took. I've never met someone who can be so effortlessly sexy when they're pissed off at me.
Checking the time, I stroll into the hallway, moving through my mansion with casual speed. It's a huge building, but it doesn't feel empty. When I listen closely, the tell-tale footsteps of my multiple staff are easy to discern. Some, like the cleaners, try to remain unobtrusive as they go about their work. My guards are a mix of in plain sight and hidden. The balance is good; if you see one armed man, you're less likely to notice the three others in the shadows.
And she's here too.
Glancing down the hallway toward her room as I pass, I wonder if Camila has tried to break out yet. I could ask and learn the answer—I've got eyes on her at all times—but I decide to save that question. The explanation will be more interesting if it comes from her perfectly kissable lips.
I shake my head at the thought. Where the hell did that come from?
'Sir," a young woman says when I round the corner toward the stairs. She has long blonde hair wound in elegant twin braids down the front of her shoulders. Her eyes remain at her feet demurely.
'What is it?" I know the name of everyone working for me. I make it a point to.
'The chef said to let you know they're ready to set the dining room as soon as you give the word."
Nodding, I walk around her. 'Tell him to stick with the plan. I'll be sitting down with my guest at six on the dot." That gives Camila some wiggle room if she's dragging her feet. I have faith Layla will check on her without my asking if she isn't out of her room in the next ten minutes.
Turning the corner into the spacious dining room with its mahogany walls and waxed floors, I freeze. The heavy wooden table has been arranged with a gold and blue runner, as well as copper place settings. There are only two chairs, and one of them is filled.
'Dobriy vecher, Asher," Camila says, flashing me a tight smile.
Her Russian is almost flawless, apart from the slightest hint of an American accent. And the way it rolls off her tongue catches me off guard.
What is she doing here already? My eyes dart around, a habit I can't control—Once my nerves go off, I need to make sure nothing else will surprise me. Enemies can be anywhere when you're vulnerable.
Camila is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table, hands clasped beneath her chin. Her eyes glint with humor. She knows she surprised me and is reveling in it. Gathering myself, I take a second to look at her. None of my guesses earlier on how she'd dress were right. Camila has chosen a silky green asymmetrical gown that exposes her smooth shoulders while hinting at the dip of her waist. Her long hair is wound into a messy bun, with thin strands framing her face. It creates a casually sexy look, as if she just rolled out of bed and ended up here.
'That dress wasn't in your closet," I note. I know everything that was in her room.
She shrugs. 'When you told me we were having dinner, I asked Layla if she could help me out. She brought me this."
Layla went shopping for her without telling me? I'll be chatting with her about that later. 'It suits you," I say.
'I don't see how." She narrows her eyes. 'Green isn't the color prisoners normally wear. I should have chosen orange, I think."
'You're my guest." I emphasize the last word before sitting across from her.
'I know you want me to believe that. I don't know why. I wouldn't think you'd care if I felt welcomed or trapped. It's all the same in the end."
'You're wrong. I do care."
She recoils dubiously. The door on the other side of the room opens; in marches an array of servers, each carrying glasses or carafes of wine. Baskets of bread, silver trays of freshly churned butter, discs of oil and balsamic, follow suit. Finally, the main meal makes up the tail. My chef, Danil Yorvich, stands proudly with a plate in each hand. He's a rotund man with reddish hair gelled back like a helmet. It creates a contrast with the rich emerald green apron stretching over his muscular trapezoids. He jokes that he never goes to the gym because baking bread is hard work already.
'Dinner is served," he states, carefully placing the food in front of Camila, then me.
The strong aroma of marinated flank steak, creamy garlic potatoes, and sauteed spinach makes my stomach clench. I'm starving, but I didn't notice until now. I've been distracted by … other things all day. 'Thank you, Chef," I say.
He beams, then nods at Camila. She nods back, watching him and the others leave the room. When we're alone, she doesn't touch her food. She focuses on me intently, jumping back into our conversation.
'Why do you care how I feel? Worried I'll get the wrong impression and think you're a bad guy? Spoiler alert: I already think that, Asher."
'That's you being stubborn and choosing not to hear what I have to say."
'Fine. I'm listening."
Lifting my glass, I breathe in the tang of the wine before taking a sip. 'Drink first."
'I'm not thirsty."
'Are you worried I poisoned it?"
Camila slides her glass toward me pointedly. Grinning at her honesty, I take her glass, tossing back a mouthful. She frowns slightly, then drinks a bit of the wine.
'Satisfied?" she asks.
Laughing at her antics, I break off a piece of bread. Dipping it in the oil, I watch the yellow liquid soak into the crust as I talk. 'As I warned you last night, Yannick is interested in you. Not just you, but your mother as well."
'Speaking of that. While you've got me stuck here under your thumb, what are you doing to protect her like you promised?"
'I have my men watching her. No one can touch her, trust me."
'I don't believe a single word that comes out of your mouth."
Popping the bread past my lips, I chew while chuckling. 'You'll come around eventually."
'That's what your maid said."
'Maid?"
'Layla."
My head sways from side to side disapprovingly. 'She's much more than that."
'Fine." Camila crosses her arms tightly over her chest. The effect does wonders for distracting me. 'Head of the maids."
'Layla deserves your respect."
'What's so great about her?"
I smile fondly at the question. The answer is too complex, but I try. 'She's always been by my side. I don't have many people in this world that I know I can rely on no matter what happens. Layla is one of them."
Camila hunches forward in my direction. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with invested curiosity. The bitterness that surrounded her earlier has vanished. 'She must have done some amazing stuff to earn your trust."
My smile grows until it hurts my face. 'True. In fact, she …" I snap my mouth shut. Camila hasn't budged. It's as if whatever I'm saying is the most fascinating thing she's ever heard. Cold fingers curl deep in my guts. 'You're good."
'Hm?" She flutters her lashes.
'You're trying to get information out of me." Stroking my chin, I chuckle cynically. 'I almost didn't notice."
'I'm not sure what you mean."
'I can smell a liar, Camila."
All the warmth radiating off her dies. Her eyebrows lower, and her tone follows. 'Are you proud of that? Being able to tell when someone is lying? Is that a skill you learned in the years you've spent in the company of murderers and worse?"
'Is it so impossible for you to believe my intentions for you are good?"
'Please. You want me to trust you, but you don't trust me."
'You've given me no reason to." The corner of my mouth twitches. 'You'd turn on me in an instant if you thought you could get away with it, Camila. Don't pretend that we're so different from each other."
'I'm nothing like you!" Her fist slams down next to her plate, making the fork and knife bounce. 'I don't keep secrets or make plans about hurting people."
'No? This morning, when I came to your room, I saw it in your eyes. You hate me. You were trying to think of a way to get out of here. To attack me and run. To kill me if you could. Am I wrong?"
She braces herself, fingers crushing the edge of the table. The skin around her fingernails is white as bone.
'There," I whisper. 'I see it again. There is malice in your eyes. You want to hurt me. You have since the day we met. Fine." Leaning back, I stretch out my arms like I'm welcoming her for a hug. 'Here's your chance. I'm wide open. Come at me, Camila."
My bravado keeps my muscles loose. I shift my shoulders against my chair like I'm scratching my back. I've never had my senses tuned down to such a vulnerable level. Why wouldn't I be cocky? I'm positive that, for as much as this woman might hiss like a feral animal, her bark is worse than her bite.
I've watched Camila for a long time. She doesn't have a violent bone in her body.
Curling her fingers around her steak knife, she launches across the table at me. Her pupils are dilated, teeth bared. The green of her dress glints gold in the lighting. Even when she's trying to slash my throat … she's elegant.
I grunt from the effort of capturing her wrists. She's determined to stab me, every fine line in her face becoming a deep groove pulled deeper by rage. Acting on instinct I yank her across the table the rest of the way; she kicks the bread basket to the floor, struggling to get loose. She doesn't have a chance.
She got closer to cutting me than she had any right to. I underestimated her.
Panting heavily, I grip her against my body. We're sandwiched tight, her heartbeat rattling against mine. Still, she continues her struggle, working to get the knife into my flesh. I give her wrist a sharp squeeze and she cries out. The knife clatters loudly at our feet. I don't look; I'm focused on her face, watching her frustration as it continues to boil over.
'And what, I wonder," I whisper in amazement, 'do you think will happen to you if my guards find me dead and you are holding the knife?"
'I don't know and I don't care!"
Shoving myself to my feet, I knock my chair over. Camila spins in my hands until I have her pinned against the table. She wriggles wildly, her hips slamming into my pelvis. If she meant it to hurt, she failed. All it does is rile me up further.
Winding my fist into her hair, I pull until the strands come loose from her bun. She yelps, but my other hand on her throat quiets her. I lean down and whisper in her ear, savoring the feeling of her lithe body pressed so closely against mine.
'It's been a long time since I allowed anyone to get that close to killing me, ptichka."
Camila shudders, turning her head to glare at me from one eye. 'It won't be the last time I try."
Tension ripples along my spine. I'm not afraid of her, not the way I'd fear an assassin. Camila isn't a physical threat. It's what she's doing to my mind that worries me. All of my muscles, my weapons, are useless against an emotional attack. Somehow, instead of me riling her up, she's doing it to me.
And she's doing a much better job at it. My hand fists in her hair, my breath quickens, and my cock starts to swell, straining painfully against my pants as it demands to be let loose. Camila continues to glare at me, her hateful stare daring me to do something and prove that I am every bit the monster she thinks I am.
Letting go of her, I take a step back. ' Dinner is over."
