A Date with the Devil
Chapter 50
A Date with the Devil
Isabella
A cold breeze washes over my face, causing me to groan. I rub the sleep out of my eyes only to find out I’m still in his bed. The sheets are warm and the window next to me is slightly open, causing me to sink deeper into the blankets. The spot next to me is empty, he’s gone. However, his cologne remains on the sheets.
I stretch out and yawn, looking over to the nightstand I see the time; 2 p.m. I slightly widen my eyes, have I slept that long? I didn’t even notice him leaving.
Today it is shit weather, rain, and dark clouds. Not feeling the vibes of exploring my surroundings today, so it’s not the worst thing ever that I have woken up this late.
I sit up on the bed and wrap the black sheets around me as I look around, it feels illegal to be in here alone. I reach out for my phone and immediately my heart pulses, it’s a text message from Aslanov.
I will pick you up at 7 p.m. tonight. A dress and fitting heels are in your closet, wear them.
My heart races as my fingers type a response.
Okay, see you at 7.
How does he know my size? That’s the first question that pops up in my head as I make my way over to my closet. And what are we going to do?
Once before the closet, I open it, and my eyes widen at the sight in front of me. There is a red long dress, silky and with an open back. I run the material through my fingers, it feels luxurious. Besides the dress, a pair of black heels are placed in a box. I pick them up and I gasp when I see the bottom, they are red. They’re fucking Louboutin’s. One of the most expensive brands to get heels from—I’ve only ever imagined owning a pair. The realization leaves me breathless and wondering how he’s able to afford that. Black money. This is far beyond my world.
After discovering the items, I try to distract myself for the rest of the day until 6 p.m. That’s when I started to get ready. My nerves have refused to settle all day, and I don’t need any blush, I’ve been red from stress.
As evening approaches, I stand before the mirror in my room, my hands trembling slightly as I apply makeup with meticulous care. The rich hues accentuate my features, adding a touch of allure to my reflection. Red lipstick to finish it off. With deft fingers, I curl my hair into cascading waves, the strands framing my face like a halo of silk. As I gaze at my reflection, a sense of transformation washes over me. The red dress hugs my curves in all the right places, its vibrant color igniting a fire within me. The Louboutin heels elevate my stature, imbuing my steps with newfound confidence and grace. I feel tall. I blurt out a laugh, this can’t be real. I feel beautiful. I want him to find me just the same. And just when I’m drifting off in thoughts, I hear the gates open.
As I make my way down the hallway, my heart flutters nervously in my chest. The sound of his car pulling up outside echoes through the foyer, signaling his arrival. With each step I take, the anticipation builds, my pulse quickening with every beat.
As I reach the bottom of the staircase, I see him waiting by the door, his presence commanding the room. He stands tall and imposing, dressed impeccably in his usual all-black attire. His dark suit clings to his frame, accentuating the powerful lines of his physique. His hair is slicked back, and his sharp features are framed by an array of jewelry that glimmers in the soft light. He’s so fucking evilly handsome.
His gaze locks onto me, intense and penetrating, as I approach. I feel a shiver run down my spine under the weight of his scrutiny. He looks like the devil himself, yet there’s an undeniable magnetism to his presence that draws me in despite my nerves.
As I stand almost before him, I realize that the height difference is not as pronounced with the heels on. I’m still a head shorter, but I no longer feel quite so small in his presence. Yet, despite this newfound confidence, a shy uncertainty lingers in my demeanor as my gaze meets his gaze.
I feel my cheeks flutter and darken with blood. So does the rash that’s spreading onto my neck. “You look beautiful, Miss Brown.” And there it is, the final comment to spread the entire rash over my body burning me from the inside. A shy smile covers my lips while I mumble a thank you.
Aslanov
She’s so beautiful, I can hardly believe it. Her very being is bright and bold, better than I am. Her soul shines and her freckles stand out even more with the red flush crossing her cheeks. Red hair, red dress, and red lipstick. I want to pull, tear, and smear it. Her hair is my weakness; red, silly, and long enough for me to wrap around my fist twice.
I move closer to her, pulling a coat over her shoulders. And when I move in closer to inhale her addictive scent, I whisper next to her flushed ear; “Such a good girl obeying my request, and good girls will be rewarded.”
She shivers as the rash consumes her ears. She closes her eyes at the sound of my voice. I can see the lump in her throat being swallowed down. She scrunches her nose, and I’ve tended to see that a couple of times whenever she’s nervous. She’s shy. Intimidated easily. Wanting to be a good girl, praised and used. But behind the shy demeanor, there is a brat hiding. A woman with fire igniting her bones. A woman to be fucked into submission. She gets off on fear. Fear ignites her arousal. And she fears me an awful amount. I even killed her daddy, perhaps she needs a new one.
Isabella
I shiver at his words. A whimper escapes my lips. Being alone with him hurts my insides more in ways I could imagine. I clench my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat that’s building. He affects me in ways I’ve never felt before. A need, a desire. A desire for fear.
He pushes my back towards the door, walking down the stairs outside. I spot his car. I make my way over to it, my heels clicking on the ground. He’s behind me, but just as I go to open the passenger seat door, he moves in front of me, opening it.
I get inside and he slams it shut. Who thought a couple of months before this moment that I would be sitting here like this instead of in handcuffs? From captive to date? I think I’ve developed Stockholm syndrome, God help me.
As the car pulls away from the estate, tension hangs heavy in the air, palpable between us. The silence stretches between me and him, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional shifting in the leather seat.
Beside me, Aslanov remains stoic, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The lines of his jaw are tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel with controlled intensity. He’s preoccupied with thoughts of his own.
After several minutes of silence, I finally gathered the courage to speak.
“Where are we headed?” I ask, my voice tentative. Aslanov’s lips curve into a faint smirk, but he doesn’t meet my gaze.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he replies cryptically, his tone unreadable. I’m not sure if that is supposed to excite me or give me anxiety. After a drive of 15 minutes, we arrive in the pulsing heart of the city.
As the car pulls up to a grand building in the heart of Moscow, my eyes widen in awe at the sight before me. The exterior of the restaurant exudes elegance and prestige, its name emblazoned in golden letters above the entrance.
“Welcome to Le Magnifique,” Aslanov announces with a smile, gesturing towards the imposing building. My breath catches in my throat as I realize the significance of our destination. Le Magnifique is one of the most renowned restaurants in Moscow, frequented by the city’s elite and coveted for its exquisite cuisine and impeccable service. He parks the car and exits, then walks over to my side and opens my door. His hand reaches out to help me out of the car, an electric shock magnified as our hands lock.
We step into the opulent interior of Le Magnifique, where the air is alive with the murmur of conversation and the clink of fine china. My eyes widen in amazement as we are greeted by the staff, who welcome Aslanov with deference and respect. They greet him with a nod and a lowered gaze. As we make our way to the table, I can’t help but feel a sense of intimidation at the power and influence that he commands. The restaurant is abuzz with activity, patrons vying for his attention and eager to bask in the glow of his presence. They all seem to welcome him. Suddenly it hits me.
“You own this restaurant?” I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief.
“It’s one of my ventures,” he replies, his tone understated yet filled with pride.
When we reach the table he grabs a hold of my chair, we have a window table. A view over the city lights of Moscow. “Allow me,” he murmurs, his voice warm and inviting.
Gratefully, I accept his assistance, my heart fluttering at the gentle touch of his voice as he pulls out my chair. I settle into my seat, feeling a rush of warmth at the chivalrous gesture. A devil dressed and behaved like an angel tonight.
The waiter approaches with the menu, but before I have a chance to peruse it, Aslanov takes charge.
“Allow me to order for us,” he looks at me, his voice confident and authoritative. My pulse quickens at his commanding tone, a thrill coursing through my veins. I nod, my eyes locked on his with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. I’m sure he knows what the best food is here. Without hesitation, Aslanov turns to the waiter and rattles off a series of orders in Russian, his voice firm and unwavering. When the waiter nods and is dismissed by Aslanov his eyes come back to me and I feel completely intrigued, intimidated, and shy.
Aslanov reaches into his pocket and holds out his hand.
“Give me your phone.”
I furrow my eyebrows as I reach into my bag to give him my phone. As I watch him deftly insert what seems to be my old chip card, I can’t help but wonder what he’s up to. A few moments later, my phone buzzes to life, and my heart skips a beat as I see a flood of messages appear on the screen. My mother, Ada, and Nadia—all messages of concern.
“I figured you’d be well-behaved by now to respond to these without revealing unwanted information.”
I can only nod at his statement. He hands the phone back to me. I stare at it. Honestly, I didn’t think my mother would reach out, but she has, multiple times. However, with his gaze on mine, I remind myself now is not the time. If they had to wait for weeks, another night won’t hurt. I put the phone in my bag again.
Just then the waiter comes back with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. Thank God, I fucking need a drink. He elegantly fills the glasses and dismisses himself this time. He doesn’t even raise his gaze towards Aslanov. I raise my glass, the crimson liquid swirling within, and take a sip, savoring the rich, velvety taste.
With a steadying breath, I turn my attention back to Aslanov, my curiosity piqued by the waiter’s peculiar behavior. I gesture subtly towards the departing waiter and raise an eyebrow in question.
“Did you notice that?” I ask, my voice low and measured. “The waiter didn’t even acknowledge you.” Aslanov’s lips curve into a faint smile, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“It’s not unusual,” he replies casually, his tone understated yet filled with a hint of intrigue. “Some people prefer to keep their distance.”
I furrow my brow in confusion, my curiosity growing with each passing moment. “But why?” I press, my voice tinged with curiosity. “You’re the owner of this restaurant, aren’t you?” Aslanov’s smile widens slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I am,” he confirms, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery. “But that doesn’t mean everyone is comfortable in my presence.”
I snort out a tiny laugh, “Really? I wonder why.” Sarcasm drips from my comment. I take another sip of the wine, the bold flavor lingering on my tongue.
The food arrives and it is delicious, never tasted anything better, and for once I’m having fun. I feel at ease, how weird that might be. We had a normal conversation.
“What’s your type?” I suddenly blurt out. He raises a single eyebrow before placing the fork on the side of his plate.
“Red hair, brown eyes, stubborn, and talks way too much.” I choke on my food. “How tall are you again?” he asks as he brings the wine glass to his lips with a smirk.
“5’6,” I reply while staring at him.
“5’6,” he repeats.
I snort out a laugh and roll my eyes as he takes in the sight of me.
I think I’m five glasses of wine in and that might also have something to do with it. My cheeks are stained red and I’m hot. I pull my hair up in a messy bun and devour my last bite. Aslanov is staring me down; he has a grin on his face that you give little children when they tell you they just turned five. I blush.
“Can I have more wine?” I yell at this point. Aslanov raises his eyebrow when the waiter comes up to our table and wants to fill my glass, he raises his hand and tells him something in Russian. After that he leaves, and my glass stays empty.
My eyes shoot to his. “Really?” I groan, “I’m old enough to decide for myself, boss.”
He’s not smiling anymore now. I get up and grab my glass, he pulls me by my arm. “Sit your ass down.”
I shake my head, bravery and bratty on my tongue.
“No,” I state while pulling away, but his grip is like iron.
“You realize you’re still talking to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the country?” His voice is laced with danger, unlike the past hours of our dinner. Aslanov’s gaze is fixed on me with a steely intensity, his eyes boring into mine with a silent warning. Despite the playful banter that has characterized our evening thus far, there’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere, a tangible tension that sends a chill down my spine. I try to maintain a facade of nonchalance, but the weight of his gaze is oppressive, and suffocating. A nervous energy crackles in the air, thick with unspoken words and simmering resentment.
Feeling emboldened by the wine coursing through my veins, I give him a bratty sneer, and a defiant tilt to my chin as I meet his gaze head-on. Aslanov rises from his seat and now I have to look up again to meet his gaze. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can utter a word, Aslanov’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
“Isabella,” he warns, his tone low and dangerous. The use of my full name sends a shiver down my spine, a stark reminder of his authority over me. I turn my gaze away, wanting to part from his radiant dominance. His fingers grip my chin and turn my attention back towards him, it’s an iron grip, not a gentle one. He tilts my chin so high I whimper as my neck is arched back.
“Sit back down.” Thus, I take a seat again.
But the alcohol burns under my skin, causing my tongue to split into a snake. I cross my legs, an act of casual defiance, my posture relaxed yet alert. Aslanov’s gaze upon me is unyielding, a silent assertion of dominance that seems to fill the space between us with electric tension.
“You really should learn when to keep quiet,” Aslanov advises, his tone low but clear, every word a calculated drop of intimidation. I tilt my head slightly, my eyes sparkling with a mixture of defiance and mischief.
“And what if I told you I’m not afraid of... you?” I counter, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves I feel. This is a game and I’m not willing to swerve first. Never back down, never what?
Aslanov’s lips curve into a semblance of a smile, but there’s no warmth in it—only a cold acknowledgment of my words. “Not afraid,” he muses, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You have no idea what you’re inviting.” He pauses. “But it could be arranged if you’re so eager to learn.” My gaze lands on Aslanov’s wine glass, it’s half full. And before I know it, I reach out to it, throwing it down my throat. Guess I still got my wine, after all, I smirk. But that doesn’t last long.
His eyes narrow, a dangerous gleam surfacing as he processes my action. Then, almost unexpectedly, a deep, resonating laugh escapes him, filling the room with its sinister tone. It’s not a sound of amusement but rather one of dark amusement.
“You truly have no idea what you’ve just invited upon yourself, do you?” he says, his voice laced with a menacing calmness that belies the laughter that had just broken free. His gaze hardens, locking onto mine with an intensity that seems to probe my very soul.
“The audacity...” Aslanov continues, slowly standing up, his height and presence suddenly more imposing than ever. “You think you can play with such... childish provocations?” I swallow. I press my tights together as he approaches, “Stand up and get in the car Isabella.”
So I stand up, follow him, and get in the car. I tell myself it is because I am becoming tired, cold, or anything else. I know that is a lie. And I know he will punish me dearly for it.
26 days.
Losing sight of my terms.