4. A Feast for Hunger Rafael
E nvy is suffocating. I can taste it in the air, thick and bitter, like ash on the tongue. It clings to Milos Jovanovich, pouring off him in waves. He’s staring at me like I’m something he can’t quite figure out, eyes dragging from my brown leather shoes to the slick of gel in my hair. Pathetic. The man who once loomed large when I was younger, now looks like a crushed bug.
I lean back, stretching out in the chair, legs wide. I don’t say a word, don’t need to. I’m the man in this room, not him. Sure, this is his mansion, and he’s got at least a hundred men scattered around. But we both know who holds the power here. It’s not him. It’s never been him. I catch the flicker in his eyes—resentment, fear, and god knows what else.
It’s almost too easy.
Milos clears his throat, forcing a smile that barely stretches across his face. “I owe you, Rafael. You saved my daughter’s life.” The words come out stiff, like they’re too heavy for him to swallow. His hand twitches near his glass, the fingers tightening. He doesn’t like saying it.
I nod, keeping my eyes locked on his. “You do,” I say casually, but there’s an edge to my voice that I know he catches. I could let him off easy, make it sound like I didn’t do anything, but where’s the fun in that? His discomfort is almost amusing.
He shifts in his chair, gripping the armrest a little too hard. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I… I am glad this got us closer… Our deals will definitely be fruitful.”
I nod, taking a slow sip of my drink, not breaking eye contact.
“She sure is… special.” I say absently, but I let the words hang there, just long enough to make him second-guess what I mean. I want to rile him up, and have him see how he can’t do shit about it. His jaw tightens. He’s not stupid. The way I said it, the way I looked at him—he’s wondering now. Wondering what I mean by ‘special.’
There’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes, jealousy, maybe. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s always been touchy when she gets brought up, and I don’t like it. My time with her is over, it was child play, it didn’t mean anything, but I hate that he thinks he has some type of ownership over her. I lean forward a little, just enough to keep him off balance, watching him like he’s prey and I’m not in the mood to chase.
The conversation between Milos and I fizzles out as the sound of heels clicking on stairs draws both our attention. I turn my head slowly, my eyes locking on her the moment she steps into view. Mila. She’s… stunning.
That dress—black, slinky, hugging her curves in all the right places. It shows just enough skin to keep you wanting more. The gold chains across her chest practically beg for attention, framing her breasts in a way that makes me wonder if they’d fit perfectly in my hands.
She’s not the girl I used to chase around the gardens anymore. She’s a woman I’m going to dismantle, piece by piece. I’ll tear her apart and put her back together again.
“Rafael,” she says, her voice soft but clear.
“Mila.” I stand, moving towards her with deliberate ease, like I’ve got all the time in the world. My hand finds her forearm, and I press a kiss just below her wrist, slow and lingering. Not romantic, not sweet, but… something else. I see the way her breath catches, the way her lips part ever so slightly.
Her sister shifts next to her, and I glance her way briefly. “Layla,” I say, nodding once before turning back to Mila. Layla smiles awkwardly, a quick, “Hi,” slipping from her lips.
We sit around the table, and the help brings out tray after tray of food. The smell is rich and it fills the room. But no matter how much they bring, I’m hungry for something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on, something gnawing at the back of my mind.
“I had the chef prepare stroganoff for you. I remember it was your favorite when you were younger.” Milos says, trying to play nice.
“ Spasibo ,” I thank him in Russian.
I let my gaze shift to Mila as she slices into her steak. The way she lifts the fork to her lips, the way her mouth closes around the meat…it stirs something in me. I can’t help but notice how her tongue grazes her lips after, savoring the flavor, how her throat moves when she swallows.
The way she eats, it’s sensual, whether she realizes it or not. Every time she lifts the fork, my mind drifts somewhere else. I wonder what else she’s learned to savor, what else she could take in like that.
Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision. She’s not mine. She never was, and I don’t want her to be. But the idea of someone else tasting what I see in front of me, savoring her the way I imagine—it aggravates me. A burn stirs in my gut, tight and coiled, and I fight to push it away. She’s not mine to claim.
Milos pushes his chair back slightly, urging me, “Eat, Rafael. You’re our guest.”
I glance at him, nodding once before picking up my fork. I chew, but the food feels tasteless. My hunger is growing, but not for anything on this table.
Milos keeps talking, but his voice fades into the background. The only thing I’m focused on is her.
Mila looks up from her plate. “Thank you for protecting me,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. I nod, nothing more.
Before the silence can stretch, Layla jumps in, her energy filling the space like too much sunshine in a dark room. I much prefer cloudy days.
“So, Rafael,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “how was the trip here? I hope the roads weren’t too bad?”
I finally notice how she has grown as well, “It was Fine.”
“It’s been raining so much lately! I thought for sure you’d be stuck in it.” Layla continues.
“Yeah.”
“Do you like the mansion? I feel like it’s changed so much since we were kids.”
I shrug, not really a fan of small talk. “It’s alright.”
She chuckles, her laughter bright. “You’re a man of few words, huh?”
“Guess so.”
Despite my clipped replies, Layla continues, seemingly unfazed. “Well, we’re glad you’re here! We should all catch up sometime.”
Mila knocks her glass over, cutting through the conversation. The sound startles the room, but it’s empty, and she quickly sets it upright. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, her voice shaky as she clears her throat. A few loose strands of hair fall over her face, and she pushes them back, her cheeks flushing.
Then her eyes find mine, and she speaks almost in a whisper, as if finally getting the courage to, “Do you remember the fountain?”
I want to tell her no. Lie. Pretend that it didn’t mean anything, that I haven’t thought about it since. But the way she’s looking at me—there’s so much damn hope in her eyes, like it’d shatter her if I denied it. So instead, I just hum, unable to voice the truth: I never forgot her or that damn fountain.
“If you’re finished with your food, we can go sit by it for a little, you know, like old times?”
Before I can respond, Milos slams his hand on the table, rattling the dishes. “Mila, Rafael has no time for these silly ideas of yours.”
“It’s not silly, Father,” she hisses. Milos’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. The first time your little princess defies you, Milos? Get ready for a lot more firsts.
“Sure, why not?” I interject as I watch Milos’s fist clench on the table. Mila’s eyes dart to her father again, softening her tone. “I’m sorry, Father. It’ll just be a little while, I promise.” She goes to him, kissing his forehead before grabbing my arm and leading me out the door.
“Wait up for me!” Layla chimes in, stuffing her face with steamed vegetables as she stands.
“Your plate is still full! Eat up, we won’t be long,” Mila rushes to say, her hand gripping my arm as she tries—unsuccessfully—to drag me along. I smirk at her effort, my feet firmly planted, but enjoying the sight of her trying.
Mila looks up at me with those wide, puppy eyes, soft, innocent, the kind that could probably get her anything she wanted. I raise an eyebrow, and only then do I let my feet move, giving her the illusion she’s actually dragging me along, even though we both know she couldn’t budge me if I didn’t let her.
Her hand rests on my forearm. It sends a jolt through me, something electric spreading from where her fingers grip to my shoulder, down to my fingertips. I flex my hand, trying to shake the feeling, but it’s not going anywhere.
We sit on the bench in front of the fountain, and it’s like stepping into a time capsule. Memories flood in, the two of us as kids, running around this fucking thing until we were out of breath. For a second, nostalgia grips me, and I hate it. I glance at her, catching the small smile on her face as she watches me take it all in.
“This,” she says softly, “is my absolute favorite place in the whole world.”
Something shifts in my chest, the cold stone I like to keep there tightening just a little. “Really? And why’s that?” I say, my tone purposely casual. “My favorite place could be a lot of other places—Moscow, Paris…”
Her face falls, just like I wanted.
“No,” she says quietly, but firmly. “I would trade the whole world—every tourist attraction, every city—for just five minutes here if I ever had to make that choice.”
“Why?” I already know the answer, but I need to hear her say it.
She sighs before answering. “Because it’s where a certain little boy and I used to play. I used to hide behind that fountain, thinking I was invisible, and that little boy would pretend not to see me so I could feel like I had the best hiding spot in the world.” She laughs, but it’s tinged with sadness. “We used to chase each other around this fountain until our legs hurt. And… because that little boy and I had a tradition here.”
Neither of us says anything after that, just sitting and staring at the fountain, lost in whatever thoughts haunt us. A cool breeze drifts through, making her shiver, and before I can think twice, I shrug off my jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
She closes her eyes for a moment, pulling it around herself and lifting it to her nose, inhaling deeply before settling into it.
“But then,” she continues softly, her voice barely cutting through the silence, “that little boy grew up, and he completely forgot me. Like I never meant anything.” Her eyes drift to mine, searching, and her head tilts slightly. “He sees me at events, and it’s like we were never each other’s favorite person.”
There’s a pause. “Do you happen to know why that little boy did that?”
I reach into my pocket, pulling out a small razor, the one I always carry with me. I twirl it between my thumb and forefinger, keeping my eyes on it, letting the silence stretch before answering. “Maybe that boy went through so much pain, he wanted the man to forget everything and everyone.”
A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away quickly with the back of her hand.
“Then why did the man protect me?” she asks.
I pause, my thumb still tracing the razor’s edge. My mind flashes back to that moment—those bullets, the chaos, and her standing there. “When those bullets were fired… and you were there between them… the man turned into a little boy again.”
She reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently before pulling away. Her eyes fall on the pen and small pieces of paper on the bench. She grabs them with a huge smile on her face.
“Why are those there?” I ask, my brows pulling together, confused.
“You know why,” she says, her voice warm. “I never stopped our tradition. They’re always here.”
Her hand reaches out toward me, palm open, waiting for the razor. But I shake my head, leaning in slightly. “Let me,” I whisper.
I hold the razor carefully, and when I touch her hair—soft, silkier than I remember—my cock stands up. Slowly, deliberately, I chop off a small strand, watching it fall into my hand. She scribbles something on the paper, then ties the hair around the note, making sure it’s secure.
“Your turn,” she says, holding the pen out to me, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before I take it.
I hesitate, but only for a second, then scribble something down—scribble the truth that doesn’t reveal much of what’s brewing underneath.
She reaches for the razor again, and I don’t move, letting her close the small gap between us. Her fingers brush against the back of my neck as she snips off a small piece of my hair. Her scent invades my senses—gardenias mixed with wildflowers. Her lips hover so close to mine that a slight tilt forward would let me taste them. The soft brush of her breasts against my shoulder sends my brain into a frenzy. I push down those desires, they are nothing but a natural reaction of my body to a beautiful woman, at least that’s what I tell myself.
We break the moment, and turn to the fountain to toss the hair tied notes into the water, a stupid tradition we had when we were kids. We believed whatever wish we had written on those notes would become true, but the lord knows nothing I wrote ever did.