Chapter 4 #2
Lying would end this encounter for the wrong reasons and telling her the truth would end it far too quickly. And some twisted part of me—some part I didn't recognize—wanted to draw this out. Wanted to keep her here in this dim room, breathing the same air, close enough to touch.
So I stayed silent. Let her stew in her own righteous indignation and confusion.
Even full of anger, she was beautiful, like a butterfly trying to escape a jar. Bright colors and wings beating furiously against the glass, but to absolutely no avail.
The comparison irritated me—more poetry—but I couldn't shake it.
"Look, I don't have anything to do with my mother." She spoke in a strong, authoritative voice.
I almost believed her. Almost.
"I'm not involved in any of her dealings. I don't know who she's working with or who funds her campaigns."
Then she added, quieter and a little sullen, her gaze dropping to the floor, "She wouldn't tell me that stuff even if I were involved. I have no sway over her decisions. I'm nothing more than a broken pawn to her."
Something in her voice made my jaw tighten. I didn't like it. Didn't like the way it tempted me to ask questions, to dig deeper into the wounds her mother had left.
Focus.
Still, I said nothing, I did nothing, just let her talk and work herself up. Let her give me ammunition. What other insights would she give up so willingly?
"I don't work for her, so she doesn't talk to me!" The words exploded out of her, sharp with frustration.
I took one slow, deliberate step toward her, and she pressed back further against the table.
Her bravery faded quickly. A little too quickly.
I didn't trust it.
I couldn't see anything behind her she could use as a weapon, but she had already proven herself to be…creative.
The stapler had been a nice touch.
If she moved back any further, she'd be around the table and sitting on the lower shelf, which would put her at a bigger disadvantage. It would also put her at a very enticing height, right at my waist, those pink lips level with—
Enough.
"I swear I have no idea what she does, or who she talks to. I–I barely even see her anymore. She's always campaigning, or at some fundraiser, or—"
She was rambling again.
Typically, I would find that trait unbelievably annoying—a waste of time, a sign of a disorganized mind. But for some reason, when she rambled, it was endearing and insightful.
Her rambling gave me a glimpse of how her brain worked. How she saw the world around her, in bright shades of color and complexity. Where I only saw things as black and white, simple, binary, she saw a whole fucking spectrum.
And I was fascinated.
Maybe it was the way she spoke about music and the way she saw the world so differently than I did. That had to be it. She was merely a curiosity, and once my curiosity was satisfied, I'd never think of her again.
She was just a puzzle I hadn't solved.
Yet.
"She's not going to pay some ransom for me." Her voice cracked, and she looked away, studying the dust motes swirling in the air between us. "If you hurt me, if you kill me, then she is just going to use that as leverage to get more votes."
She said it matter-of-factly, like she'd already accepted it. "Dead daughter plays better than disappointing one, right?"
The words hit wrong—too honest, too raw. I felt something shift in my chest, something I immediately crushed.
"You let me worry about that, maya soloveyka," I said, moving closer, eating up the small distance between us until I was standing in her personal space, crowding her.
I slipped a lilac strand of hair out of her face, tucking the curl behind her ear, the silky texture catching on my callused fingers.
Her breath hitched, a tiny catch that made my cock stir.
Ignore it.
Inhaling sharply, she shifted over toward a storage shelf, and I had to admit it was a clever move. She was trying to angle herself toward the door subtly, using the shelves as cover.
It wouldn’t work but it was still cute that she hoped it would.
Even if she were to get out of this room—highly unlikely—my men were still standing right outside the shop. But there was something thrilling about watching her try. About watching that clever mind work, calculating odds she had to know were shit.
"Please." The word was soft, pleading. "You won't gain anything from hurting me."
She begged so prettily.
My little nightingale tried to take another step to the side, moving slowly, carefully, hoping I wouldn’t notice.
I whipped my arms up, grabbing the edges of the storage shelf on either side of her and caging her in with my body.
The metal was cold under my palms, but she was warm—so warm it permeated the scant inches separating us.
She shrank down, flinching away from me, but there was nowhere to go. Her back pressed against the shelf, making the whole structure rattle.
Her chest brushed mine with each breath—just the barest contact, but enough to spike my pulse.
A single tear slipped free, cutting a track down her cheek as she kept begging me not to hurt her.
And despite myself, despite everything, I wondered what she would sound like when she begged for other things.
What would my name sound like on her sweet lips?
Would she gasp it? Moan it? Scream it?
Stop.
Without thinking, acting on an instinct I didn't recognize and sure as hell didn't like, I leaned in and ran the tip of my tongue along her cheek, lapping up the tear that spilled from her gray eyes.
Salt. Fear. Something sweeter underneath. Her.
She stopped breathing, her entire body rigid against me, perfectly still except for her heart pounding where her chest pressed to mine.
"I'm sorry, maya soloveyka." My voice came out rougher than I intended, almost a growl. "Not hurting you is not an option."
She opened her mouth to scream—clearly her intention when her lungs expanded, her throat worked— and I couldn't bear for such an ugly sound to come from those lips, not after listening to her sing. Not after tasting her skin.
Before the sound could claw its way out of her delicate throat, I pinched her neck, cutting off blood flow to her brain.
She collapsed, unconscious, against my chest, all that fight draining out of her in an instant.
I caught her, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her head as it lolled back. Her body was soft and pliant now, fitting closely against mine. My jaw clenched.
For a moment—just one moment—I let myself hold her. Appreciate the weight of her, the warmth.
Then I adjusted my grip and carried her toward the door.
This was business. Nothing more.
I'd remember that eventually.