Chapter 16
ANNA
My fingertips wrinkled, and no matter how long I stood under that searing hot water, it didn't wash away the feeling of his hands on my body, his cock inside me, or the words that he had whispered in my ear.
I couldn't stand under the water forever, and regardless of how much I scrubbed, I still felt dirty, used, and mad at myself for not hating it.
Angry with him for knowing that I didn't hate it.
With my hair soaking wet and clinging to my back and the necklace still a heavy reminder around my neck, I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out of my bathroom. And froze.
The scene before me was so wrong, my skin prickled with unease.
My cozy, lived-in apartment had been transformed. It was like organizer elves had broken into my home, swept out the chaos, and replaced it with order. The mountains of sheet music that were spread on almost every surface were gathered into one stack on my coffee table.
It was the only thing on my coffee table.
My books were put away on the bookshelf, the piles of clothes thrown over my couch were gone, and in their place were my mismatched throw pillows, arranged in a neat line that almost looked intentional.
And stranger still, my apartment smelled like food.
Actual, edible food that didn't come from a microwave or a takeout box.
The rich aroma of beef with vegetables and spices permeated the air, which could not have been right. The only food in my entire apartment was two-day-old pizza in a greasy box in the refrigerator and an array of random condiment packets from different takeout places around the neighborhood.
My stomach growled. How embarrassing. I clutched one arm around my middle to silence it.
Darius emerged from my tiny kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, jacket gone, revealing two full sleeves of tattoos that I had somehow missed last night.
The ink wrapped around his forearms in dark, intricate patterns—Cyrillic script and what looked like Orthodox crosses woven through thorns.
My pulse kicked up as I remembered those same forearms braced on either side of me on the sink.
"Why are you just standing there in a towel? Where is your robe?" he asked, his jaw set.
"I don't have one," I answered, like it was the most obvious answer in the world because it was.
A low, annoyed grunt sounded in the back of his throat, and without asking, he grabbed another towel from the laundry basket he sat down and wrapped it around my wet hair. His fingers grazed my neck just above where the diamonds sat and I flinched.
The touch was almost gentle, which somehow made it worse.
Then he grabbed another—except it wasn't a towel but a blanket from my secondhand sofa—and wrapped me in it, cocooning me, trapping my arms like I was a human burrito.
He grabbed my shoulders, maneuvered me over to the table, and sat me down in one of the wooden chairs that used to hold laundry and a few purses.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked, more to himself than me as he worked on squeezing the water from my hair before raking his fingers through it.
"Let me go?" I asked hopefully. My eyes slid closed, and I leaned into the hypnotic pull of his fingers through my hair.
My stomach tightened; I silently berated myself for enjoying his touch.
It wasn't like I could do anything to stop it.
Still, I shouldn't have appreciated any of the things he did.
Whether it was the way he made me come, the way he made my heart race, or how he straightened my apartment or ran his fingers through my short hair.
When he was done, he wrapped the towel around my shoulders and vanished for a moment.
A few minutes later, he was back with a bowl of something that smelled like heaven.
Like the perfect balance of hearty veggies and warm spices.
It brought to mind sitting next to a fire after being stuck in a blizzard.
"What is that?" I asked, my stomach growling again.
"You did not have food," he said, a line of disapproval forming between his eyes. "You need to eat. How do you survive like this?"
"I had food," I argued. "There's a pizza in the fridge."
"No, there was one slice of something sad and inedible in a cardboard box. You need food that will nourish you." His disapproval grated on my nerves.
"Pizza is one of my main food groups," I argued.
He gave me a flat look as he sat next to me and held up the spoon. It had a big piece of carrot in thick brown gravy.
I wanted to turn my head away and refuse the food just out of sheer stubbornness, but my stomach kept growling, betraying my hunger.
"Have you eaten at all today?"
The last thing I needed was for some Russian mafia kidnapper to judge my ability to take care of myself.
"Where did you get all this?" I asked.
"I had one of my men go to the store and grab supplies. It's not much, but it'll have to do. We have a long night ahead of us. The last thing I need is for you to keel over on your heels from hunger."
"Heels? Why would I be wearing heels?"
"Because traditionally that's what women wear when they attend galas. Now, open your mouth, maya soloveyka."
I flinched, jerking my head back.
"Stop calling me your little songbird or whatever. This may come as a surprise, but I don't speak Russian. For all I know, you could be lying about what you’re saying. You could be insulting me or calling me a dead bitch."
He smiled. An actual smile that reached his eyes, and it was alarming. When he smiled, he looked almost charming. There was a glint in his arctic blue eyes, and a dimple formed on the right side of his face. My heart skipped a beat.
The last thing I needed to do was find a man this terrifying, this imposing, so damn attractive. I knew he was gorgeous—I knew it the second I saw him—but there was a difference between being classically handsome and swoon-worthy.
Classically handsome, I could recover from. Swoon-worthy would wreck me. Even more than I already was.
Men that dangerous should not have smiles that weakened a woman's knees. They should be ugly, scarred, and only have cruel smirks, not charming grins.
It was a cruel trick of the universe.
"Maya soloveyka means my little nightingale," he explained. "Because of your hauntingly beautiful voice." He lifted the spoon to my mouth, and I begrudgingly took a bite.
The rich flavor exploded over my tongue; it was almost enough to make me forget my irritation that he had heard me sing.
I never sang for an audience. I hated it when people heard me singing. It was like inviting judgment. My mother's voice echoed in my head every time I had an audience.
You're wasting your time. You don't have any talent. Only people with talent should spend any time with music. It's a waste. It's just another way for you to beg for attention.
That was why I only ever picked up my guitar when the shop was empty. It wasn't a performance. It was just supposed to be for me. A way I could process emotions I couldn't talk about.
I was the daughter of a senator. I lived a privileged life.
Talking about feelings of inadequacy, unfairness, or just invisibility was entitled.
Throughout my entire life, I was told how lucky I was, how good I had it compared to other people, and that complaining about anything was an act of ingratitude.
I couldn't talk about the emotions without adding guilt. So I sang about them. I used other people's words and melodies to express them. Because therapy was for "celebrities and addicts."
Was there a song I could learn that would help me deal with wanting a man who was deadly and controlling?
What melody would capture the fear of having a bomb placed around your throat, hidden in diamonds?
Where were there lyrics that could express a carnal desire for a man that I should hate? Probably something from Halsey.
"I really need to get back to work," I said between bites of that amazing stew. "There were things I was supposed to do last night before—"
"No, you are not going back to work today."
"You don't understand. I don't work for some big corporation that can just replace me with somebody else. It's a small business. Edith, the owner, needs me. She relies on me, and I'm the only employee she has. The store is barely afloat as it is. I can't—"
Darius cut off my words by shoving another spoonful of stew with a sizeable chunk of beef on it into my mouth, forcing me to chew instead of babble.
"Your employer will be compensated fairly. Besides, we have plans tonight."
"You're insane if you think I'm going to get dressed up to attend a gala with you. Why would I do that?"
He answered me with another one of those treacherously charming smiles, and my heart sank. His hand reached out, fingers curling under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
The blanket shifted, and cool air kissed my bare shoulders.
"Because, little one,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across my lower lip, "your mother will be there. And you're going to help me destroy her."