Chapter 21
DARIUS
Every single tear that slid down her beautiful face was a stab to the gut, and I had no idea why.
She was beautiful when she cried.
I intentionally said shit, did shit that I knew was going to cause those delicious tears to fall down her pretty face.
But these weren't tears I caused. They weren't tears of fear over a threat that wasn't really there. They weren't tears of defiance, anger, or even the tears of pain and pleasure mixing in that almost narcotic-like vice.
These tears weren't harmless fun… they were soul-scarring trauma. Something my little songbird should only know about from the lyrics others write. Never firsthand.
Every sob out of her lips was gut-wrenching, and I shouldn't give a fuck, but I did.
My fingers turned white from my grip on the steering wheel, knuckles straining against skin as I maneuvered through traffic.
I cut off a Mercedes, then swerved around a taxi, my foot slamming the accelerator until the engine roared.
I reached across the console, my hand finding her knee through the silk of her dress. She didn't react. Didn't flinch, didn't push me away. Just stared out the window like she wasn't even in her own body anymore.
That was worse somehow.
I tightened my grip, my thumb stroking once, twice, trying to ground her. Trying to remind her I was here.
A horn blared behind us. Some idiot in a BMW getting brave. I jerked the wheel, cutting him off so close our mirrors nearly kissed. The screech of his brakes was satisfying, but not enough. Not nearly enough to bleed off the violence soaring through my veins.
All I needed was an excuse. Just one.
The BMW fell back. Smart.
I wove through traffic, my hand never leaving her knee except to shift gears. The tires squealed from taking a turn too fast. Anna didn't even blink.
No one was brave enough to challenge me tonight.
Even cops clocked my speed and followed for half a block before falling away.
They probably ran my plates and decided their shift didn't pay enough to deal with what came next. And I didn’t give a shit about speed camera tickets, they would be dealt with.
In almost no time at all, we were back at the hotel.
"Don't move," I ordered. I threw the car into Park and was already out my door.
I ran around the side and wrenched hers open, reaching in to pull her into my arms. She came without protest, her body limp and pliant as I lifted her against my chest. I carried her like that, pressing her body against mine even though she was still shaking.
The doorman opened the entrance without a word. The elevator ride was silent except for her shallow breathing and the mechanical hum of the lift.
I carried her to my suite, kicking the door closed and locking it behind me before bringing her into the master bathroom. I set her down on the marble counter, the cold surface making her gasp softly.
Finally. A reaction.
I unwrapped the pashmina carefully, my fingers brushing the column of her throat as I pulled it away. Her pulse fluttered against my knuckles—too fast, too erratic. I laid the shawl aside and then cupped her jaw, tilting her face up to look at me.
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused.
"Breathe," I told her, my voice rougher than I intended.
She took a deep breath, and the tears finally stopped, but they were replaced with something far worse. Cold, dead nothingness. She said nothing, did nothing, just stared directly ahead, lost in her own thoughts.
I took off her shoes one at a time, my hands sliding down her calves to her ankles before carefully pulling the red-soled heels from her delicate feet. I let them drop to the floor in a heap.
She still didn’t speak. Her empty gaze still stared straight ahead. She didn't even blink.
I pulled her to her feet, and I wasn't even sure she noticed. She just stood, practically like a zombie.
Could someone go into shock from emotional trauma?
I hadn't heard of it before, but I had also never seen a woman talk like that to her own daughter. I had seen my share of terrible mothers in my day—narcissists, vindictive bitches, and even women who would pimp their daughters out for another hit.
None of them had the vitriol in their voice, the disgust, the willingness to blame their daughter for their own evil doings, as the senator.
Anna was the victim in all of this. As far as her mother knew, there was a bomb on her daughter's neck.
Worse than that, it was top-secret government tech that she had let leak.
No, the worst part was Anna's face.
She had expected her mother’s reaction.
Knew it was coming.
This wasn't the first time her mother had laid into her, accusing her of… I didn't even know what. Anna had lived her whole life receiving that abuse from the person who was meant to protect her above all else.
Anger burned through me, not at Anna, but at her mother.
I reached around her, my chest pressing against her as I found the zipper. She was so still I could feel her heartbeat against my ribs. The zipper slid down like butter, and I pushed the straps down her arms, my fingers trailing over her shoulders.
Goosebumps erupted across her skin.
There. Another reaction.
I let the silky material fall over her body and pool onto the floor at her feet. She stood there in nothing but a lace bra and panties, her skin pebbling in the cool air.
I paused, my hand hovering over the curve of her neck. Then, unable to stop myself, I pressed my lips to the junction where her shoulder met her throat. Not a kiss exactly. A claim. A reminder that she was here, that she was real, that she was—
Mine.
The word echoed in my head, unwelcome and undeniable.
She still looked shell-shocked. So, I took the magnet out of my pocket, my fingers brushing the hollow of her throat as I carefully removed the necklace. I let my touch linger, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath my fingertips.
Her dove gray eyes shifted to mine, the first sign of life from her since she stopped crying.
"It's only temporary, maya soloveyka," I whispered, cupping her jaw. "But for now, the threat is gone."
"You are the threat," she whimpered.
She was right.
I was the threat, and I had no idea why I was giving her any reprieve. I shouldn't have cared about how her mother's words devastated her.
Her tears should not have bothered me, especially since they usually made me hard. But somehow this little songbird got under my skin.
This was supposed to be a simple blackmail job, a precise pressure campaign to ensure her mother voted the way I paid her to.
After that, I was going to disappear back into the shadows of London. With my nephews refocused on the family business and other politicians reminded of why they didn't question my orders.
Anna was never supposed to be anything more than leverage.
I picked her back up and placed her on the counter again, positioning myself between her legs as I reached for the makeup remover. I worked slowly, deliberately, wiping away the mascara tracks and foundation with careful strokes.
My hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair to hold her steady. She watched me the entire time, those storm-cloud eyes searching my face for something I wasn't sure I could give her.
I was going to put her in the shower or maybe let her relax in the giant soaking tub...but I didn't trust her not to do something stupid.
Instead, I wrapped her in my black cashmere robe, pulling it tight around her small frame. As I tied the belt, I couldn't help but lean in, inhaling the scent of her hair—jasmine and something uniquely her.
I carried her out to the living room, settling her on the couch.
She looked so sad, and a little pathetic, sitting there dwarfed by my robe. She pulled it tighter around her body before lifting her legs and tucking them under her.
On a whim, I went back into the bedroom and pulled the down duvet off the bed.
She had an old, worn quilt on her couch. Maybe this was the comfort she needed.
She cuddled into the duvet when I laid it over her, and her breathing evened out as she started looking around the room.
At least she was out of that catatonic state.
It was something, but I needed to do something else. I needed to be proactive in this. I needed to take care of her, but I hadn't the first clue how to do that.
"Are you hungry?" I asked as I picked up the room service menu. She had only eaten half a bowl of the stew earlier before she started fighting me.
No answer.
"You need to eat something. Pick whatever you want from this menu, or I can have something picked up from any restaurant you want. Pick something, or I will." I handed the menu to her, and her hand poked out of the black duvet to take it.
"Anything?" she asked, her voice so quiet, like she was still afraid.
"Anything," I confirmed.
"Can I have the truffle mac and cheese?" she asked, and she flinched like she thought I would lash out at her for it.
What had her mother put her through?
"Sure, what else?"
She opened her mouth like she was going to ask for something more, then shook her head and handed me the menu.
I didn't take it. "What else?"
"Bacon grilled cheese and tomato lobster bisque?"
I smiled. My girl needed comfort food.
No, not my girl. She wasn't mine, and I couldn't keep her. I had to keep reminding myself of that.
I took the menu from her and called down to room service, adding in pirozhki, beef stroganoff, and an entire Medovik for dessert.
Once the room service arrived, I spread out the feast on the small dining table behind the couch, then picked her up, still wrapped in the duvet, and set her in her place.
I pulled my chair closer—close enough that our knees touched beneath the table.
"What is that?" She pointed to one of the dishes.
"Pirozhki," I answered. She just gave me a blank look. "It's like a roll stuffed with ground meat, mashed potatoes, mushrooms, and a few other things. It's my version of comfort food."
She nodded, still looking at it.