Chapter 11 —Eva
Demyon Tarasov.
What kind of name was that?
Demyon.
It sounded a lot like demon to me.
I lay in bed the next day, replaying the incident from the night before. I’d tried to get under his skin on purpose, and judging by the way he reacted, it was clear it was a job well done.
After I’d left the party as though I had an idea where I was going, he followed me in his SUV, demanding that I get inside. At first, I hesitated, despite the cold biting into my furry coat. However, I did hop in, and he drove us back to the mansion.
I hadn’t seen him since. He was gone by the time I woke up this morning. It should be nice to have the whole house to myself, despite the guards watching my every move. However, for some reason, I found the silence rather deafening.
Staring blankly at the ceiling, I tapped my big toes together, my mind reeling from last night’s events. No matter how hard I tried to push those memories to the back of my mind, they just wouldn’t stay buried.
Maybe under different circumstances, I would’ve hinted at how dashing he looked in that black trench coat and hat. He gave off a vibe of sexy but dangerous. The very second I saw him waiting downstairs, I knew his attractiveness would be a huge distraction for me.
There was something about his looks that pulled me in. Each time he locked eyes with me, I felt weak in the knees. I hated how my body was beginning to betray me whenever I was around this man.
It was almost like I was starting to forget that I was his prisoner and he was my captor.
I rolled to the other side of the bed, clutching a pillow to my chest. My heart pounded as I dared to reminisce about how I’d felt when he wrapped his hand around my waist. His action stemmed from sheer jealousy; he hated that I was enjoying another man’s company.
His jealousy was the least of my problems right now, considering the strange emotion his touch stirred in me that night. His hand around my waist was both protective and possessive at the same time.
He thought I was having a good time with the young man, but he was wrong. I was only trying to get a reaction out of him. All that hype about how dashing and talented the young man was was nothing but a trick to reveal his jealous side.
Honestly, given the kind of man he was—demonic and strangely powerful—I’d had my doubts about how he’d react. Part of me thought I was only wasting my time, that men like him weren’t moved by things like that.
Maybe that’s why his reaction gave me some strange sense of satisfaction.
My eyes narrowed as I recalled how the young man’s face drained of color when he learned who my plus-one was. The name must have struck him like a dagger to the heart, given how terrified he was.
Demyon Tarasov.
The young man had been scared half to death, as if he were staring death right in the face. The switch from arrogance to terror was so swift it left me baffled.
I’d always known that my captor was a dangerous man; I watched him slit a man’s throat in cold blood without breaking a sweat. However, the musician’s fear was something else.
That’s the extent of Demyon’s power; his name alone was enough to make men shit their pants. At this point, I should be afraid and more careful around him. But I wasn’t terrified of him. No. Instead, I was even more intrigued by his level of power and influence.
If Demyon wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. So, the fact that I was still breathing meant he didn’t mind my defiance and stubbornness.
As the hours ticked by, I grew increasingly restless. I wasn’t sure why at first, until I realized the shocking, bitter truth I wasn’t ready to face. I was restless and bored out of my mind because he was away.
There was no one to piss off, no one to pick on and exchange words with. I once called him out for being lonely and having no one to keep him company, saying that was the only reason he kept me close.
Now, I was the lonely one, with no one to keep me company. How ironic!
I guess this was a mutually beneficial relationship because we were both using each other to pass the time. I couldn’t believe I’d ever miss his presence, his smell, his smug smirk, and the intensity of his gaze. To make matters worse, he’d only been gone for about twelve hours.
Was that how quickly I was starting to bond with this cold-blooded killer? Hell no!
Bond was a pretty strong word to use in this situation. However, the fact remained that I was beginning to get too close and too comfortable around him.
Throughout the day, I had to constantly remind myself that he wasn’t a good man. He was, in fact, a monster; one who had sent more souls to hell than my mind could ever fathom.
Feeling some type of attachment to a man like that was like playing with fire. I would most likely get burned.
It didn’t matter how his touch made me feel at the event last night; this wasn’t a game I wanted to play. The man was ridiculously attractive, and every time I picked a fight with him, I was only masking my own desires. It pained me to admit, but it was the truth.
He’d thought I was falling for the young musician’s charms at the event. But he was wrong. The musician had nothing to do with my cheeks turning red or the butterflies in my stomach.
That was all him.
Demyon.
Demyon Tarasov.
Unable to bear the confusion in my mind, I got up and sat on the edge of the bed. I lowered my head, burying my face in my palms. If I didn’t do something to restore my sanity, I would most likely lose it.
To fill my thoughts with something other than Demyon Tarasov, I rose to my feet and strolled out of the room. My feet were quiet against the marble floor as I made my way through the hallway.
Four of his men stood guard in this section of the mansion: two at both ends of the corridor. I’d come across a study on this floor while exploring the building earlier. I thought to myself that maybe there’d be something useful in there to help me pass the time.
Demyon had obviously taken away my phone, so at this point, I had no access to the internet for entertainment.
In no time, I reached the door, grabbed the handle, and pushed it open. My brows arched at the cozy interior; two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined both sides of the room. For a place that had been abandoned for God-knows-how-long, everything was still intact and meticulously arranged.
Directly across from the front door was a desk with a swivel chair on the other side. The mahogany table was adorned with piles of books stacked on top of one another. A sleek, rubber globe sat on the polished wood, its spinning axis tilted at a subtle angle.
I walked further into the room, my eyes drinking in every detail I could spot. When I reached the desk, I wiped a finger over the surface of the table. It was clean. So clean.
Clearly, Demyon’s men had done a great job of cleaning the place up. My index finger tapped the globe, spinning it on its axis as I walked to the other side of the desk. There, I parted the velvet curtains, letting the golden glow of the setting sun stream in through the window.
I settled into the swivel chair, spinning it around a few times like a little girl trying to make herself happy. Leaning back in the comfy chair, I drummed my fingers on the armrest.
Not long after, I spotted what looked like an old photo album lying separately from the stack of books. Without hesitation, I edged forward and reached for it. When I flipped it open, my brows rose in astonishment. It was indeed a photo album.
I fed my eyes on the pictures of these strangers, the family that once lived in this very mansion. One of the little boys in a group photo looked an awful lot like Demyon, and I was almost certain it was him.
The kid had the same dark chestnut hair, the same icy gray eyes, and the same angular jaw as Demyon Tarasov. The only difference was that his boy had a very charming smile—a stark contrast to Demyon Tarasov today.
The more I flipped through the pages of this album, the more pictures of little Demyon I came across.
He was the spitting image of an older woman in the photos: one I assumed was his Mother. She was too beautiful to have birthed such a monster. And to be honest, even the kid in these photos seemed harmless, especially because in every photo, he was smiling from ear to ear.
I had no doubt that the kid was Demyon Tarasov. I just couldn’t understand how he had moved from that innocent little boy to the cold-hearted monster he was today.
What happened to that happy child?
As I turned the pages of the photo album, I realized the boy was growing older and gradually losing his innocence. The kid was growing into a teenager, and the older he got, the harder his expression became.
He lost the light in his eyes and his beautiful smile. The more I turned the pages, the more the boy became a ruthless young man.
I was so engrossed in the photo album that I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I heard his car pull up outside. I looked out the window and saw him stepping out of his black SUV, his men flanking him.
Something frozen thawed inside me. And although I claimed it had nothing to do with him, I knew I was only lying to myself. Watching him move from innocence to cruelty had done something to me that I wasn’t ready to admit.
Despite all the mysteries surrounding this man, one thing was certain: He wasn’t always a monster. Once upon a time, he was a normal kid with normal aspirations. But somewhere along the way, something went terribly wrong.
I closed the photo album and placed it back exactly where I’d found it before rising to my feet. Quietly, I stepped out of the study, shut the door behind me, and then strolled over to the living room downstairs.
From the top of the stairs, I watched him walk inside, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingers. When he raised his head and met my gaze, his brows drew together slightly, as if he sensed the shift in my countenance.
We stared at each other from across the room, our silence speaking more volumes than our words ever did. Something swelled up within me—something I was too afraid to name. The longer I held his gaze, the more I saw the slight crack in his armor.
Beneath all that cruelty and mean expressions was a man dealing with a lot at once. He was a man with no one to help ease his stress or bring out his humanity.
Demyon was burdened more than he cared to admit. And for the first time, I wondered if his ruthlessness wasn’t born from choice but survival.
There was a lot to unravel in this man, and right now, I was determined to do just that.