Chapter Four
Zervou could read the reluctance in her, even as she turned to open her apartment door. Even with his body tight and his skin humming with all that want he’d told himself to control.
He did not like the sight of her lip puffy and bloody. It had twisted inside of him sharp and foreign. But it had eased something to know it was a blow she’d taken voluntarily instead of scrabbling with those hulking men and their pathetic threats.
It had eased something to touch her, to feel the way she stilled under his touch, her breath caught, her eyes wide.
Yes, he liked catching Ariadne a little off guard.
But that feeling didn’t last as he followed her into her apartment. It was neat enough, but everything sagged with the weight of poverty. Cramped, clearly. The vague scent of alcohol seemed to permeate every air molecule.
It reminded him of the places his mother had insisted on living, though it had never been her drinking.
No, his mother preferred to take on the role of saint.
Refuse any and all help—even his money and his help once he’d garnered the ability to offer both.
So married to her pride. Her suffering. Nothing had mattered except that.
Certainly not him.
It was only when his grandmother had begun to suffer from dementia that his mother had allowed him to help at all. For her mother. Never for herself.
Never for him.
Now they lived with a nurse in a nicer cottage in the hometown he wanted nothing to do with.
He did not wish to think of such things, did not like the way they dissolved everything he’d felt out on that landing. He even considered whisking Ariadne away to his estate so they could have a discussion of terms without memories assaulting him.
But he was made of stronger stuff, and this setting only proved his point and how much she could use his offer.
There was a small table in the kitchen just steps away from the door, so he moved toward it. Took a seat.
Ariadne eyed him warily, still standing by the door. “I have to check on my mother. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hall and then returned a few minutes later without the bag she’d been carrying. She offered nothing about the state of her mother.
She did not take the seat opposite him. Instead she rested a hip against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her chest, expression hard and defiant.
Because he wanted to move this along so he could be out of here, he didn’t wait for her to start.
“Before we get to your demands, I have a few of my own to make clear. For example, your mother. I cannot have her creating…problems while we do this. Something must be done to get her out of the way, out of trouble.”
Ariadne’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Good luck there.”
The bitterness in her tone did not surprise him, but the way it echoed inside of him did. The understanding of being shackled to someone you wanted to help, who refused such help. Over and over again.
But this was not the same. His mother was stubborn. Her mother was addicted—an illness. Not a choice.
“There are centers for these kinds of things. These addictions.”
“Yes, and they cost money. You also tend to have to be a willing participant for any of those centers to matter.”
“I will foot the bill, of course. You’ll have your pick of the best facilities in Greece.”
Ariadne blinked at that, her shoulders sagging a little. “My…pick,” she repeated, as if she did not understand the words.
“Yes. Whichever facility you want. I will get in her in, and I will pay her way. Perhaps it works. Perhaps it doesn’t. This is irrelevant to me so long as she stays there while we draw Erjon out.”
She said nothing. He waited, and still she simply stood there. He was a patient man, but she was testing it. Or maybe the cracks in the table in front of him were testing it.
“I seem to recall you saying you had demands,” he told her, looking away from the cracks. The only part of this place that did not remind him of all he’d pulled himself out of was her.
“I want it to be clear that I do not trust things that sound too good to be true,” she said fiercely. “I do not trust windfalls.”
Which were not demands at all.
“You do not need to trust anything,” Zervou replied, watching the anger in her expression. Why were women so bound and determined to be angry when he offered to take care of things? It should be met with gratitude, but he always seemed to find himself faced with stubborn, pointless pride.
Frustration simmered within him, but he did not let it take hold. He kept his seat and his tone neutral. “You only need to do as you’re told.”
She stiffened, and he found himself reliving the feel of her skin under his thumb. The catch of her breath and that flash of heat in her eyes before she’d blinked it away. Because she reacted to the words do what you’re told in much the same way.
Physical reaction. Which stirred one of his own.
“I don’t generally do that, either,” she said after a moment, never quite meeting his gaze.
Fascinating. “Well, some sacrifices must be made to get what we want.”
“We.” Bitter again. So used to being on her own, he supposed. He knew a bit about that, didn’t he? And trying to save those who did not wish to be saved. And all these similarities had one root cause.
“Erjon Hyseni will pay. That is what you want, is it not?”
She stared straight ahead at the wall. Her voice was devoid of any emotion, but her expression was fierce. “Yes, that is what I want.”
“Then it is a we, glikí mou. You do not need to trust me. Use me.” He smiled when she looked over at him. “And I shall use you.”
Ari felt…unsettled. Unmoored. The way he said things did something to her. Internally. Chemically. She was not used to feeling like someone else was in the driver’s seat of her body’s reaction.
She knew how to take blows, how to land them. She did not know what to do with him.
“What are your demands then? I have already paid off your mother’s debt. I will foot the bill for your mother’s recovery. You will also be given an allowance. Money is no object here, Ariadne.”
“An allowance? Like a child?” Why she was being petulant she didn’t know, except she needed to find some clear, grounded footing, and fighting always did that for her.
“We could call it a…weekly salary if you prefer,” he said, so unoffended, so easy. “You will be paid for your time. Enacting your duties.”
“Which are?”
“Your duties will be everything required to play your role. To appear as my companion, then fiancée. To attend whatever dinners, parties, events I require. To have your picture taken, to be interviewed—this will require some media training, of course.”
“And what of boxing?”
“You may continue through your next bout. Ideally, Erjon has crawled his way out of whatever sewer he finds himself in by then. If not, you may have to take a break from organized fights, though you will still be able to train if you wish. If we should have to get married—”
“Kratitheíte, married?” This was insanity. Marriage was…legally binding. She had no romantic notions about the institution, but it still spoke of partnership and intimacy and trust—even a marriage based on pretense. There was legality and risk—to her, the party with nothing.
Why was she even considering this ordeal? Did she really think he’d let her have access to all this money? All these…options. When she’d never had any. Just to…play pretend?
“If it need go that far, you will be compensated even more generously in a divorce settlement.”
It was all too good to be true. It couldn’t possibly work out this way. He had to be lying, tricking her. He certainly would have no reason to keep his word on this.
But the money he’d given the Sakkos enforcers was no trick. It could come with strings that were tricks, but the debt was paid either way. Mom would be safe for at least a little while—which was more than Ari could do herself.
Could she say no, if the debts were paid either way?
She could deny the answer for a few more days. Convince herself there was another way. But there wasn’t. There never was.
And if it brought Erjon out of hiding… If this rich and powerful man enacted revenge against the man she wanted to be free of…
Wasn’t it worth any cost?
Mom passed out in her room made that clear, didn’t it?
She lifted her chin, met his gaze. She was a fighter. What was this but another fight? Another bout? She could do it. And if she didn’t get all the prize he offered, at least she’d get some.
“When do I start?”
His mouth curved, danger and something that affected her body on some unknown cellular level glittered in his eyes. Her brain knew better than to trust this man, but it was as if there was some unknown force inside her overriding what her usually smart mind could determine.
“Tomorrow. I will pick you up for dinner. Be expecting a package in the morning with your required wardrobe.”
“I don’t love the word required.”
He rose. He moved for the door, but that required him to brush past her in the tiny kitchen. He smelled like something faintly woodsy, no doubt an unimaginably expensive cologne.
He met her gaze, dark and intent. “Get used to it,” he said firmly before letting himself out the door.
Ari stood where she was, breathing through the effect this man had on her. Breathing through this…insanity she was agreeing to.
When the wardrobe came the next morning, along with information about a few rehabilitation centers in Greece—all of them luxurious, expensive and very private—Ari knew she was in trouble.
But if this trouble came with her parents getting what they deserved—her mother help, her father punishment—then Ari would make whatever sacrifices, pay whatever costs.
No matter what.