Chapter 17
S amara
I’m fucked.
That is all I could think as I stared into his eyes.
To be honest, it was too draining to think anything at all beyond that.
I wanted to hide from my own emotions. I didn’t want to think about my reaction to his dominance. How I liked the way he forced me to suck his cock. No. To think about any of that right now would literally drive me insane. Better to wait till I found Yelena, and we formed an escape plan.
Until that moment, I needed to keep my shit together.
I needed to act like none of this was affecting me.
Ignoring his offered hand, I shimmied off the desk. After straightening my now hopelessly wrinkled dress, I walked back to where I had discarded my shoes… back to where I had crawled to him like a freaking harem slave.
Picking up my shoes, I asked without turning around, “Bathroom?”
“The door directly to your left.”
Still without facing him, I walked through the smaller door in the left-hand corner. Like the interior of his office, he had decorated the bathroom in ebony black and gold Italian marble with accents of deep emerald green.
I could not suppress a small gasp at my reflection.
My swollen lips were covered in the smeared remains of my red lipstick.
The thick black eyeliner I’d used earlier to create a dramatic cat eye was now streaming down my cheeks, which were still flushed a bright cherry red.
My hair was a tangled mess of curls. The elastic band, which I’d used to secure a low ponytail before Gregor used my hair as a weapon to demand my submission, now hung limply around a single curl.
“Baby, are you alright in there?” called Gregor through the door.
“I’m fine. Sorry, the… the marble was just cold on my bare feet,” I lied.
Placing my ear against the door, I listened till I heard his steps recede. I then quietly turned the latch on the knob, locking the door. Not that I thought such a small lock could keep Gregor away if he wanted in, but it gave me a false sense of security.
Grabbing one of the plush green hand towels, I ran it under some scalding water and wiped my face, then lower, trying to erase the feel of his mouth.
Digging into my purse, I found my brush and ruthlessly tackled all the tangles till I was once more able to tame it back into a ponytail that hung down my back.
Opening my compact, I applied a layer of powder.
It wouldn’t mask the deep flush on my cheeks, but at least it took away the wan appearance.
After a fresh application of lipstick and a little mascara, I appeared almost calm.
I rummaged in the cabinet beneath the sink and found a bottle of mouthwash.
Twisting off the cap, I pressed my lips to the plastic opening.
A brief thought that Gregor’s lips probably touched the same rim invaded my mind.
I violently chased the thought away. Thoughts like that were for later. After wine. Lots of wine.
Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the bathroom door and emerged back into his office.
It was empty.
Spinning my head to the left, I could see the main door was open.
This was my chance to escape!
I bolted for the door.
Just as I neared the threshold, Gregor reappeared. He was holding a small tray. On it was a selection of cut vegetables, cheese, and crackers with a pot of tea.
“I had Rose put this together for you,” he said as he walked into the office and placed the tray on the small table between the chairs in front of the fireplace.
His back was turned.
The door was open.
I stayed.
Damn him.
I wrinkled my nose at the offered fare. “No. Thank you.”
Gregor sighed. “I thought you might say that. One of these days, I’m going to get you to eat something green and healthy.”
The protective tone of his voice surprised me.
No one had really given a damn what I ate, not even my mother.
Probably why I survived on Chinese food and frozen pizza.
I was saved from having to respond by a discreet tap on the door. A large man in a suit stuck his head in. “Sir? I have the items you requested.” In his hand was a McDonalds large coffee cup and a small bag.
Gregor nodded. “Thanks, Jim.” He took the cup from Jim and closed the office door. Turning to me, he held out the goods. “Cafe Mocha with skim milk and extra whipped cream and an Egg McMuffin.”
The dark, rich smell of espresso mingled with the scent of sweet cream. I wasn’t even going to entertain the thought of refusing this gesture. I can’t remember a time I’d needed the comfort of my favorite drink more.
I should have been upset and alarmed that he knew what I liked to drink, but for some reason I wasn’t.
It gave me a soft flutter in my stomach to think this big scary man had taken the time to learn what I liked or to care what I ate.
After years on the run, unable to trust anyone but Yelena, I got used to no one knowing the real me.
Stop it, Samara! For fuck’s sake, it’s just coffee.
Taking the cup, I played with the sip tab as I asked, “How did you know?”
Gregor raised an eyebrow. “Same way I knew about Gwen Stevens.”
“Are you going to tell me how you found out?”
Gregor took a step closer to me. He reached out to caress my cheek.
I hated my reaction to his touch.
The side of his mouth quirked up in a rare smile. “Not a chance.”
I sighed. I’d expected as much. If he told me how he’d found me, then I would learn what not to do next time I ran… and there would be a next time as soon as I had the chance.
“Are you going to eat that?”
The brown McDonald’s bag rested on a nearby table. The familiar scent of egg, cheese, and ham called to me, but I knew I was too nervous around Gregor to even think about eating. I shook my head.
“How about I give you a tour of the house?”
That seemed like a perfectly normal thing to ask someone… which is why I was immediately suspicious. Gregor and I didn’t do normal.
I stared down at the Persian carpet that only moments earlier I had been shamelessly crawling across.
Ivory Black.
Cadmium Gold.
Alazarin Crimson.
Gregor picked up one curl and ran it over his palm and through his fingers, with only the slightest tug on my hair. It shocked me to realize I wish he’d pull harder.
What the hell is this man doing to me?
He stormed back into my life less than twenty-four hours ago and already I was practically begging him to fuck me while he pulled my hair.
Breaking into my chaotic thoughts, he said, “The real art is upstairs.”
My eyebrow rose. The art was bait—a trap—and I was going to walk into it.
Not trusting myself to speak, I just nodded my assent.
Taking the now cooled mocha from my hands, he set it aside and enclosed my palm in his own.
Looking down, I marveled at how big his hand looked compared to my small pale one.
The man had sexy hands. Strong and tan with a few faint scars over his knuckles hinting at his violent life.
He had on an expensive-looking watch. It was chrome and black leather with an old-fashioned Roman numeral face. It suited him.
With a start, I realized this wasn’t the first time I had observed his hands.
Oh, my God.
My painting.
The one from Boston. The only one I’d ever sold.
Little Girl Saved.
The man’s hand clasped around her wrist, the one saving her, was Gregor’s hand. Without conscious thought, I had recreated it on canvas right down to the watch.
I was sure there were deep and dark Freudian revelations to be had from this newfound knowledge, but that would have to be for later, when I was tucked into bed going over today’s events in my mind.
I was just glad that wasn’t one of the paintings in my loft right now. I’d hate for Gregor to know of its existence. Who knows how he’d read into it?
With a resigned step, I followed him out into the hall and up the main staircase.
It really was a stunning home.
Located in Evanston right on the shores of Lake Michigan, it was a massive crimson red brick structure with gabled windows and the outside walls covered in ivy. I’d noticed that same ivy covered the many security cameras which surveyed the parameter beyond the tall, walled-in gates.
The artwork in the entranceway was tasteful but cold.
Two pieces from Rothko’s later period. The color blocks of blue and green were large and abstract, telling the visitor nothing about the personality of its owner.
Perhaps that was the way Gregor liked it?
The art showed he had money and taste but gave no other detail away about the man.
Despite the intensity of our limited encounters and our connection through Nadia and our families, I still knew very little about him while he seemed to know almost everything about me, right down to the coffee drink I liked.
It was unnerving.
The thick Egyptian Violet hallway carpet muffled our footsteps.
“Let me show you to your bedroom.”
“My bedroom? I’m not fuc—” I stopped myself before I cursed.
I tried to pull my hand free. He only tightened his grasp. I threw my weight back and pulled harder. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented.
I measured my words carefully, unwilling to get another dose of his discipline for dropping the f-bomb repeatedly like I wanted to. “What do you mean, my bedroom?”
“It means what you think it means.”
He placed a controlling hand on my lower back and pushed me through the first door on the right. At one end of the large room was a tester bed with a delicate cream lace canopy. The ash blue carpeting highlighted the golden undertones in the walnut furnishings placed around the perimeter.
In the middle of the room, there was a small pile of suitcases and boxes.
My belongings.
He must have had everything moved here after I left with the goons guarding me.
I rounded on him; claws bared.