8. Dimitri
8
DIMITRI
How could she know? I shouldn’t be angry at her for making the remark about tinnitus, as she has no idea. Still, if only she knew one of the reasons I listen to that music is to drown out that very sound. The incessant buzzing that is my constant companion ever since a kid pulled the pin on an explosive vest right next to me.
My phone vibrates with an alert just as we arrive. I slow my walk as I want to check what the message says before I head in and have lunch with Adriana.
It's from Damen.
I enter the restaurant and tell the server at the desk we want a table for two. Then I hang back a little as she leads Adriana forward, so I can read the text.
Think I’ve found your auction. It’s not as if these things are happening weekly, and it’s serious dark web with very powerful players. The good news is if their communication is anything to go by, they have no idea they’ve lost one of their auction items. If some of Dorian’s men are out there in the wind, it doesn’t really help their survival chances to be letting this bunch of people know that the woman they are supposedly sending them might have fallen into someone else’s hands. I’ll keep you updated.
His views on the situation match my own. At the moment, we aren’t in any real danger. There are a few ragtag elements of Dorian’s crew run to ground, hiding, and a very serious bunch of people, but they don’t know yet that I have something of theirs. I’ll increase security, but I think at the moment, we’re okay. Or as okay as you can ever be in this life. A second message follows close on the heels of the first one, and I tap that open thinking it’s something Damen wants to add, but it’s from Yuri.
Having fun, boss. Found three more fuckers. There’s only Ari and some kid called Artem still missing. It seems some of these men will talk with nothing more than a stern look. They’re singing like canaries, and their outfit was decidedly amateur for people in the trafficking world. BTW, Dorian is trussed up like a turkey at the cabin. He awaits your arrival. ??.
I smirk and pocket my phone. The amateur nature of Dorian’s men doesn’t surprise me. It’s something we see more and more. As the hierarchies of the old ways die down and new groups spring up to take the place of family run groups, or strict hierarchies like the Bratva, things get sloppy. The biker gangs, the one percenters, are still super tight on how they run things, but a lot of the newer European Mafia groupings are not always the most professional. One example I saw firsthand was how an Armenian group over on the East coast were beating the girls who worked their clubs so bad, they were losing money as the girls couldn’t dance for nights on end. There’s no way the Cosa Nostra, or the Bratva, would run dance clubs that way. It’s messy and fucked up, and half of these kids are posting themselves on Instagram so the Feds have a field day when they need evidence. Dumb fucks.
Swallowing down my rage, I turn to face the restaurant and focus on making this the best non-date, date that Adriana has ever had.
Not because I'm a philanthropist. No, it’s for entirely selfish reasons. I want Adriana to enjoy herself, because I want Adriana in my bed.
I could simply take her. The woman has absolutely no leverage in this situation. She's completely at my mercy.
I don't want her that way. Even if I were the sort of bastard who would do that to a woman, where would be the victory in that?
She's an incredible beauty, and clearly has men fighting to own her. Yet, these men who took her, who would buy her, they won't ever truly own her.
No matter who ended up with Adriana in their bed, it would be forced. They would only have won the right to use her and would not have won her hard-earned consent.
That's what I want. That's the way I want to have her. I want her under me, panting, begging, and absolutely lost in the moment. The rush it would give me to claim her that way should worry me.
I've never felt the desire to do so with any other woman. Hell, I don't really date anymore. I'm used to barking out orders and being obeyed. I'm used to beating answers out of people reluctant to give them. I'm used to fucking beautiful women, but not shy virgins.
Adriana is a whole new challenge, and I relish it.
When I first started working for Jacob, everything was new, and everything was a challenge. It took an immense amount of hard graft for me to win the respect of his men, and even the respect of my own men. I handpicked a small crew, but it's not as if Alexis and Yuri came to me believing in me from the start. I had to earn their respect. Their obedience came immediately, because they were my close guards, and Jacob ensured that everyone in his organization understood that I was an unofficial second to him. Obedience and respect are entirely different beasts, though, and I always wanted the latter. I made damn sure I got it. I will do whatever it takes to make sure I don't lose it.
The one person who may have caused me trouble was Virgil. As Jacob’s official second, and the brigadier for the biggest team working for the Rudenko organization, he stood to have his nose pushed out of joint the most.
However, he seemed to accept me slotting into an almost horizontal position of power next to him without much care. It could be because our roles are so different.
He and his brigadiers count on my men to provide them with smooth sailing in their endeavors. I remove any obstacles in their path.
Of course, I have my fingers in my own pies, which Jacob fully approves of. I have the clubs, and a few of them are entirely legitimate, while one or two, not so much. The ones that aren’t quite as legitimate are great fronts for laundering money from the weapons sales. I also have a shipment that I manage once a month, which goes to a very small European principality with very special and niche needs. These aren't ordinary, run-of-the-mill ex Soviet Union weapons that I’m procuring for those people, but the most modern and best the military has to offer. I procure them from a secret contact, and Jacob is more than happy for me to fulfil this contract as it's one he couldn't himself.
It works well for us all, but it’s a delicate balance, and I’m always aware that something could throw it off.
Adriana is already seated, and I stop in my tracks and take a moment to admire the view. Not the stunning view of the vineyards and rolling hills beyond the window, but the view of the woman sitting in front of the green vista.
She’s holding her hair up off her nape and letting it sift through her fingers before repeating the action. She's looking out the window so I can only see her profile, but I take my time to admire the long and graceful curve of her neck and the smooth lines of her jaw leading to her slightly pointed chin. I love the way her nose is upturned and cute as hell, and in juxtaposition to that cuteness are her high cheekbones and large eyes, along with the full lips.
She's delicate, like a fine porcelain vase. Her dark hair shines that blue-black under the lights beaming down from above her, and it contrasts so beautifully with her pale skin. In a world full of tanned women with various shades of blonde hair, she stands out as strikingly different. As I approach the table, she turns as if she can sense me. Her gaze darts up to meet mine, and I almost falter in my forward motion. There’s a directness in her gaze that speaks to true bravery. She’s my captive in many ways, and yet she regards me as if she’s my queen.
What is it about this woman that has me so in awe of her?
She offers me a small smile, unsure and nervous in contrast with the clear gaze. I get the impression that even outside of life-threatening situations, my Littleblue here is a dreadful people pleaser. She’s kind, you can tell that straight away, and that’s a strength in my opinion in an increasingly cruel world.
I take a seat opposite her and drink her in for a long moment, simply enjoying her radiance. She glances down at the table. I don’t want that. I want the directness of her gaze. I want to get to know something about her.
“Look at me,” I order.
Slowly, she lifts her gaze to meet mine. Her lashes are thick without much makeup, and with the coat of mascara she's clearly given herself, they look as long as some false lashes.
Is the mascara for me?
I like it.
“I thought we could have lunch here,” I say. “This winery also has an award-winning restaurant. It's a little late, but we can take our time and make an afternoon of it. They serve the most wonderful food on their tasting menu, and they bring various wines with the different courses for you to try. Would you like to share that with me?”
“I'd love it; thank you.” She smiles politely.
I'll take this studied politeness for now because at least we're talking, and she doesn't seem scared stiff. I want more than this. I don't want a polite veneer; I want the messy, authentic parts of her.
What is she like underneath her perfect exterior? I know what she's scared of, to a degree. Losing her autonomy and being taken against her will. Shocker.
I don't know what she loves, though. I don't know what excites her. For the first time in many years, I find myself deeply curious about another human being.
“So, what are your vices?” I ask her. “What do you blow your money on? Handbags? Starbucks cups? Hello Kitty collectables?”
She giggles at the last one and relaxes a notch.
“Books,” she says. “I spend most of it on books.”
My men told me that one of the things they found out about her was that her degree was in literature.
Maybe she’s a dreamer. Perhaps she wants to write a great novel. Or maybe she simply wants to read every book she can fit into a lifetime. If she were mine, I’d let her do nothing but read, if that made her happy. And fuck me on demand, of course.
“Books sounds like a virtuous thing to spend money on,” I say.
“What do you spend yours on?”
I can’t really answer guns and gadgets, so I shrug. “Eating nice food for sure. A personal trainer. My house.”
She frowns at the last thing I say but doesn’t comment. “Food like this? Eating out?”
“I like to eat out, yes. Or have good food at home. My stepdad is into grilling, and my mother is a great cook, but I confess I have a chef delivery service. I like places like this, though. Eating new things is good. Tasting menus are fun.”
“I like eating food like that too,” she says. “You know, picky bits.”
“Picky bits?” I repeat.
“That's what my mum used to call it.” She smiles sadly.
Her English accent is charming, and it suits her somewhat renaissance-like features.
“She used to make picky bits for tea sometimes. She put these little cocktail sticks out on the plates and pushed the olives on them and maybe squares of beetroot, along with pickles, little chunks of cheddar cheese; that kind of thing. It was our favorite meal.”
She looks down at her hands. “I miss her.”
It is said so quietly I almost don't hear it. In a way I wish I hadn't because I'm not sure what to say. I don't want to offer vague assurances because she lost her mother, and that's not an easy wound to recover from. I lost my father before I ever knew him, and it took years for me to get over it. Only when I learned what an absolute coward he was did I finally heal. Except the skin that healed over that scar was thick and vicious with anger. In a sense, it was a totally new scar of its own. Instead of a bleeding open wound full of sorrow, it was a puckered angry wound full of hate.
I suppose I still grieved him but in anger instead of sorrow.
“Well, let's raise a glass to your mother when we get the wine. We can dedicate this meal to her memory.”
I must have accidentally fallen on the right thing to say, because she glances up at me, and for the first time since I saw her on that bed with that disgusting dirty rag in her mouth, she offers me a genuine smile.
My heart skips a beat because that smile is the most breathtaking thing I've ever seen.
I clear my throat and beckon the server over. “We’ll have the tasting menu please. With the various wines. Can you bring us a sparkling wine to start?”
I'll only sip at each glass of wine and take a taste because I'm driving.
The sparkling wine is brought to the table, and it’s accompanied by a small bowl of salted almonds and another bowl of olives.
Adriana lifts the flute to her lips with a slender hand and takes a sip. Her eyes flutter closed as she smiles softly and swallows. “That's delicious.”
“To your mother, “I say.
“To Mum,” she replies, and her voice catches slightly.
She looks down again, and I let her escape this time because she clearly needs to regroup. She nibbles on an almond and then takes an olive into her mouth, chews on it, and then slowly pushes the stone out of her mouth and delicately drops it onto a plate.
I want to lick the salty olive taste from her lips. It's an overriding urge that I have to sit on hard. I clench my hands and look out the window for a moment to distract myself.
“So, what's the plan then?” Adriana finally speaks, but it's not small talk. She wants to make conversation about the situation.
I look at her and hope she can see the disappointment in my gaze. I've just driven her for miles for a sumptuous meal, and even though we need to talk about this, it would be nice to get to know something about her during this meal. About what makes her tick. What she likes. “Can't we just enjoy this lunch?”
“I don't even have a purse,” she says. “Do you know how weird that feels? I'm not even a real person anymore. I have no identification.”
“I'll buy you a purse if it makes you feel better,” I suggest.
“You don't get it,” she hisses, leaning across the table. “I don't have anything that a normal person would. I feel as if I've disappeared from the face of the earth. I have no phone. No money.”
“You don't need them.” I shrug. “Who would you call? Your stepmother? Your father? I'm sure that would go down well. I'm sure your alcoholic father wouldn't immediately tell your stepmother that you've called, and she wouldn't immediately call Ari who would put a tracer out to find out where you are.”
Shit, I let my temper get the better of me. Her face flushes when I say the words “alcoholic father.” The shutters come down. That blank, withdrawn expression fills her eyes again, drowning out the tentative joy.
I reach for her hand, but she pulls it back from me and settles both of them in her lap.
“You’re acting like a sociopath,” she says calmly. “I understand that this is just another day at the office for you, but this is all terrifying for me. I have no floor beneath me. Everything I had and was has been ripped away, and you just want me to eat a meal and pretend to be having a happy, normal time.”
Ouch. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of being hard or cold, but sociopathic?
“Adriana, this is more complicated than you understand.” I keep my voice extremely low. I glance out the window again and look as far behind me as I can to make sure that the reassuring shape of the black SUV is there. It is. We were seated at a table where no one is within hearing distance, so I continue. Part of me is loath to share this information, but we’re at the point where she needs to know. “Dorian wasn't just keeping you for himself. He was going to sell you for a hell of a lot of money. Given that Dorian waved a hefty debt for you, we can assume he believes he’ll make that and more in return by selling you. Maybe even make millions.”
She bursts out laughing as if I've just told a great joke. I frown at her in confusion.
“His men mentioned something about me being sold. But millions? It’s ridiculous. Why would anyone sell me for that much money?” she asks, her arms spread wide as if she’s struggling to comprehend what I’m saying. “For what reason? I don't have any skills. Unless they want someone to tell them about great literature, or perhaps organize their library for them. Still,” she says, as if thinking about this seriously, “a librarian would be better for that. I guess I could clean, but I'm not the best. My mother used to say I was a scatty girl with my head in the clouds, and I didn't notice the mess I trailed everywhere around me. I'm not the best cook either.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Is she really this naive? I've never been to England, or anywhere in the United Kingdom, but I'm pretty sure they have television there, the news, and all modern communication methods. She can't have grown up not understanding how the world works. “You do have something you can offer.” I keep my tone even as I make the point.
“Oh, you mean my virginity.” She rolls her eyes. “God, men are weird. Why would anybody pay for that? Okay, so let's say they would. Dorian is going to sell me for my virginity. And he'll get what, maybe fifty thousand for it. I'm sure I saw something once where a student sold her virginity online, and she got fifty thousand. Maybe it was even a hundred thousand. So where do the millions come in? If he truly let Hana off a debt worth a small fortune for me and my silly virginity, he’s made a bad mistake.”
“I don't think it's just your virginity that the buyer would be after,” I say.
“I mean, what else? I'm not, you know, good at that stuff .”
Her face flushes again, and I swallow hard as the meaning of that stuff hits home. For some reason, her telling me that she's no good at sex, instead of making me question my obsession, only fuels it more. I'm now sitting at a table in one of the most expensive restaurants in Napa Valley with a raging hard-on.
“You're stunning,” I say. “Some men will pay a lot of money to own that beauty.”
“They wouldn't own it, though, would they?” She meets my gaze, and there's a spark of defiance there. I like that spark. It's better than the shutters that come down when she closes off. “I wouldn't let them own my supposed beauty.”
“Adriana, no offense, but with the kind of people we're talking about, you couldn't stop them from taking it.” Then I smirk. “Also stop it with the supposed beauty crap. You know how gorgeous you are.”
She shakes her head. “I know I’m pretty but I’m not uniquely gorgeous. There are so many stunning women in this world. I'm not that special. I don't even wear clothes that highlight any of my figure. I rarely wear makeup. Why would anybody notice me?”
I file away the information that she rarely wears makeup, yet she applied some for our date.
“If you think that most men can't see beyond the fact that you're not wearing makeup or a sexy dress to see how stunning you are, then you're sorely mistaken. You clearly don't understand men at all. In fact, of course you don't. Have you even had a boyfriend?”
“Of course I've had a boyfriend,” she says with a rolls of her eyes that manages to make her look goofy but also kind of sweet.
Fierce possessiveness settles over me. I hate the fact that she had a man in her life, or more likely a boy . Some pimply nerd who talked about literature with her. Maybe he wrote her poetry. Perhaps he picked her daisies on his way to meet her. I don’t do those things, but I will kill anyone who means her harm. If you ask me, that’s a much better present than a poem. If I bring her the head of Ari, what could be more romantic?
“How long were you together?” I ask.
“Not long … well, not long for my first boyfriend. We were together about four months. My second boyfriend lasted a little bit longer than that. I think around six months.”
“So you had two long-term relationships, and yet you’re a virgin. How come?”
She's just taken a sip of wine, and she giggles a little before coughing. She coughs so much that her eyes start to water. I hand her a napkin. She keeps coughing, and I pour her a glass of water from the pitcher at our side.
“Hey, take a drink of this.”
She drinks, and slowly the choking subsides.
“It’s not that weird,” she says.
“It kind of is outside of pretty conservative communities, I would think.” I realize I don’t actually know and that I’ve made a lot of assumptions about her.
“I’m not deeply conservative or religious,” she says finally as she gains her composure. “My mother was, and I went to church with her sometimes. It amuses me that men assume the only reason a woman might want to be careful is if she’s religious. My mother warned me about men. She told me that they were pigs. Most of them, anyway. She said they only wanted one thing, and that if I had any sense about me, I wouldn't give it to them. She said it to me often. I think maybe something bad happened to her. I used to think my father was her savior, but these days I'm not so sure. Maybe my father was just another in a long line of pigs.”
She glances at me and then back to the almonds. She picks one up but instead of popping it into her mouth, then she plays with it, dropping it in the bowl, picking it up, and dropping it in the bowl again. Soon her second hand joins the first, and she messes about with the almonds as if they are playthings, not food.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Your mother told you that all men are pigs. Yet you had boyfriends, so you clearly didn't think they were pigs.”
“Oh, I don't know. They tried to convince me to give it up, but I told them I wanted to wait. Eventually, they both left me for girls who gave them what they wanted on a platter. So you tell me; were they pigs? If they liked me enough, they would have waited, no?”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen with the first boy and nineteen with the second.”
I laugh softly. “There aren't many teenage boys who would wait around for a girl unless they were actually in love. Hormones are a powerful thing.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Because they are pigs . It wasn't just them,” she continues. “When I was thirteen-years-old, maybe as young as twelve—I can't quite recall—I started to develop curves and had to wear a bra. That’s when disgusting old men started staring at me. I didn't like it. My friend at school used to love it. The moment we left the school grounds she'd be hiking her skirt up to show more leg and loving it when the builders whistled from the scaffolding. I didn't like it. It made me feel cheap. Even though I wasn't asking for that attention. Getting it, however, made me feel like I was the one somehow in the wrong.”
She shrugs and drops the almonds back in the bowl. “It was easier to wear baggy clothes, pull my hair back, and not bother with makeup. If you keep your head down, kind of, I don't know, slouch a little, I suppose, it’s surprisingly easy to blend into the background.”
I reach out because she's looking at the damn table again. With my finger crooked, I gently notch it under her chin and lift her face. She swallows and holds my gaze as I look into her eyes.
“Your mother was correct. There are a lot of pigs out there, but I believe there are some princes too.”
I let go of her chin and offer her a smile. She takes a sip of her wine and smiles at me. “Let me guess,” she says. “You're a prince, right?”
Her smile stretches as she teases gently.
“I'm no prince, Littleblue, although I am an heir to a throne of sorts but my crown is tarnished and my reign bloody.”
“What are you then if not the prince of this story?”
“In your story?” I give her the truth. “I don't really know. All that I do know is this… I can protect you. Think of me as more of a knight. A warrior rather than royalty. I'll gladly stand between you and the world. I'll do that until anybody who's a threat to you is gone.” I might be a prince in the Bratva world but in her world, the one she lived in before her father inadvertently married into the mob, I’d be seen as scum.
She swallows hard.
“And you just do that for free, I suppose?” She purses her full lips and watches me. “Just like that, for nothing. Because you're a knight? You got the maiden and expect nothing in return.”
She’s not stupid, but she’s also wrong.
“I will guard you and expect nothing in return.”
Her brows raise slightly; she blinks at me a couple of times.
“But … I do want you. More than I’ve ever wanted any other woman in my entire fucking life.”
The flush returns to her cheeks, and it warms them to a rosy pink. She licks her full lips and swallows again. Her hands flutter to the almonds but abort the move as the last minute she reaches for the wine; I could watch her elegant throat swallow down that drink all day long.
For long beats, my mind replaces that image with one of her swallowing my cum as I pour down her throat.
“It's not for free then, is it?” she asks ever so softly as she places the glass carefully on the table.
The server arrives at that moment and places the first dish of the day down.
“Crab, kaluga caviar, and samphire. Served with our white burgundy.”
She moves back, and the sommelier pours the wine.
Adriana looks at the tiny plate of prettily arranged food, and it seems like her excitement and desire is once more banked and hidden underneath her nervousness.
Instead of tasting her food, she reaches for the glass of chilled white wine and takes a large swallow.
I watch her closely. I imagine dealing with Adriana is somewhat like dealing with a nervous, unbroken horse. If you want to ride it, you must be careful not to push too far, too fast. Or she'll bolt.
“I said that I want you, but I didn't say that I expected anything from you.” I take a sip of the wine and relish the sharp burst of flavors on my tongue. “There is no price for me finding the people who pose a threat to you, other than the one we originally discussed. That is, if we have a party on the yacht, you pretend that you’re with me. You sit on my knee if that’s what's needed, in front of the guests, and you let me treat you like an accessory on my arm. It's purely for show. The rest of it, me wanting you, that's just me being honest. There is no onus on you to act on it.”
She gives me her gaze again, and I feel as if I've won a prize. She's so shy with the eye contact, and each time I win it without having to ask for it feels precious. “You want me to act on it,” she says. You wouldn't have told me otherwise.”
“I want you in my bed. Yes. I can’t get that if you don’t even know I desire you. However, there are two things you need to know about me. One is that I don't force women. The second is that I truly believe anything worth having can take hard work.”
Her lips twitch slightly.
“In the tales of old, knights had to win the maiden’s hand, right? You’re the literary scholar, right? Maybe this is my quest, and it will win you over, oh fair maiden.” I cock an eyebrow.
“You're arrogant,” she says with a smile.
“When you come to my bed, it will be of your own free will. In fact, my Littleblue, that is what will make it so very sweet for me.”
“Yes,” she says. “Incredibly cocky. I note the use of when and not if .”
I shrug. “You're attracted to me. And we're going to be spending a lot of time together in close quarters over the next few weeks. I could also promise you that I'm not a pig.”
She snorts, and it's so unladylike and so out of keeping with her general appearance that it makes me laugh.
“That's just what a pig would say,” she replies.
“Well then, I'll just have to show you, won't I?”
She finally tastes the food, seemingly reassured by my words. Her eyes roll back, and she lets out a soft, throaty moan. And there goes my appetite. I suddenly don't want the food on my plate; I want to be eating her instead.
She swallows the food and looks at me, her eyes wide and round. “Oh my God,” she exclaims. “That's absolutely delicious. I’ve never eaten food like it. The flavors. There's something in it that I can't place, but it's so delicious. It makes me think of buttercups even though I don’t know what they taste like.”
I smile again. This woman is whimsical and charming, and if I let myself, I could find that I want more than just her body. A lot more. She’s refreshing and different, and it makes me imagine us doing silly shit together like lazy afternoons in the park with a picnic, or days wandering around art galleries. The kind of stuff I’ve never really done. I work. Eat. Fuck sometimes. Work out. Sleep. Christ, my life is dull really when you get right down to it, and Adriana is not dull. She’s intriguing and charming, and I could find myself liking her. A lot. I push that particular thought away and force myself to taste my own dish. She's right; it is delicious.
The server returns and clears it away for the next dish to be placed in front of us with a flourish. Soon we are on our fourth course, or perhaps our fifth; I’ve lost count. A different glass of wine has been brought with each one, but I've only had a few sips, and so has Adriana.
“You can drink more of the wine, you know,” I point out. “You don't have to drive.”
“I don't like being drunk,” she says. “I enjoy a small glass of wine now and again, but I don't like the feeling of being out of control. It scares me.”
“You've never gotten drunk or high?” It seems unusual for a girl who's only just out of college.
“Yes, I have, and that's exactly why I know I don't like it. I want to be in control of my faculties at all times. Especially when I'm a lamb amongst the wolves.”
“Think of me more as a guard dog than a wolf.” I smirk.
“Yeah, you’re a veritable golden retriever. You’re more like a big cat than any kind of canine.”
“What, lazy?”
She laughs, and I notice the dimples at the side of her cheeks really pop when she laughs properly.
“No, you’re more of a silent but deadly prowler. I can see you being totally quiet with your enemies until the moment you pounce, not running the length of the fence, giving them a warning.”
The server brings another plate and asks me something, but I struggle to make sense of what she said. The ringing in my ear is extra loud today, and I think it's because of the stress of this situation. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Can you repeat that, please?”
The server asks us if we would prefer a fish or a meat course for the last tasting dish before she brings the deserts out.
I pick meat, and Adriana picks fish.
Adriana is talking to me again, and I listen as I watch her mouth move. I picked up the habit of watching people’s mouths when they spoke because it is easier for me to parse their words. I'm not fully lip reading when I do so, and was never trained in it, yet watching the movements their mouths make seems to help my brain understand the sounds better. When I was injured in the blast, my leg was operated on. My side was stitched up and the bleeding stopped during my medical evacuation, but the one thing no one could fix was my fucked up hearing.
When an explosion occurs, the blast can cause severe and long-lasting hearing damage. In my case it was bad enough to get me a medical discharge and a new skill: reading lips.
Adriana is talking about how at college she was a nerd.
“What's your favorite book?” I ask.
“ Rebecca ,” she answers instantly. “That hint of romance but with the danger and the gothic vibes. I love the gothic. I’d have given anything to spend an evening with Byron and Shelley. Can you imagine? So yeah, Rebecca. Followed by Jane Eyre as a close second. What about you? Do you like to read?”
“I do. When I get the chance, which is not often these days. I read a lot in the military, though.”
Her brows punch up to her hairline. “You were in the military? Did you enjoy it?”
“Yep.” I give a quick nod. “I was in the Marines, and I loved it. I only left due to an injury.”
“Are you okay now?”
“Pretty much,” I prevaricate. She’s sharing with me, and I should return the gesture, but talking about my hearing loss makes me feel less than somehow.
She chews on her lip. “If you don’t mind me saying, it seems a bit strange. To go from the military to … this. The, you know … being in the work you do now.”
Her fishing around for a non-offensive way to explain what I do for a living makes me laugh softly under my breath. “You'd be surprised at how much the two roles have in common, to be honest. Anyway, I got into this line of work because of my father. Or, I should say, my stepfather. He runs the organization. He needed me to help, and I gave it.”
“Do you regret it?”
Her question throws me off balance. Most people simply don't ask me such things. In fact, I realize that this is the first conversation that I've had in a long time where I haven't been barking orders to someone. It’s refreshing. I’m enjoying talking properly with someone other than Alexis or Yuri who seem to be the only two people not afraid of me other than Jacob.
“No. I found it strange at first. And I worried that I was doing something that went against my principles. I learned quickly that wasn't the case. The world is a much messier and much more complicated affair than most people ever want to admit. I don't think the things we do are that bad.”
Her gaze meets mine and I sense her defiance again, but something else too; a sadness of sorts, perhaps.
“I think it's bad,” she says very quietly. “I think taking women and girls from their homes and holding them on yachts and sending them to auctions is very bad.”
“Dorian did that, not me.”
“I know, but you do the same sort of work. I just don't think that kind of thing is ever okay.”
“Neither do I.” There’s a sharpness to my tone, and I try to bite it back as her eyes widen. “We don't do anything like that . Ever . Understood?”
“Yes. If you say so.”
Wow, talk about a passive aggressive answer. But I don't want to argue with her. I brought her here to give us a break from the boat. It was a risk, and I made sure we had heavy security, but with the intel I have, it’s a calculated risk that is worth it for her to have some space and some time away. The air on that thing is oppressive, somehow. It's as if the sadness of those trafficked girls is lingering despite them being gone. I would rather have her in my house than on that boat, and I’ll talk to Jacob about it. If we can make the party happen sooner rather than later, while we’re sure the men running the auction don’t know one of their prizes is missing, that would be safer all around.
The server places two small desserts along with the matched final wine on the table, and Adriana's face lights up a little.
“I love sweet food,” she says. “Honestly, I could live on it. Except I’d hear my mother in my head, talking to me, telling me that if I eat nothing but sugary foods, I’ll be malnourished or get rickets or the like.”
If I had my way, I'd feed her sweets all day long. Just to watch her lick her lips the way she does after tasting the lemon dessert. Just to see her eyes flutter closed slowly and then open, her pupils large as she looks at me. Just to hear that soft moan in the back of her throat.
I'd slay her dragons and fight her enemies, and then I'd carry her to a bed of silk sheets and plump pillows and lay her down on it as I worshipped every single inch of her flawless body.
She has a couple of tiny freckles on the back of one hand, but the rest of her skin is pure, creamy perfection. It’s an exquisite canvas of unblemished smoothness. She has the most translucent skin I've ever seen. I want to touch it so badly.
Swallowing, I give in to the urge. I gently turn her hand over palm up, and then I brush the inside of her wrist with my thumb. Soft. I brush her skin again, and we watch each other as I do.
She feels like velvet, she smells like roses, and she looks like perfection.
I allow myself one last lingering touch of her soft skin, my thumb smoothing over the blue veins visible underneath her flesh. Those veins that pump hard and fast in time with her heart and carry the blood around her body. And then suddenly, feeling far too close to her emotionally, I take my hand back. She gently touches two fingers to where my thumb was on her wrist.
I don't know if she's relishing my touch or trying to erase it.
“You haven't tried the chocolate one.” I jerk my chin toward the other desert.
“I was saving it for last.”
I dip the spoon into the dessert, scooping a tiny amount onto the utensil and then holding it to her mouth. She watches me for a moment, and I think she's going to take the spoon from me and feed herself. But then she parts her full lips, her small pink tongue poking out slightly, and I slowly slide the spoon into her mouth. She closes her lips around the utensil and sucks as I pull it out, transfixed.
She gives a low groan of appreciation and damn, my dick is so hard I could use it as a hammer.
“That's delicious,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, “it was.”
When we finally leave the restaurant, the sun is high in the afternoon sky. It's warm, but there is a breeze cooling our skin. Adriana lifts her hair like she did in the restaurant, and her eyes drift closed as the soft wind blows across her nape. She shivers slightly, and her lips turn up in a small smile. Tiny goosebumps break out along her arms and up her neck. She lets her hair drop and gives another soft shiver.
I watch, fascinated.
My Littleblue has a secret weakness.
One that I’ve discovered through this meal and by watching her closely. Adriana, for all her innocence and lack of experience, is a sensual creature. She's tried to live a good life. She's tried not to get drunk. She doesn't like to be out of control.
She avoided men like a good girl because her mother told her they were pigs.
Yet just the caress of the breeze on her skin is enough to have her break out in goosebumps of pleasure. The taste of chocolate has her moaning as if she's having an orgasm. A sip of sparkling wine and her eyes flutter closed in delight.
Yes, my Littleblue is a sensual creature, and she's been starving herself.
I'm going to turn her into a glutton for touch, taste, and scent. A greedy hoarder of orgasms and sensual delights.
Then, when she's addicted to feeling good, she won't be able to resist me.
I'll make her mine, and I'll stamp myself on every single centimeter of her body.