Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
EDIE
Luka doesn’t speak as he leads me to a black SUV parked in the shadows. Storm is at the wheel, waiting for orders.
We get in the back, Luka on one side of the backseat, me on the other, clutching my pink Pusheen overnight bag like it might save me or something.
The city blurs past the tinted windows, neon streaks of light reflecting off wet pavement.
The silence between us is thick and oppressive against my ribs. I keep waiting for the explosion, but he’s too cool for that, I guess. Too controlled.
Somehow, that’s more terrifying.
Would he really kill me? But he told me to pack my things. A dead girl doesn’t need a toothbrush and a change of clothes.
Unless he wants it to look like I went on a trip.
My heart sinks. We had that conversation about caring, and I thought we were really together. But now it’s like somebody else has taken over his body.
I have to get away. But how can I outwit a battle-hardened killer like Luka?
I steal a glance at his profile—the sharp set of his jaw, perfect lips, dusky brows like angry slashes. A bruise still kisses his cheekbone from that fight. He’s like a Renaissance sculpture of dangerous beauty, all shadows and light.
Quickly, I look away. I have to figure this out. He took my phone, but maybe I can get it back when he’s not looking.
A dark thought comes to me: what if he forces me to unlock it? I try to think if there’s anything incriminating on there for him to find.
But then again, he already wants to kill me. How can it get worse than that?
Then I remember Mary. Things could get worse for Mary. If Bender tries to contact me and thinks I’m blowing him off, what would he do to her?
“Can’t I just tell you why?—”
“No. Ask again, and I’ll make you sorry,” he grates out.
Anger flashes through me. “This isn’t the twelfth century. There are such things as exculpatory reasons.”
“Not in my world,” he growls. Some animal instinct in me knows not to say anymore. He probably wouldn’t care anyway.
Eventually, the car pulls up in front of a penthouse, steel and glass against the night sky. “Where are we?”
He doesn’t answer; he simply pulls me out and leads me through a sleek, glittering lobby. The doorman hands him a package without so much as a glance in my direction. I catch sight of his name on it.
So this is his place—a perfect fortress for a king. Or a prison.
When the elevator doors close, I huddle in the corner, as far from him as the small space allows, but it’s no use. His presence brushes against my skin. We get off on the top floor, and I follow him into his place.
“Put your things on the couch.” His voice is quiet. He moves to the bar, pouring himself a drink. The clink of ice against glass is impossibly loud in the silence.
“Are you gonna kill me?” I ask .
“You’ll find out when you find out,” he says, all quiet menace.
My mind spins. Except... if he was planning on killing me, why would he have brought me to his own home? The doorman saw us come in, and I’m sure there are cameras. It seems foolish, and Luka is far from foolish.
Maybe he’ll toy with me first. Punish me or whatever a man like this does. Which means I have time… to get the hell away.
I put my bag on the couch and wait, wringing my hands and looking around.
I don’t know what I expected from his place, something hard and cold, I suppose. Full-on Spartan. Everything gunmetal gray.
Instead, the place is posh and bright—chic, even—like we’ve walked into the pages of an interior design magazine. A mod statement chandelier made of swirly glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s even a blue chair in that knobby sort of fabric.
It’s not him.
But then I almost want to laugh because it’s actually so him to live in a place that’s not him.
This man who lives in the shadows and treats everything as a transaction. Nothing to pin him down. Nothing to define him. He would live in a magazine. Another way to stay hidden.
“You warned us about the meeting.” He turns, swirling amber liquid. “With the cookies.”
My breath catches. I hadn’t expected him to lead with that.
“That was your mistake, of course.”
“I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” The words spill out before I can stop them. “No matter what you think of me, I never wanted to cause trouble for you. I care?—”
“Another mistake,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “So naive.”
Excitement churns in my stomach. Even now, just his nearness turns me on. “It’s not naive to care.”
He takes a slow sip, gaze locked on mine. “You and Anastasia Laskarina.”
I blink. “What does she have to do with anything? ”
“You’re alike. The two of you living in your cloistered worlds of pastel gowns and leatherbound books, spinning elaborate theories about the world outside your castle windows. Fascinated by brutal men.”
“Fascinated by brutal men? That’s not true of her or me.”
“It’s why you study her. You’re both fascinated by the barbarians—from a distance.”
“You clearly don’t know anything about her. If you did, you would know that she was interested in all the issues of her time. Diplomacy. Matters of state. Charitable causes. She was the first teen historian. As you would’ve read in my papers.”
“According to your papers, she was obsessed with barbarians.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “That is what’s known as a flawed interpretation.”
“You know what else I think?” he rumbles.
“No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”
A predatory smile curves his lips. He sets down his drink. “I think you love it when your princess talks about how brutish and dirty they are. You love those parts. Hot for a little bit of danger.”
“It’s an academic concentration, not a sex fantasy!”
He comes close. Electricity crackles between us.
Gentle fingers skirt over my breasts.
I suck in a breath, trying to look indifferent.
“You sure about that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Your stiff little nipples beg to differ.”
“No, my entire academic career begs to differ. The nipples are responding to the thermostat settings.”
His lips are a hair’s breadth away from mine, spicy with scotch and so kissable, I can barely think. “Is that so?”
“I can read your body the same as I can read a dark street. Same as I can read a fighter’s eyes.
I know when you’re aroused, princess. It’s in the flush creeping up your neck.
” He kisses my neck. “It’s the rhythm of your breath, the way your pupils dilate when I get close.
” Another kiss. “Your body’s screaming for me. ”
“Ummm,” I say, voice husky. “Screaming for ice cream,” I say nonsensically because all the blood in my brain has drained down to my throbbing clit.
I should put a stop to this. He’d stop if I asked.
“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me no.”
“You so suck.”
He fits his hands over the collar of my thin T-shirt, his touch electric, grasps the collar... and rips the shirt down the middle.
Cool air rushes over my bare belly. “You’re such an asshole! I liked that shirt!”
“The scornful princess, imposed upon by the uncivilized barbarian.”
“For your information, they’re called Pechenegs, and they weren’t uncivilized.”
Rough lips brush my throat. The harsh scrape of stubble makes my knees buckle. “Unlock the bra, princess. Now.”
“And if I don’t?”
He traces patterns on my skin, branding me with heat. “I so suck, remember?”
My hands tremble as I undo the front clasp. My breasts pop free, and he claims them without mercy, thumbing, sucking, devouring them. I can’t think. I grab his shoulder for stability.
“You hate the way I take you over.” He mumbles against my nipple, voice like dark velvet. “You hate that you love it.”
“No, I just hate it,” I lie.
My back talk seems to spur him on. “Liar.”
He sucks harder.
Fuck, it feels good.
Suddenly, he’s on his knees in front of me, pushing down my yoga pants.
“Craving my dominance. Giving you what those pampered boys can’t. ”
I snort like it’s so ridiculous.
His lips hover over my mound as he skims my thighs with his rough palms, pushing the fabric to my ankles. He rids me of my shoes and every stitch of clothing below my waist, and I’m bared to him, way too turned on for life, pussy wet and throbbing.
His lips are still in the vicinity of my clit, and I’m desperate for him to touch me there, to lick me like in the restaurant.
Anything.
Everything.
Miracle of miracles, he shoves his tongue between my legs, rough and warm and invading.
My hand tunnels into his hair. “More.”
He fucks me with his tongue. My legs are like noodles, and I’m holding on for dear life as he switches to a finger, fucking me ruthlessly with it. He nips my belly. My eyes flutter shut.
“The prim princess, corrupted by a savage man,” he says, breath hot on my skin, finger owning my clit.
Yessss.
I’m sinking so deep into this strange reality we create together that I don’t know which way is up. It’s everything.
He stands, letting the angle of his finger grow sharper, hitting just the right spot.
I whimper.
He slows, dragging his fingertip around my sex like a god trailing energy with his touch.
“Don’t stop.”
“Shamelessly begging for more.”
My eyes fly open. I am begging.
When I vowed I wouldn’t.
But I want more. More of this. More of him. “Fuck off, you dirty beast.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, and the last thread of his control snaps. His jaw clenches, his nostrils flare, and his pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black. A wild, dark energy radiates from him—primal and untamed.
I’ve awakened something in him that should probably terrify me, but I love it way too much, and my world’s upside-down now anyway.
“That’s right,” I say. “You’re not fit to lick the leather bottoms of my gold embroidered shoes.”
He growls, long and low. With one violent swipe, he clears the bar surface. Glasses and bottles fly off, bouncing and shattering across his floor.
He hoists me up.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, claiming my thighs with rough hands. “Your body is mine. Your breath is mine. When you come is mine, and your begging is mine.”
My chest heaves as he presses my thighs apart. Our mutual heat cranks to eleven.
“Do you feel me owning you? You’re in my castle now, princess. I own this world. I’m setting the law.”
“You can lick... the... bottoms... of my... embroidered...”
His gaze is merciless as he drags his fingers through the slick proof of my undoing. My breath stutters, my fingers twitch with the urge to shove him away, pull him closer—maybe both.
“I should destroy you,” he murmurs, voice like gravel.
A shiver rips through me. Fear and need tangle together so tightly I can’t tell them apart.
“Do it,” I plead, reckless now. “Just do it.”
His thumb strokes my clit, slow, torturous. “Oh, I will,” he promises, lips brushing mine in a whisper of a kiss.