Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
VIKTORIA
H is soft voice almost hid the threat in his words, but I knew he meant it, just like I knew there wasn't a single person here who would stop him.
His hand moved to my thigh under the table, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, possessive, commanding.
I hated that his threat made my core clench with forbidden desire at the thought of being at his mercy again.
"Please," I said, keeping my tone polite and professional as possible. "We were having such a lovely talk. I just had a bad day at school, and I would like to enjoy this dinner. Can we talk more about your engineering system or how you met Dima? I'm sure he wasn't the only one in that lecture."
"No." He took a long sip of the wine, his throat working as he swallowed.
I couldn't help but remember how those same lips had claimed mine, how his teeth had grazed my neck.
"You can tell me what caused you to have a bad day, and then maybe I will share my stories with you."
He wanted something. I could feel it.
Did he want me to admit that I was distracted in class thinking about him?
Did he want to hear that I was struggling in the classes I chose?
Or did he think it had something to do with this morning? Too sore from being fucked into oblivion to walk to class?
I grabbed my water glass, watching as it shook a little in my hand as I brought it to my lips to buy myself time. The cool liquid did nothing to extinguish the fire burning inside me.
Jesus, did everyone shake like this around him?
The truth was the best option, or at least a version of it. Another lesson from Dima. To keep your lies straight, and believable, they should be as close to the truth as possible.
"One of my professors has been less than professional and it's making my life increasingly difficult." I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip, not meeting his eyes.
"Less than professional how?" His question a growl that stood the hair on the back of my neck up.
"Not like that," I said, as I reached across the table to touch his hand.
My fingers brushed against his knuckles, feeling the hard ridges there, wondering how many bones they had broken.
The gesture was very similar to the way I used to watch my mother calm my father with just a simple touch to assure him she was there, and it was fine.
"Then how?" The edge in his tone softened, but was still very much there, a blade sheathed in velvet.
"He asked me a question that wasn't part of the reading and when I didn't know the answer, he laid into me. It's fine. It's not the first time it’s happened, it's just?—"
"That doesn't sound unprofessional. It sounds like he's challenging you?" His thumb brushed over my wrist, feeling my fluttering pulse there.
Artem may not have meant to imply that I wasn't good enough, but that was what it sounded like. The familiar sting of inadequacy burned in my chest.
"He said the only way I got into the school was by sleeping my way into his class." My cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation. "He constantly diminishes me for being a woman, for being a first generation American-Russian, having community college classes, and other things that just?—"
"Tell me exactly what he said," Artem said, his face smoothed into a blank mask of control, all except the vein in his neck that bulged and pulsed, a silent testament to his rage.
I messed up.
Worse, he wasn't going to let me get out of this. Artem was going to get his answers one way or another and it was going to be far easier for me to just give them to him. Because I wanted to know more about how he knew Dima.
So I told him the truth. I told him every horrible thing that the professor had said to me. Leaving out that it was prompted by my distracting thoughts of him, by the memory of his hands gripping my hips, his mouth leaving marks on my skin.
"He's never touched me," I said. "He's just a dick that likes to put down students he sees as beneath him to feel good about himself. He's a bully and an asshole, and after the semester ends, I'm never going to see him again."
I waved it away like it was no problem at all and just a minor inconvenience, though the professor's words still stung like salt in an open wound.
Artem didn't see it that way.
Anger radiated off of him like heat from a furnace. His face was still completely neutral, but there was something in his eyes that was terrifying.
A darkness.
A promise of violence that had my stomach clenching with both fear and, shamefully, excitement.
"What's his name?" he asked and immediately I knew how much I had messed up. His fingers tightened around mine, not painful, but inescapable.
The server came to deliver our food and refill our drinks. She was quick, efficient, and practically ran from our table as quickly as possible, her shoes squeaking against the marble floor.
Part of me wanted to call after her and tell her to take me with her.
Instead, I was stuck. Unless I wanted my professor to get one hell of a beating and know it was my fault, and then regret making everything so much worse, I had to change the subject.
"This looks great. Do you come here often?" I asked, batting my eyelashes, a desperate attempt at distraction. I leaned forward, letting my breasts press against the edge of the table.
Artem didn't move. His face was still an unreadable mask, but his eyes burned with an intensity that scorched me from within. His jaw clenched, a muscle there twitching beneath taut skin.
"I asked you a question, Viktoria. We've been over this." His voice was a deadly whisper. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer."
So much for that.
He stared at me unblinkingly and for a moment, I met his challenge and stared back.
I kept my expression neutral, but I didn't blink.
He didn't get to win every single argument; he didn't get to solve all of my problems just to make more.
The same server came to deliver another plate. Her arm was outstretched to place the plate down when it slipped from her fingers as she mumbled something about a gift from the kitchen. The plate dropped and fell to the floor, shattering. Some kind of butter-sauced dish splattered across the dark marble surface.
The poor girl stared up in horror and looked like she was about to cry, her lips trembling, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
To my surprise, Artem gave her a gentle smile and said, "Don't worry about it. Those plates are heavy. I'm sure it happens to everyone."
Then he waved over the ma?tre d', whose face was white as a ghost as his jowls trembled, sweat beading on his forehead.
The server opened her mouth to say something when the manager came and rushed her away and a team of four busboys were there to immediately clean up the mess. They really were terrified of him, and now he wanted my professor's name.
"Viktoria," he said as a warning, the single word a lash of command. "I won't ask again."
If I gave it to him, then whatever happened to the professor would be my fault. What was going to happen to me if I didn't? Would I end up over Artem's knee again, his palm reddening my flesh until tears streamed down my face and shameful pleasure bloomed between my thighs?
He wouldn't drop it.
I knew that much.
Would he try to figure out who it was?
Would I be responsible for the pain and suffering of other professors?
"Viktoria." My name on his tongue was low, barely a hiss, the sound a snake produced before it struck.
"Professor Stevens," I said with a sigh, defeat settling in my stomach like a stone. "Artem, please, let me handle this. If you try to scare him or something, it will only make things worse."
Artem lifted his hand, and immediately a member of his security detail was at his side. I hadn't even realized they were in the restaurant. No wonder the staff were all so terrified.
The guard was wearing a black-on-black suit that, although it fit well, did nothing to hide the gun holster under his arm, or at his ankle. The metal gleamed dully in the dim light, a promise of violence barely concealed.
He whispered something into the security guard's ear. The man gave Artem a single nod before taking a step back and disappearing, melting into the shadows like he'd never existed.
"What are you going to do to him?" I asked, my heart racing in my chest.
"That," Artem said, his eyes locked with mine, "is none of your concern."
His hand returned to my thigh under the table, squeezing possessively, a reminder of exactly who I belonged to.