Chapter 20
AMARA
Ransome barges into his office before I have his coffee ready.
It’s still in the white, paper coffee cup, and not his matte black mug. I didn’t even see him coming. And I definitely didn’t see what was coming next.
He’s like a bat out of hell. Before I can exchange the disposable cup for the ceramic one, he grabs me, pulling me against him so hard the coffee sloshes.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I demand. “You almost spilled—”
Ransome uses his free hand to knock the cup clean out of my hand. It sails to the floor in a steaming splash. I glance over at it, then back at him, fury burning in my veins.
“What are you doing?”
No sooner do the words leave my lips than his mouth is covering mine.
At first, I keep my mouth shut. But he works his jaw nips my lip, popping my lips open before his tongue finds mine. For a split second I soften into it, the whirlwind of it all seemingly lifting me off my feet, my head spinning.
But then I grasp reality.
I press my palms to his chest and shove him back. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“You signed a contract,” he growls, yanking me against him again. His chest is like concrete, his washboard abs beneath his gunmetal button down rubbing against my body and making my nipples hard.
He goes in for another kiss, but I jerk away.
“Against my will. Don’t I have any say at all in what that looks like?”
“Contractually, no,” Ransome answers. His eyes are dark, black almost, and his hands are still gripping my waist.
“Just because we have an agreement doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me whenever and however you want, Ransome.”
I realize that I just said his first name. Not “sir,” not “Mr. Rozanov.” But his name. And I’m guessing, by the way his jaw clicks and his lips tick in the corners, that he realized it too. And he’s trying to decide how he feels about it.
And what he’s going to do about it.
Once again, I realize that all my dreams are quickly turning into nightmares.
Being kissed by Ransome, touched and held by his strong hands—it feels nothing like I fantasized it would.
There’s no gentleness to it, no care. Not an ounce of respect for me as a person.
And while that’s hot in theory, reality has a nasty way of crushing fantasies to dust.
I know one thing for sure now: Ransome is not the man I thought he was. And I don’t want this. Not like this.
But it’s too late.
“I don’t think you understand, Amara.” His restraint barely holds as he speaks.
“We have to make this look convincing. The contract and everything that comes with it is worth shit if it looks fake. And that’s exactly what people are going to think if you look like a deer in the headlights every time I touch you. Understand me?”
I don’t answer right away. That’s a mistake. Ransome pulls me hard against him again, enough to make my breath leave my lungs in a small yip.
“I am not a man that will be made to look like a fake,” he snarls, so close I can taste his breath on mine. “Do you understand me?”
Ransome Rozanov is full-on threatening me at this point. For a kiss, or maybe more. A lot more.
But I stand my ground. I didn’t get out from under a violent father just so I could end up under a violent boss. And he’s not going to turn my hard-won freedom into a joke.
“I can’t fake intimacy,” I snap. “Lust, maybe. But that’s not what we need to do, is it?” I hold his gaze, no matter how badly it burns. “You said it yourself: this can’t look like a fling. And you yanking me around isn’t going to convince anyone that this is real. It’s going to do the opposite.”
I glare up at him. Ransome glares back. I can feel the intensity of his stare on me, along with one unspoken warning: Do not test me.
But I don’t give in. I won’t. I have been a fighter my entire life and I’m not about to stop now. Certainly not just because some big scary mafia man threw his coffee on the floor to prove a childish, selfish point.
I’ve had worse than coffee thrown at my feet.
He must sense it, somehow—that I’m not backing down. Slowly, his shoulders relax a fraction. “What do you want, then?” he finally asks.
“I want to know the truth about you. What you do when you’re not here.”
“Your snooping hasn’t tipped you off?” he asks.
“I think you know how hard you are to unlock. I know you’re a dangerous man. You’ve said that. I can see it. Fuck, I can feel it.”
“That should scare you,” he says.
“I’ve seen a lot of demons in my life, Ransome.” If he can tell I’m being honest, he doesn’t show it. If he’s surprised by the fact, he shows it even less. “And I know I’m just your mouthy assistant, but I am hard to scare. So stop trying. It won’t get you what you want.”
For a moment, he is quiet. I wonder if he is going to let go.
If he’s going to turn and walk out and give me the silent treatment for talking back.
Or worse, slam me against the wall and remind me just how hard his hand can squeeze around my throat.
That would be a very Ransome thing to do—teach me my place, one way or another.
But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t walk out, doesn’t squeeze tight, and doesn’t let go.
“Believe me,” he exhales, “the less you know, the better.”
“The more I know, the more I can accommodate,” I say.
“I don’t need accommodation. I need compliance.”
With that, I force Ransome off of me and I step back enough to put some floor between us. Then I laugh. “Right. Because I’m your prisoner. Nothing more.”
Ransome doesn’t seem to like that.
“Listen to me, dorogoya. I work with some very, very bad men. Doing very bad things.”
“Bad things or dangerous things?” I ask.
“Bad. And I can tell you one thing.” He steps closer, but doesn’t try to touch me again. “People who know too much about what we really do—about what I really do—get hurt.”
I cross my arms over my chest, digesting that. “So I would assume people who know nothing at all get killed.”
Ransome glares at me. And for a second, I come to a conclusion. A calm, rational one that should probably hit way harder.
I’m going to die.
The way he is looking at me, so dark and cross, seals it. I’m more trouble than it’s worth. He made a mistake offering me that contract, and now he’s wondering how to fix it. And if I know Ransome, his preferred way of fixing things is permanently.
He takes another step forward. I’m thoroughly convinced he is going to kill me here and now.
I should run. I should bolt out the door and yell for help. Even if I don’t say what’s really going on, who he really is, I can tell them he touched me. Took advantage of me.
That’s what I should do.
But I can’t move.
Ransome takes a third step forward, closing the space between us. His hand comes up to twirl a lock of my hair in his fingers.
Then he brushes it behind my ear. It’s a soft gesture, almost too soft. So I am not surprised by what comes next.
In an instant, he reaches back, grabs a full fist of my hair, and digs his fingers into my scalp.
My mouth pops open and he looks down at me. His breath is as hot as his eyes. Searing. He moves my head to speak into my ear, his lips brushing the lobe before gruffly whispering, “Stay after work. You’re not clocking out today.”
I have no idea what to make of it. As Ransome walks around me, the breaking of contact, both physical and chemical, feels like the loss of a magnetic field. He goes to his desk and picks up his schedule, robotically going through the same motions as always.
My eyes draw to his coffee cup, laying empty on the floor in a pool of americano. So do his.
This asshole wants me to get him another one.
But I’ll be damned if I am going to do that.
I turn on my heels and stride out. I walk down the hall, through the eyes that are glued to me, mouths open, ears perked, knowing that they heard something go down. And I don’t give a fuck.
I stop at Annette’s desk and she looks up at me.
“Medium Americano. A quarter inch of cream. No sugar. Extra hot.”
“I’m sorry?” she stutters, so I lean in another inch.
“That’s Ransome’s coffee order. Legato Coffee House. Make sure it’s hot. Make sure it’s right.”
Annette doesn’t question me again. She shoves up from her roller chair and grabs her purse. I head back to my office but turn around.
“Oh. And pour it in a mug.”
“What happens if it’s not in a mug?” she asks.
A small smirk pulls at the corners of my lips. “Just make sure it is.”
I go back to my desk and I close the door. There’s nothing I can do now but wait. Not to clock out. I was told not to clock out. This isn’t overtime. It’s not an afterhours job.
Ransome Rozanov told me to stay late. And if I am being honest with myself, he’s right.
I should be scared.