Chapter 27
AMARA
“Fuck me.”
The words that come out of Ransome’s mouth are words I have had fantasies about. Wet dreams about.
But in this context, they aren’t so sexy. In this context, Ransome’s hand is swollen and bleeding from making contact with Tristan’s teeth. From the looks of it, it might be broken.
“Do you think you should go to the hospital?” I ask, watching as he shoves his hand under the penthouse faucet while fumbling with his left hand to open a package of gauze.
“No,” he snaps. It’s a tone that would usually intimidate me, but right now, I’m annoyed.
“Let me help.” Before he can protest, I grab the gauze from him.
“Why do you have a tone?”
“Because you do! And because you took me to that stupid party,” I say between ripping a strip of gauze with my teeth, “and because you made me walk in by myself into a room of people who obviously hate me,” I rip another strip, “and then you paraded me around the dance floor in front of those people. And then!” I rip the last strip before digging through his first-aid kit for antiseptic, though I don’t see any.
“You kissed me. Way to hammer the final nail into my coffin. I assume it’ll be a closed-casket funeral. ”
“You’re being fucking dramatic.”
He shuts off the faucet and pats his hand dry with a paper towel. I grab a bottle of vodka out of the cabinet and pull the cork out, tossing it across the counter just for dramatic emphasis.
It also fucks with his OCD, which is kind of fucking hilarious right now. “Did you know that I was verbally assaulted by not one, but two Chadovichs tonight?”
His face turns serious. “What?”
“Oh, yeah. Not only do the Rozanovs disapprove of me, but thanks to your little stunt, now the other half of NYC’s Bratva officially hates me too.” I give him a mock bow. “Hence, closed casket.”
For a long moment, he remains silent. Then, “What’s with the bottle?” he nods over at me. “I thought you didn’t like vodka.”
“I don’t,” I say.
Then I grab his hand and dump the contents onto it.
“FUCK!” Ransome yanks his hand away. He crouches down with gritted teeth and swears again before coming back to his feet. “I have Neosporin, you know!”
“I didn’t see it. You must have used it all the last time you decked a guy at a party.”
“You knew what you were getting into.” Ransome’s face is right over mine, teeth out, eyes on fire.
But I don’t even blink. “And so did you. Now hold still.”
I take the strips one by one and gently—because I’m not a complete bitch—start wrapping his hand.
“What were you doing outside alone with Tristan anyways?” he asks after the first strip is on.
“Well, after your fiancée harassed me in the little girls’ room—”
“She’s not my fiancée. I never agreed.”
“I needed some air. And while I was out there, Tristan decided to join me.”
“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t go places alone,” Ransome grunts.
“I’m a grown woman. I don’t need a chaperone. Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
“It’s not about chaperones. But in this world, it’s never good to go anywhere alone.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time you invite me to a party as the walking dartboard.”
Ransome’s jaw clenches. I don’t know if it’s because his hand hurts or because I’m being sassy as fuck with him right now. Probably both, if I had to guess.
Then, after a beat, he asks, “Are you attracted to him?”
“Am I attracted to who?” I ask, finishing his hand. Then I grab the bottle of vodka and take a swig. Because why the hell not at this point. I never did get to finish my drink.
Ransome glares at me.
“If you are talking about Tristan, then no. Asshole men who act like God’s gift to women while their shit does in fact stink aren’t exactly my type.”
Ransome studies my face. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”
I look at him. He stares at me. “Electra was right about you. You are a jerk. And I should have gone with her tonight instead of your little dress-up party.”
“Gone with her where?”
Suddenly, excitement pricks my skin.
He’s jealous.
“A double date,” I say.
“She’s still trying to set you up?” His voice rises a fraction. I doubt he’s even aware of it.
But I am. Oh, I am. “I doubt she’ll ever stop,” I laugh casually.
As I start to walk away, he grabs me by the arm, whipping me around to face him. His good hand goes tight on my wrist.
The excitement travels up my arms to my chest, and my heart catches up.
His eyes are so angry, they’ve gone from their normal cobalt blue to an oceanic dark. And for a moment, as his face hovers right above mine, his lips close enough to kiss, I think he might just do that. I actually kind of hope that he will.
Kiss me. Mark your territory. Show them all I’m yours.
But Ransome does not kiss me. Instead, he lets go with enough jerk that I feel like I’m being shoved off.
Then he holds out his hand.
It takes me a second to put two and two together and decipher what he’s asking. When I do, I step back.
“What? No! Absolutely not.”
“Give it to me,” he demands.
“I am not giving you my phone!” I argue back. “I’m not your slave.”
“But you are breaching the contract,” he says, getting right up in my face even closer than before. In fact, his body has mine pinned against the counter.
“How have I breached the contract?” I do my best to stay on subject despite how distracting the physical contact is.
It’s easier said than done with his hard-on pressed to my stomach.
“By threatening to go out with other men. Need I remind you of the monogamy clause?”
“And need I remind you that I have followed every rule? And that holding me hostage was never in the contract in the first place and is, in fact, illegal?”
He gets even closer.
“So call the police,” he growls slowly. “I dare you.”
When I do and say nothing, Ransome pulls back and puts his hand out again.
I hand him my phone.
After that, he leaves.
The door locks. I let out a frustrated scream. I know he can hear me. I also know he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t come back in. If I had to guess, Ivan is back on duty.
I pace around the penthouse, trying to decide what to do.
I could trash it again, but that was a lot of work.
I could break a window, set off an alarm, and force him to come back here when the police show up.
But I’m smart enough to know that whenever cops do show up to a Rozanov house, they are probably paid off by the Bratva to ignore whatever it is they have seen there.
Because, apparently, that’s how the justice system works around here.
And what a fine system it is.
So, instead, I just pace, wondering how I ever got myself into this in the first place.
Then, after I’ve been trekking back and forth long enough that I’m probably digging a ditch, my eyes land on the office door. The only closed door in the house, as usual.
And I get curious.
Padding over to it, I don’t hold my breath. I simply grab the knob, thinking I know what to expect. The rattle of a locked door, no doubt.
Except that it opens.
Inside, the air is stuffy but clean, and it smells like Ransome. Leather and pine. I flip on the lights, not caring anymore if he realizes I was in here. In fact, if he storms back in and decides to beat one out, I’m not going to just stand around this time.
I look around the room for anything new, anything that might give me insight into the world I now know about. But I’m not looking for journals or pictures or phones or anything like that. I’m not exactly sure what I am trying to find, but I know that whatever it is, it’s more personal than that.
I don’t want to know about Ransome Rozanov, future pakhan. I just want to know about Ransome. Because no one can be this heartless, this jaded, this stone-faced.
There’s a human being in there, and I am going to find him. If I have to date him, I am going to find him.
As I rummage through drawers and cabinets, I find nothing out of the ordinary. I run my hand along the books on the shelves, most of which have to do with business. Then, right in the middle of the top-left shelf, I see a book that feels out of place.
Hooking my finger along the top of the spine, I pull it down.
Carnival by Rawi Hage.
It’s an interesting book to find on his shelf. Almost unnatural. I open it up and find a name handwritten in pen.
Niklaus Rozanov.
Inside is a photo.
Immediately, I recognized Ransome, though he looks much younger than he is now.
A late teen, maybe. Next to him is a kid even younger than him, maybe by two or three years.
Both of them are smiling, though the other kid looks a lot wilier.
They’re standing with their arms looped around each other’s shoulders.
They’re leaning back against what appears to be a black Maserati.
It’s an expensive car. As in, three-bedroom house expensive.
But that’s not the thing my eyes capture about the photo.
It’s Ransome. His smile is wide. Carefree. Like he hasn’t got a problem in the world. And there’s also affection in it, something I’ve never seen in him. I look at the kid again, then the signature, and the book. All of it has me curious. All of it has me questioning.
Who is Niklaus? More than that, who was Ransome?
And what happened to him?