Chapter 3 - Emmanuil
She tilts her chin up, defiance in her eyes, her mouth set, pouting, and her cheeks sucked in ever so slightly.
Her brown eyes look fierce.
She looks gorgeous. Her lashes catch the light, golden-brown hair framing golden-brown eyes.
She’s braided her long, wavy hair over her shoulder in a loose plait.
She’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
I remember, because that top clings tightly to her perfect breasts, and those jeans hug her ass and long, willowy legs.
I suppress the growl of desire that rumbles in my throat.
She betrayed you.
I let my eyes wander over her, studying her stance, her expression, the jut of her hip, and the tension in her shoulders. Gorgeous. Everything about her is gorgeous.
Cocking my head to the side, for the first time since seeing her again, a smile touches my lips.
Whatever she wants to say, she’s standing her ground with it.
Boldly. She’s always been a strong woman, fierce and capable.
It’s one of the many things I love about her.
Loved. Loved until she destroyed my entire world. The smile disappears.
“Alright, Anya. What do you want to talk about?” I ask, not moving. My arms are still folded over my chest as I stare down at her, doing my best to ignore her beauty.
“Don’t go after Georgie. Leave her alone. You took the wrong girl, but we can still make this work.”
I snort with laughter. “Who says I took the wrong girl?” I ask, surprised that she’s worked it out so quickly. I shouldn’t be; she’s sharp.
She ignores my question.
“I won’t tell my family about what you’ve done. Between you and me, we can come up with some kind of reason or excuse for what happened here. I won’t attempt to escape, and more importantly, I will refrain from searching for incriminating evidence that my family can use against you.”
I press my lips together, amused that she feels she has any power in this moment.
She’s my prisoner. I’m holding all the cards.
If I don’t want her searching for evidence, I can lock her away.
If I want to take the other girl, I can take her.
Anya doesn’t have leverage in this deal she’s proposing, but still, I’m intrigued.
“And in exchange for you doing all of that, you want me to leave Georgie alone?” I ask with disinterest.
“And my brother.”
“Mm. You’re asking a lot,” I sigh.
It’s hard to talk to her without thinking about things I’ve long managed to push down into the bottom depths of my memory. Things I don’t want surfacing, but here they are, in my thoughts.
Her naked body straddling me, her legs spread over my hips as she rocks herself slowly back and forth on my cock.
My hands rubbing up her silky thighs….
I clear my throat and let out a sharp, angry huff.
“Do we have a deal?” she asks, drawing my eyes to hers. I stare into her soul, searching for the truth. I have a thousand questions. Questions that have burned inside me for half a decade.
No.
That’s not true.
I only have one question.
Why did you do it?
I met Anya six years ago.
The moment I set my eyes on her, I knew I would love her till the day I died. I heard her laughter across the room at an event, and for the entire night, I couldn’t look anywhere but at her.
She was only twenty-eight years younger than me at the time.
I knew she was too young. Too young for a love so intense, too young to be making such big choices about the rest of her life.
She was too young, and she was the sister of a long-standing rival. It could never work. It was a dangerous thing to be tempted by.
I tried to stay away, but it turned out that the feelings were mutual.
She had spotted me that night, too. And despite our best efforts, we couldn’t stay away from each other.
Within the first few weeks of being together, I made it clear to her that I would give her my life and that we would be together forever.
I made a promise that we would marry when she was older, that I would make her happy.
The difficult history between our families forced us to be together in hiding.
We dated in secret for months. Every moment I spent with her, I fell deeper in love, thinking I couldn’t possibly be closer to her than I already was, and constantly being proven wrong.
For almost a year, she was my everything.
I had never been happier in my life than with her at my side.
I wanted everyone to know how much I loved her.
And despite the dangers of openly being together, we were determined to make it work.
To get through whatever we had to get through.
We began showing affection in public, being open about our love.
She was my world. And I was hers.
Or so I thought.
One night, she came over to my place. It was winter.
I built a massive fire in the fireplace and blankets all around it so that we could drink champagne and eat a cozy winter picnic in the glowing warmth while she lay her naked body in my arms; that was my plan, but Anya was distant.
She was aloof and indifferent. She hardly spoke at all, and barely acknowledged me when I touched her.
Something was very wrong. I asked her, but she had no answer.
I tried my best not to worry, but I could feel her pull away that night.
She left before I woke up.
The next morning, she was just gone. She wouldn’t answer my calls or messages.
Later that afternoon, she had her brother come and see me at my office.
He relayed the message on her behalf—it was over. She was no longer interested in being with me. It was fun while it lasted, but it was time to move on.
I refused to believe it. I demanded to hear the words from her. The Anya I knew and loved would never do this. She would never be so cruel. It couldn’t be real.
Over the next few months, over and over again, her brother delivered the same message. No matter how many times I tried to reach out to Anya directly, she wouldn’t talk to me. She changed her number; she turned her back on me.
It was torture.
And her brother loved watching the pain in my face every time he came to tell me again, stop calling her. Stay away from my sister. She doesn’t want you. Stop making a fool of yourself.
It was all a game to her, and she had become bored with me.
Then she set her brother at the helm and had him tear my life apart with his words—her words—delivered in cold, cruel, heartlessness.
It was all a game, and she played it so well.
I’m still staring into her eyes, all of that pain and torment now fresh in my memory. I feel no desire for her now, only hatred. Hatred for what she put me through. Hatred for what she did, her and her brother, toying with me.
Anya doesn’t break the stare, and as the seconds tick past, it becomes more intense.
Finally, unable to bear the heavy weight of memories flooding into my mind, I nod. “Deal,” I snap. I can’t think straight. I have to get away.
She holds out her hand to shake mine. I clench my jaw and shake to seal the agreement. Touching her is like touching a poisonous rose, the petals so soft and delicate, but the thorns as sharp as blades.
I can’t look at her for another second. I can’t stare into those eyes, the eyes of someone I loved so deeply, but who tore my heart to shreds with their cruelty. The air in the kitchen is suddenly hot and heavy and suffocating me.
“For whatever a liar’s word is worth, have when making a deal—I guess we’ll wait and see, won’t we?” I snap coldly. “And this time, I won’t fall for your cruel games, Anya. Your beauty might have grown more lustrous, but it only masks the dark, festering coldness of your heart.”
Her mouth drops open in shock. Good. Suffer the words you deserve to hear. The words I should have said five years ago instead of begging for you to come back to me.
I storm out before I lose my temper completely and do something I’ll regret.
I probably shouldn’t even have agreed to her deal. But no matter how much I want to deny it, she still has power over me.
I’m a fucking idiot.
The moment I realized they’d taken the wrong girl, I should have sent her away. This was never the plan. This is only inviting hell right into my living room. What the fuck have I done?
She’s thrown me completely off now.
I hurry upstairs to my bedroom, trying to leave my thoughts and anger in the kitchen with her. I throw on a T-shirt and some sneakers and make my way to the gym on the top floor. It’s the only thing that saves me from myself.
Over the years, I’ve used the weights, lifting heavier and heavier, to stop myself from tearing others apart in my anger.
My temper has darkened, my heart has grown cold. But clearly not cold enough, if she can still creep in and cause me pain.
I work out for an hour and a half. My body is screaming, sweat is pouring over me, soaking my clothes. I work out until every muscle has pushed away those memories and I don’t have the energy to hold onto my emotions.
Then I climb into the shower and let cold water blast over me.
Bringing her here was a mistake.
Marrying her was worse.
I acted on impulse, and I’m already filled with regret and wondering how the fuck I’m going to make this worth my while for all the agony she brings me.