Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
VIKTORIA
E verything felt different, and I couldn't put my finger on why.
After Artem showed me what happened in the woods and then took me back to the lake house, we had sex. That wasn't surprising. The second his men caught me, I knew I was going to be punished again.
This wasn't a punishment, though. It was different.
Every time we had been together before, he had been rough, but thorough. Artem always left me physically exhausted and emotionally raw, yet still deeply satisfied. This time wasn't like that.
Today, the way he kissed me, kissed my body, wasn’t exactly gentle.
Gentle wasn’t really something Artem was capable of.
It felt more like he was worshiping me, not using me.
Every single touch seemed to be charged with meaning, with reverence.
Like he was trying to show me the things he couldn't say.
Or maybe he was trying to show me the things that he knew I would never believe if he only told me.
When I left, I didn't believe I was in danger. I thought it was a lie, a ploy to keep me complacent while he played his little games. It could have easily been staged, some kind of manipulation to make me behave. It wasn't until I saw the video...the men in the woods…that I believed him.
I couldn't be sure, but the way he held me in that bed, the soft light dancing over his skin as he fell asleep holding me was...comforting. I could blame the hormones and the pheromones all I wanted, but it didn't change the facts.
Artem was tearing down the walls I had spent years building.
He wasn't taking them down brick by brick.
He was crumbling the very foundations.
That made him dangerous.
When I woke up, the sun had set. The room was completely dark except for a single candle on the bedside table. Under it was a note.
When you wake up, there is a dress for you in the closet. Meet me for dinner? -A
There was a question mark.
He wasn't demanding...he was asking.
Did that mean I could refuse? At what cost?
I took my time getting ready. A long, hot shower felt amazing, though there was the strangest pang of regret as I washed his scent from my skin. The water sluiced away the evidence of our lovemaking—was that what it was now?—leaving me clean but somehow empty.
Once I dried off, I dressed in the elegant and sophisticated black dress he'd left for me. It had a modest neckline but hugged my curves, and a low back that I felt sexy in. It was perfect and fit me like it was custom designed for my body, but then everything Artem had given me fit like that.
I kept my makeup simple; a smoky brown eye, and my fingers grazed the usual mauve nude I wore most days. It was the perfect lip for the look, classic, demure, and sophisticated. It spoke of a woman who was confident, poised, and understated.
Then I remembered how Artem looked when he watched me put on a red lip.
More importantly, I remembered how I felt wearing the aptly named shade. Unbreakable.
Artem had something up his sleeve and I needed to stay strong, especially when so much of me wanted to give in to him. It was far too tempting to surrender to his touch, his demands, and be the kept pet he wanted.
Stepping out of the bedroom was surreal. All the lights were off, the hallway illuminated by the soft glow of candles. I followed the path to a formal dining room to find Artem leaning against a wall scrolling on his phone. I paused a moment to take him in before he noticed me.
It wasn't fair. A man that controlling shouldn't be so handsome.
Strong features. Broad shoulders that tapered down to his trim waist. I knew every single inch of his body was wrapped in hard muscle and ink.
He was temptation and desire personified.
I just hated how controlling he was.
Yet that same power was also what drew me to him.
Artem wasn't weak in any sense of the word.
My entire life I had been surrounded by men who were strong in one way but weak in another.
My father and my younger brother were physically strong, but weak of mind. They were easily dazzled by get-rich-quick schemes and preferred cutting corners, not to mention their weak sense of loyalty.
Dima was strong physically, and he was smart, so smart. But he also had a weakness that turned fatal. He was weak when it came to dealing with people. Dima couldn't see their faults and he always assumed people were good, or at the very least had lines they wouldn't cross. He knew who our father was and still he let himself be put in a situation that ended his life.
Artem was physically strong, and smart, but also strategic. He knew people, he could read them. He didn't need me to tell him my father was betraying him. Artem knew the second he laid eyes on my father.
He was loyal to his family, but not blind to their faults.
His power was absolute.
It was the double-sided coin that both drew me to him and urged me to run.
When Artem saw me, he took me in, his eyes trailing slowly over my body, every inch of my skin heating under just his gaze.
My nerve endings came alive, a flush spreading from my chest to my cheeks.
This man shouldn't have had so much power over me, but he did.
No matter how I fought it.
Artem straightened up and clasped my hand in his as he escorted me to a seat.
"You look beautiful," he said, his voice rich velvet against my skin.
"Thanks, whoever does your shopping has great taste," I said.
"I picked this out, just for you," he whispered in my ear like it was our little secret.
Why did my cheeks flush at those words? Had he spent so long examining every inch of my body that he knew not only my size but what styles would complement my long lines? Or did he just get lucky?
"I know it's traditional to seat you at the other end of the table, but I don't want to be that far from you." He kissed my cheek then pulled out my chair, pushing it in for me as I sat.
The place setting was fine china with a delicate golden design along the rim. I was pretty sure the silverware was actual silver, but what caught my attention wasn't the elegance of the dinnerware. It was the single red rose that had been placed next to my fork.
There were no other roses in the room. It wasn't an afterthought; it wasn't a coincidence. The single red rose was a gift. Somehow, I just knew that he had picked this out. He had chosen this for me.
My first thought was to dismiss the gesture entirely. It wasn't sweet; it was manipulative. If he thought I could be bought with a single flower, then he was severely mistaken.
That begged the question. Why was he bothering to try to buy me? He had already stolen me. He had stolen me, then caged me. So why show affection now? Unless…could it be genuine?
I dismissed that thought just as quickly. Falling into his traps was dangerous. I knew better.
Instead of taking his own seat at the head of the table, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the buffet behind me and held it out for me to inspect the label.
With its gilded, scrolling script it was both stunning and impressive, but illegible.
"I don't know anything about wines," I said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear, momentarily embarrassed by my lack of knowledge.
"Well, this happens to be one of my favorites, and I hope you like it, too. If not, I can get you anything else." He opened the bottle and brought out a large, oddly shaped glass container that had a glass ball in the opening.
The way he poured the wine slowly and evenly almost seemed like a ritual. The dark red liquid cascaded over the ball and fell down into the vessel like a beautiful red waterfall that sparkled in the low candlelight.
"This decanter is formed specifically so that we don't have to wait for the wine to breathe," he explained as the last few ruby-red drops fell from the bottle. His movements were very precise as he poured a glass of wine and held it up to one of the candles, swirling it to inspect the color. Then he handed it to me.
"Isn't it the man who's supposed to test the wine?"
"Not tonight. I know it's a good bottle. I want to know if you like it, or if I should open something else?"
Tentatively, I took the glass from him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Why was he being so considerate? Was it some ploy to get the walls I had constructed to fall faster?
I didn't even have to sniff the wine. As soon as I lifted the glass to my lips, my senses were overwhelmed with the scent of sweet berries, cherries, and something dark and earthy I couldn't quite name. Tobacco maybe?
The first sip was like an explosion in my mouth, and my eyes slid closed in appreciation.
It was dark, sensual, and the different flavors played across my tongue. Sweet, then bitter, then something rich that lingered long after I swallowed.
"Do you approve?" Artem asked, his hand on my shoulder.
"It's delicious," I said, as his hand dropped to slide across my bare back.
Sending tiny fissures of nerves over my skin, as he poured more wine into my glass and then one for himself as well.
"Tonight we are having prime rib, if that is okay?"
"I'm not hungry," I said. I was being a brat, and I could feel his irritation radiating from him like heat, but I couldn't fall for this.
"You have to eat," he said. His words didn't hold the usual edge of a demand; they were soft and soothing.
I nodded and took another sip of my wine, letting the liquid courage strengthen my resolve not to be swayed.
Artem lifted the large silver dome in the middle of the table, releasing a plume of steam that rose into the air. It smelled amazing, like butter and herbs, and made my stomach growl in spite of myself.
He picked up the plate in front of me and grabbed the silver tongs that were placed next to the platter. "What temperature do you prefer?"
He plated my food, asking what I preferred at every step, choosing the best pieces for me before he moved on to his own.
If any other man had done this, I'd be looking for a reason, some motive. The voice of reason and logic screamed inside my head. She demanded I see this for the manipulation it clearly was, a tactic to buy me. To persuade me into thinking that staying here was my idea.
He was stealing my life from me, and I was willingly going along with him when I should be fighting.
Too bad that voice was being drowned out by the thunder of my racing heart, telling me that there was more to this. More to him. All I had to do was look for it and recognize it.
He took his seat and waited for me to take the first bite. It was amazing, the meat perfectly tender and so juicy I groaned with pleasure. The flavor was rich and complex.
His face twisted into a grin, the candlelight softening his usually harsh features.
"Does that mean you like it?"
"It's so good. I don't know who made this, but you aren't paying them enough."
Artem let out a laugh that sounded almost boyish. It was still deep and a little husky, but there was joy there. Genuine happiness.
"That is the best compliment I have ever received. I made this."
"You cook?" I almost dropped my fork.
Men in this life didn't cook.
That would upset the delicate gender roles they were so fond of in mafia life.
"I do, when I have the time," he said, slicing into his own piece of meat. "If this were a different life, I'd have liked to have been a head chef. Working in a large kitchen in Russia cooking traditional dishes with modern twists and techniques, collecting Michelin stars."
I leaned back in my chair and tried to picture that as I chewed what was the most incredible potato anyone had ever eaten. I could see him at the pass of a bustling kitchen, his presence commanding respect without a word.
"I can see that. You, running a kitchen with militant control. Demanding perfection from everyone, even the customers."
He let out a low chuckle, taking my comment in the teasing way it was intended, as he took another sip of wine.
It was the best meal of my life, and not just because the food was incredible.
Over dinner, we talked. Really talked.
He told me about how he had met Dima, and what he thought. I shared a few childhood memories. He even asked me why I wanted to study Political Science.
This dinner was everything our first dinner wasn't.
There were no servers scared of him, no bellboys keeping their heads low, reminding him who he was. No talk of creepy professors or drunk frat boys.
The dinner would have been perfect, except no matter what we talked about, there was still this tension that I wouldn't let go of. I had to constantly remind myself who he was and what he did.
There were little reminders everywhere. The shifting of the light under the door as the security guards on the other side moved. The way his gestures just seemed a little too calculated.
At first I thought they were to disarm me, but the longer the night went on, the more it seemed like he was trying to show interest, to show affection, and they weren't calculated as much as unpracticed.
The entire night, he was attentive and caring; by the end, something fundamental between us had changed.
When I looked at him, I didn't see the monster who traded lives like they were playing cards.
I saw the man who loved his family, who created jobs and often beat people at their own game.
I saw the man who was born into a violent life who had to make hard choices.
Somehow, he had made me see beyond the bloodshed to the man.
I couldn't tell what was real, what was a carefully constructed manipulation, or what was his true self.
That terrified me more than anything else—the possibility that I was falling for a fiction, a calculated performance designed to break me.
Or worse, that I was falling for the real man behind the monster.