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“Here, put this on,” I tell her.
She takes it, putting it on, as I purposefully avert my gaze. “Don’t you want me?” she says quietly, sounding like her voice is about to break.
“I don’t know you, Mila,” I say, dodging the question.
She raises her hand like she’s going to touch me, but she looksscared,like she doesn’t want to do it. “You could get to know me, baby…”
“Mila.” I take a step back. “Did your father tell you to come here and do this?”
Her lip trembles, and suddenly, she bursts into tears. Dropping into the chair in the corner of the room, she’s bawling her eyes out, and I stand there like an ass, no clue what to do.
“Tell me?” she says, wiping her cheeks. “Is that what you think Nikolai Petrov does?Tellspeople to do things? Then, if they don’t, it’s just… just A-okay?”
She breaks down again, burying her face in her hands.
I go to the chair and kneel beside her, careful not to touch her. It’s a surreal thing to think, but the last thing I need is for my fiancée to fall in love with me. “Your father told you to dress in lingerie and give yourself to a man you don’t know. He doesn’tsound like a good man. I know something about that, Mila. Maybe I can help you.”
“Help me?” she says.
Part of me wants to tell her that I’ve got no intention of marrying her—that I can save her. I almost say it, almost give her that hope. But then it hits me like a truck. What if I’m lying? What if I tell her that we don’t have to get married… but then we do? Then I’ve made her believe there’s a way out of this, a light she can walk toward, when there’s still only darkness.
I almost say,I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure we don’t have to do this.But I can’t. That would make me just as bad as my father. Saying things I don’t mean. Using people. Trying to twist reality as though I’m better than everyone else. But the blunt, cold fact is, if I don’t find a way out of this, I will have to marry her. Goddamn it. What about Lia? But I have to think about the city.
“I’m sorry you were pushed into this. This isn’t something I want either. If it were up to me we wouldn’t have to get married, but I can make your life here comfortable,” I say instead, and her face drops. I can tell she was expecting much more. “You don’t have to suffer. And—” I hesitate. What do I think I can say, exactly, to make this all somehow better? “You’ll have the best of everything.”
She looks at me coldly. “I’ve always had the best of everything. And the worst.” She sighs darkly. “God, I sound… I don’t care how I sound.”
She stands up abruptly, heading for the door, making me feel damn incompetent. But I just have to hope I did the right thing, or maybe, told the right lie. I said I’d make her comfortable.But I can’t promise either her or myself that our lives will be comfortable.
When we’re at parties together, when we’re smiling for the Bratva crowds, pretending to be in love, will either of us be comfortable then? Could we even dream of beinghappy?
When she’s gone, I head into the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. My father died less than seventy-two hours ago. My world suddenly has become far more dangerous, with far more enemies and responsibilities.
Yet all I can think about is my curvy painter and all the things I want to do to her, with her, for her. I just need to keep my head down, behave warmly to Mila when other people are around, and try to forget Lia. Is that even possible?
CHAPTER 6
DAHLIA
For three days, life returns to something like normalcy. Newspapers stop running stories about Mr. Konstantin, except for a few small pieces about his funeral, and people stop gossiping about him at work. I know I should probably take the paint supplies home, but there’s something peaceful about the half-finished room I’m working in. I make a little more progress each day I go in there, and Dimitri was telling the truth. Nobody moves my paintings or messes with my stuff.
I don’t even try to sneak as I leave the office and walk to the other building. I’ve been working diligently on the painting of Mr. Konstantin, but I’m not sure Dimitri would like it if he ever saw it.
Every time I enter this room, I remember the kiss and relive it. I can taste his lips, his passion, and his hunger. I’m suddenly inside the most vivid painting ever, all the colors adding to the heat.
As I paint, I put my headphones in, playing classical music on my phone. I’m not some music aficionado or anything like that,but classical helps me focus without distracting me. I’m unsure how much time passes, but it feels like an hour, maybe more. My belly gurgles; I need to leave soon.
Taking off my headphones, I turn and then let out a gasp. Dimitri is leaning against the wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a casual smirk on his face, and a glint in his icy blue eyes.
“How long have you been there?” I ask.
“Long enough to hear your stomach gurgling,” he says. “Forgot lunch?”
I thought you’d forgotten about me, I almost say, but I can’t let him see how much it means to me, seeing him again, being with him.
“I get carried away sometimes.”
He approaches the easel, that same soft smirk on his face. It’s weird thinking of Dimitri Sokolov assoftin any way. “I can see that.” He studies the painting of his father, the dark shading around the eyes, the sinister flair in the twist of his lips. “What inspired you to paint him like this?”
