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Refusing to look away, whether out of fear or maybe shame for my outburst, I held his gaze. I had never spoken to anyone in such a manner before. I despised how easily he brought out the worst in me, normally buried deep within my soul.
He seemed to sense my discomfort because he released my throat, stepped back, and ran his hands through his hair.
I coughed and took deep breaths, the air burning my lungs as tears welled up in my eyes.
His dark silky waves of hair stopped right at his jaw making him look even more attractive and powerful. I have never been attracted to men with long hair, but I understood now what the hype was all about. All that dazzling hair, the stubble on his face, his stormy dark eyes, and those hard muscles were almost making my head swirl.
I should have known from the first moment my eyes laid on him in the club that he was a monster in disguise.
Nothing good ever comes from all this enticing beauty.
Like Georges Duroy, he probably manipulated any woman he wanted into submission using his good looks.
He unbuttoned his blood-stained white Armani shirt and threw it on the sofa behind him. Walking to the window in just a slim white tank top and black pantsuit, one of his arms was covered in black ink, making a striking contrast. His defined arms glowed under the moonlight, his back extraordinary.
I had never focused on backs before, but now it was undeniable—I had a thing for his.
“I told you I was in a charitable mood tonight, but don’t push your luck,” he sneered, still facing the window a few meters away from me. “Insult me again, and I’ll cut your tongue out and feed it to you.”
That should have been my cue to leave, but I couldn’t bear another minute in here without wanting to jump out of the window or bang my head against the door for freedom.
“I want to know why I’m here,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Please, if you let me go, I won’t turn you in or say anything. I’ll even forgive you.”
He laughed, mocking my plea, shattering the lingering tension. Resentment and anger built inside me, making my hands shake.
“Stop believing in forgiveness, Sofiya. It’s fucking disgusting,” he scoffed, heading to the café table for his drink.
His words left me drained, and our eyes met again, but I only saw exasperation in his.
“The only way to survive is to be heartless,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Your heart is your greatest enemy, the reason you’re still here.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Don’t try to mold me into some childish fantasy of yours,” he warned, stepping closer. “I’m a killer, Sofiya, not a romantic. I’ll suck the life out of you.”
I hesitated, not knowing what he was implying or assuming.
I wasn’t fantasizing about him, was I?
The urge to put distance between us grew undeniable. Yet, I couldn’t move. I had a gut feeling that he wasn’t threatening me but warning me.
I was terrified of him.
Sofiya, you’re crazy!
He might as well have threatened to kill me and chop me into pieces when he grew bored. Yet, like an immature girl, I tested him, playing with fire. I chewed my lip, reminding myself that every word I spoke fed into his sick games. That realization alone urged me to leave.
An unsettling silence saturated the room, and I turned around aiming for the way out, but his strong hand slammed against the door, blocking my exit.
Petrified, I waited for his anger to hurt my body for real this time, but it never came.
“Let me go, please,” I pleaded, my breath catching as he drew nearer. He pressed against me, his face buried in my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“Nyet,” he whispered, trailing kisses up my neck.
I clenched my jaw, tasting blood as I bit down hard, sealing my lips to prevent further embarrassment. My mind raced with questions, desperate for answers.
“You said my papa was still alive,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Where is he?”
