Page 36 of The Wrong Monster

Like a peace offering.

I take it and sit up slowly, not wanting to give away just how boneless and foggy I am. I don’t look at him as I press the towel between my legs.

He doesn’t ask anything else of me as he leaves the room.

But the camera lights stay off for hours; until well after I’m asleep, exhausted and satiated, a traitor to myself.

Chapter 10

Vasily

I go to her rooms the next morning because it would be a weakness if I didn’t.

I’ve never run; not from a fight, not from a woman, and I don’t intend to now.

Courtesy dictates that I knock, even though I own the lock, the door, and the rooms. I own this entire lake house. I count to seven, then open the door and step inside.

Matilda, I mean, Matty Pierce is sitting by the window.

The door behind me doesn’t close. Instead, two staff members come in with breakfast. A few small plates, nothing extravagant.

French toast, berries, scrambled eggs, two cups of coffee.

I sit across from Matilda and make myself look at her.

She’s frustratingly beautiful.

Was last night a mistake? The first time, at the Pandora, wasn’t. We both walked knowingly into that mess, but last night.

She had me. There was no part of me that was ready for her to fight, but instinct took over and saved me the embarrassment of a black eye and bruised balls. And then…something else took over.

A bottomless desire I haven’t felt before.

The need to devour her. To own her.

And she didn’t disappoint.

Looking at her now, there’s no sign that last night affected her the same way. She watches me steadily with those blue eyes, curls back in a tight ponytail. Then her eyes dart to the staff.

“Thank you,” she says curtly.

They leave us.

Knowing where this conversation needs to go, but not sure how to get there, I ask, “Did you sleep well?”

She nods, turning her gaze to the window. It’s possible to see the eastern edge of the lake from here. Just enough of it to hint at what I know to be a beautiful view that stretches quite far. It’s still early, just past dawn, and a heron flies low and straight to some hidden crevice in the shadows.

I spear a piece of scrambled egg with more attention than it deserves. The plates between us could belong to any respectable bed-and-breakfast in the Adirondacks.

Only the armed guards outside the door betray the truth. Somewhere, Art is watching, and that makes my teeth grind.

Across from me, Matilda sits, wrapped in composure again. Yesterday’s fire has settled into something cooler, more dangerous.

Calculation.

That’s ideal; I much prefer negotiating with attorneys than prisoners.

“You’re a smart woman, Zvezda.”