Page 24

I only wanted out of a night that had spun past my control long before he opened his eyes and made it worse. “So this is revenge,” I say.

“My patience was tested. I’m answering it.”

“That sounds like the same thing to me.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Men love to mistake one night for a deed of ownership,” I say, lighter than I feel inside.

The warmth goes out of his eyes all at once. “Are you comparing me to other men?” His voice stays calm, but his jaw sets hard.

“I’m checking whether this is your usual pattern,” I say. “Do you decide where all your women work, and when they are allowed to crawl out of your bed? Is control the only way you know how to want someone?”

Something dark and cold and dangerous that I have never seen before floods his face. “Control,” he repeats, very quietly, as though he is tasting the word for poison.

He steps back and returns to his chair and taps one finger against a flat wooden box on the desk. The pressure of him lifts off me, and I feel no relief whatsoever. Each small tap lands directly on my nerves.

“You seem very interested in how I treat other women,” he says.

“I’m only asking a question.” I slide down off the desk, already regretting how far I pushed. The easy heat from a moment ago has gone somewhere I cannot reach.

“Do your job,” he says coldly. “Open the box.”

I lift the lid. Inside sits a neat row of Cohiba cigars, a silver cutter, and a matching lighter.

“Cut one and light it,” he says.

“Is this assistant work?”

“It is the first thing I’m giving you to do.” His voice stays soft, and somehow that softness carries the same command that makes the people downstairs forget how to breathe around him.

My hands remember this from before he ruined me for calm. My father smoked Cuban cigars on the good nights, back when the bills allowed for it, so my hands already know the shape of this. I clip the cap clean, toast the foot slowly until it glows even, and hand it across the desk to him with care.

Lev draws on it slow, watching my mouth the whole time, and then blows the smoke straight into my face.

The acrid sting hits my eyes, and I cough and stumble a step backward. “There are more grown-up ways to make my day difficult,” I snap, glaring at him. He is a nasty, filthy fake of a gentleman under all that silver polish. The smoke sharpens the hard lines of his face, and his gaze climbs slowly up my body and sticks on my chest.

“Such as what?” he asks, low.

I know that toying, hungry look now, and I hate being a thing that gets played with. “Such as giving me harder work instead,” I mutter.

“Anything I hand you is work.”

He taps the ash off the end and lets it drop onto the pale carpet. “Clean that up now.”

“You did that on purpose.” I don’t move an inch.

Somehow my questions about other women scraped a nerve he will not name out loud, and I don’t understand what any of it has to do with a smear of ash on the floor.

“Do you feel wronged, being my assistant?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

Only the obscene number printed on my new contract keeps me from throwing the whole box at his head.

I crouch down with a wad of tissues, and my clothes turn traitor at once. The skirt strains tight across my thighs while the neckline gapes open on my chest, and I cannot cover both at the same time. I clamp my knees together and wipe at the ash one-handed, my cheeks flaming.

The room goes silent. His gaze burns hotter than the lit cigar ever could, and every place it drags over feels branded onto my skin. My knees go soft and useless when they should be helping me stand up and curse him out.

As I press the last of the ash flat, a broad palm settles over the crown of my head, fingers sliding into my hair. He tips my face up until I have no choice left but to meet his eyes.