by Nicole Fox
I should head to the bathroom to shower.
I should go to my office to check on the sales of Mariya’s Revenge orange-cream flavor vodka.
I should check for movements from the Colosimo family.
But instead, I follow her into the den.
Allison collapses onto one of the couches. I sit down in the armchair. She turns onto her back, her eyes close, and she drapes her arm over them.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask.
“I’m going to be great if someone kills me and resurrects me,” she says. “You run that much every day?”
“No. I try to do it every other day, but it depends on my schedule. On my off days, I do weight training.”
“Of course you do,” she mutters. “In between the blackmailing, just for the variety.”
“If you could have blackmailed me first, you would have. It’s the law of the jungle—eat or be eaten.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” she retorts.
“It would be weak and stupid not to.”
“You think it’s weak and stupid to be moral?” she asks, shifting her arm, so she can peek at me with one eye.
“I think it’s weak and stupid to be weak and stupid.” I wipe sweat off my forehead. “Do you think that being nice to the world will make the world be nice to you? I’m sure the view from up there on your high horse seems lovely. But here you are, in this den, with me. Your morals won’t help you down here.”
“Well, you see, Lev …” Allison covers both of her eyes with her arm again. “Normal people have this thing called empathy. It means that when other people feel bad, you feel bad with them.”
“That sounds like an impediment in my line of work.”
She props herself up on her elbow, her wet hair gliding over her skin, and turns toward me. There’s a hint of a smile on her face. I press my fingers near the corner of my mouth, so she can’t notice that I’m nearly smiling back.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I just find it fun to debate with people. It’s part of the reason I want to be a lawyer.”
“I get it,” I say. “I became a vodka manufacturer because I love to drink.”
“And you have the nightclub.” She stretches, a small noise of satisfaction escaping her lips. I’d love to get that noise out of her over and over. “After I did all that running and interrogating, you have to at least tell me why you thought I was stalking you in that nightclub.”
“I’m not convinced that you weren’t.”
She rolls her eyes before resting her head on the armrest, curling up like a small child. It’s a little endearing. Mostly juvenile and signs of a spoiled brat, but still—a little endearing.
She seems happier now than I’ve seen her so far. I chalk it up to exercise-induced endorphin release. I take in her bare legs, the smoothness traced through with the faint lines of her muscles. As she shifts her legs, I look up to her face. She’s looking back at me. I lean back, ready for her to overreact, but she only looks at me. She smiles, slow and reckless.
I want her.
I want to fold her in half and fuck her. I want to pin her down and feel her hips push up against my hips. I want to show her the world without morality or laws, where it’s just bodies creating friction.
I move to the edge of the chair. The motion causes her to jerk upward like a frightened deer.
“I should rehydrate,” she says, avoiding looking at me.
Allison stands up and immediately crumples to the ground. Her hand slaps hard against the floor to steady herself. I’m off my chair before I realize what I’m doing, my hand on her back.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I can get you the water.”
“No,” she mutters, sliding onto her side and rubbing her calf. “It’s a stupid cramp. This is a sign from the universe that running is a crime against nature.”
“Come on. Let’s get you back onto the couch.”
Her hand presses on my shoulder as she tries to get up on one leg. My arm wrapped around Allison’s petite frame, I help her get back onto the couch and sit down beside her. Her jasmine scent sweeps over me. As I pull my arm away from her, she turns to me. Our faces are so close together, I feel her exhale against my lips.
Her hand touches my chest before her lips do. Her fingers press against my chest as she pushes herself away. Her cheeks are flushed with red.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “Um, I’m getting your couch wet. I mean from my clothes. Do you have any clothes I could borrow?”
I scrutinize her. She’s turned her face away from me, concentrating on the tree outside the window. She turns back toward me when I don’t answer.
“Yes,” I say, and stand up without saying anything more. As I leave the den, I hear her behind me, her footsteps soft as she keeps her distance. As we walk up the stairs, I turn enough to see her clinging to her bag like it’s a gun that’s going to protect her. I keep moving forward, reminding myself that I need her for control over her father and nothing else.
My closet is the room right before my bedroom. I open the door and gesture for Allison to step in.
The closet is octagonal, every wall displaying a different category of clothing. Most of them are very similar name-brand pieces. I have no interest in it, but money makes me look desirable to consumers and women and threatening to my enemies.
I move to the section with my casual clothing. I pick out some sweatpants, a pair of shorts, and a pair of boxers. I toss them to her.
“I don’t think any of those will fit, but you can try them on,” I say.
She sets her bag down by her feet and pulls on the sweatpants. They don’t stay up and the legs cover her feet, creating an illusion that she shrunk. As she pulls them back off, it’s hard to ignore the perfect curvature of her ass and thighs. She could murder me with those thighs and I’d still love them.
She tosses the sweatpants back to me, raising her eyebrow when she catches me looking. “Should I change somewhere else?”
“My bedroom is empty,” I say. She nearly laughs, a smirk sparking on her face before she turns around, pulling on the shorts. The waistband is also too wide. With her hourglass figure, it seems like they should fit, but her ratio doesn’t change the fact that she’s a pixie compared to me.
She pulls the shorts off and tries on the boxers. They settle on her hips. She bounces on the balls of her feet. The boxers start to slide down, revealing the top of her underwear.
“I don’t know,” she says, pulling them back up. I take a gray sweater off a hanger and toss it to her. She catches it.
“That sweater should be long enough to cover your ass.”
She pinches the sweatshirt between her knees and peels off her shirt. All the women I’ve been with in the last five years have had breasts big enough to divide and conquer. Allison’s are smaller but combined with her lithe body, it’s a territory worthy of a war.
She pulls on the sweater. The hemline ends in the middle of her thighs. She spins around.
“How do I look?”
Like you could kill me and I’d love it.
“It’s good enough for now. We should put your clothes in the dryer.”
She bounces on the balls of her feet, the sneakers squishing from the water. “What do you think will happen if I leave with your sweater? That I’ll steal it? You don’t trust me at all?”
I snatch her pants from the floor. “No. The master bathroom is in the room after my bedroom. If you can’t figure out how it works, I’ll be downstairs. Irina can add your other clothes to the dryer once you’re done.”
I walk away as she opens her mouth to argue.
With any other woman, I would have just sent her home in her wet clothes.
But Allison is my future wife. And, unlike the others, I haven’t fucked her yet.
7
Allison
I had only seen the master bathroom in a quick glimpse when Lev gave me a tour before. I wasn’t concerned about the bathroom—I was concern
ed that I wanted to equally murder and sacrifice myself to one of the worst men I’d ever met.
I’m deeply concerned about the bathroom now.
Most of the bathroom is okay, if the definition of ‘okay’ is heaven on earth. The marble floors, the massive mirror that stretches across the east wall, a jacuzzi, and the black vanities—all breathtaking, all flawless. The walk-in shower is particularly overwhelming.
The outside is simple enough. There’s one glass wall, plus an opening on one side, where I can walk through. There is a bright light shining over the shower and thirteen metal contraptions underneath it, which appear to be twelve different water jets and a removable showerhead. The removable showerhead would only reach my shoulder. The water jets are high enough that the water would reach my head, but I can’t imagine that they’re high enough to reach Lev’s head.
There’s an electronic touchscreen on the wall beside the shower. I tap on it. Six options pop up.
Waterfall
Massage
Steam
Music
Daily report
Change color
I’ve never hated rich people more than I have in this moment. I tap Steam. Four of the water jets start producing steam. I watch it curl inside the glass for a minute before I tap it again to stop it. I tap Music. It gives me various genre selections. I tap Waterfall.
Water starts pouring down from the light. Or else, it’s not the light, but another shower head. I press Change Color and select turquoise. The light changes color, so the water appears to be a greenish-blue shade. On the screen, it’s asking me to choose a temperature. It’s set at 100 degrees, so I keep it there.
I pull off the sweater, my bra, and my underwear. When I walk into the water, the water cascades over me. The pressure is almost painful, but as I get used to it, it massages my skin like a real waterfall, except there’s a faint woodsy scent. In most houses, I’d imagine it came from somebody’s soap, but the scent continues to envelop me with the same intensity, so it must come from the showerhead.
There’s a notch in the wall with a bottle of shampoo and a bottle of soap. I spurt out some shampoo and knead it into my hair. It’s Lev’s scent—that smoky, spicy fragrance that hooks me and makes me feel like the criminal he says I am.
I close my eyes.
I start to imagine things. Like Lev opening the bathroom door. I’d pretend to be outraged by him coming in. I’d probably try to leave the shower, but he’d block me from leaving. His clothes would come off and he’d join me under the waterfall. Our bodies would rub against each other, his mouth hot and open against the side of my neck, his erection pushing against my inner thighs. He’d screw me so hard, I’d only be able to lean against him, his arms keeping me from slipping and cracking my head open.
I open my eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me? Jeffrey Douglas’ murder has messed up the synapses in my brain. There’s no way I’d normally be attracted to Lev. I’ve always been attracted to honorable men—the ones who volunteer, the social service workers, the emergency service technicians.
Lev, on the other hand, is a rich, arrogant, controlling prick, who is likely involved in shady business and could have used his millions of dollars for better things than a shower with a touchscreen, twelve jets, and a fucking waterfall setting.
After I’ve cleansed myself of sweat and dirty thoughts, I step out of the shower. I wander the bathroom, searching through cabinets and shelves for fresh towels. When I don’t find any, I take one from the metal bars mounted on the wall, which I assume are the ones that Lev has used.
It’s warm.
I pull it around me, the softness and warmth almost as good as the water. I touch the metal bar. It nearly burns my skin.
I could see how Lev decided that being good isn’t worth his time. Because being corrupt seems to pay incredibly well.
I open the bathroom door and peek out. He’s not lingering in the hallway. I close the door again and get my phone out of my bag. I bring up my browser and search Lev Alekseiev.
Mariya’s Revenge Selling New Vodka Flavor
Mariya’s Revenge Snatches Top Sales
Mariya’s Revenge or Mariya’s Revenue? Sweet Flavor, Sweeter Sales
Alekseiev, Mariya’s Revenge Owner, Praises the City and the Sinners
For several pages of search results, there is nothing negative about Lev. If he’s been involved in any criminal behavior, he’s either sued his way out of it being mentioned on the internet or he’s kept everyone blackmailed into silence.
As the warmth from the towel fades, I set it back on the bar and slide on the sweater. The smoky and spicy scent takes hold of me again. I try to ignore it, grabbing my bra and underwear, but I know I’m going to be reminded of his body every time I inhale now.
I leave the bathroom. As I descend the stairs, I hear the faint patter of rain and go toward the entrance. At first, through one of the long windows beside the door, it looks like fog has concealed the view of the yard.
It’s pounding down so hard that it’s causing a mist. I move closer to the window. There’s a small section of the road that’s visible from the house. I watch a truck drive down, forced to plow through the inches of rain on the road, swerving dangerously as if the tires can’t find traction in the downpour.
I won’t be able to leave.
It’s hard to not believe I did something wrong when I defended myself against Jeffrey Douglas when the universe keeps trying to punish me.
I wander down the hallway, passing by all of his rooms with the hardwood floors, the marble floors, chandeliers, and technology I couldn’t dream of living with before this. The dining room has a table with twelve chairs. The table has a glass top with a claw-foot base. The kitchen has marble countertops and stainless steel appliances without so much as a fingerprint blemishing the shining surfaces.
My heart races each time I enter a new room, expecting to see Lev, but he’s not on the first floor. When I reach the kitchen, I stop to listen, waiting to see if I can hear noise up above me. Nothing.
I swallow back the disappointment. I’m not going to go upstairs and look for him. I don’t want him to get the idea that he’s on my mind.
I return to the hallway and stop at the den. The ammunition box and all of its contents are gone. I move over to the home bar and pour myself a rum and Coke. Grabbing a book, I sit down to read.
The low rumble of voices.
The burning in my thighs.
The sensation of a crater-dry tongue.
I slowly open my eyes. There’s a kink in my neck from my neck resting against the armrest. I rub my eyes, sitting up. The book has fallen to the floor. I pick it up, setting it on the end table.
A laugh. I haven’t heard Lev laugh, but this one seems too relaxed to belong to him.
I stand up, still feeling the achy tension in my legs. I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to run with Lev.
Mostly, I wanted to keep him appeased, so he didn’t strike out at my father. But another part of me wanted to go wherever he went. I didn’t want his mind to be filled with the serenity of a good workout. I wanted him to learn that I was more than the chief’s daughter. I didn’t want him to forget about me.
I look out into the hallway. It’s dim. Either the storm has cast the city in a shadow or several hours have passed. The laugh echoes in the mansion again. I move in the direction where it came from, deeper in the house.
As I get closer, I start to hear voices. One of them is animatedly telling a story.
“—absolutely insane. She looks like she has half a mind to grab her keys and start slashing my face. I’ve abandoned all hope of reconciliation at this point. She’s ready to murder me. She’s tiny, but she’s full of enough wrath to take down an army. So, I do the only thing I can think of—I tell her that I’m a mole.”
I hear the rumble of another voice, but I’m not close enough to understand it. I keep moving forward, my steps softer now that I’m closer.
I see lights now, coming from the dining room area. I stay to the right side of the hall to avoid them seeing me approach. When I reach the doorframe, I press against the wall.
“God never made a bigger mistake than giving people too much confidence and not enough common sense,” Lev’s voice thrums under my skin.
“Ah well, I worship him every day for it.”
The clink of glasses tapping against each other.
“Speaking of arrogant idiots,” Lev says. “How is the situation with Duilio?”
Duilio. The word feels familiar.
“Mmm,” the other man says. “Nobody has found anything. His men must know by now. They haven’t blatantly made any moves, but our men have noticed their usual places are emptier than usual.”
“Rats fleeing from the ship or a snake preparing to strike?”
“We can’t say either way right now. Lev, I know that it was necessary to do and—”
“Ilya,” Lev says. “Hush.”
“I’m sorry, Lev. I don’t mean to speak out of turn.”
“It’s not that. I see a shadow. Come out, Allison Harrington.”
He enunciates my name like every syllable is a dart, striking the bullseye every time. I look down at my shadow. It’s barely visible. It could have easily been mistaken for bad eyesight.
I step out into the doorway. Lev is sitting with another man. The man is around his age, but he reminds me of a time that I don’t want to remember—a time of blood loss, pale bodies, and a grief that hit me harder than the car.
“Ilya, this is my future wife, Allison Harrington.”
My stomach drops at the blunt reminder this man holds over me. Over my entire future.
“Allison, this is my assistant, Ilya,” Lev says, gesturing between the two of us. Ilya, stands up, smiling. He’s so pale and sickly looking, but he exudes a genuine warmth.
