by Nicole Fox
This time, I can’t control my fear. Adrenaline pulses through me, desperate to fight or flee, but I can’t do anything except shake and cower. He is a solid wall of muscle pinning me in place.
All at once, the fury that seemed to come over Luka is gone just as quickly as it came. He takes a sharp breath and then steps away, putting distance between us, his head shaking slightly. He looks towards a window with a view of the back yard and points to the dress on the floor. “Put it on.”
I want to argue, but I also don’t think I can handle his anger again. Not while I’m still shaking from the last outburst. Besides, Luka’s outburst served a purpose. It reminded me of why I’m here in the first place: to save lives.
Luka and the rest of his family are ruthless. They are violent and merciless, and if I don’t uphold my end of the bargain, they will hurt more people. Maybe Chiara. Or my coworkers at The Floating Crown. Or my father. Luka would hurt whoever he needed to in order to make his message clear. He owns me.
He doesn’t. Not really. I’ll never allow myself to be owned by him. But I can let him think he does. I can play my part. And maybe that is the true show of strength. To do the thing that terrifies and humiliates me to save the people I love. I’m sacrificing myself for the sake of others, and I think that makes me stronger than Luka. So, I can handle whatever he throws at me.
I grab the dress and slide it off the hanger. It was Luka’s command, but even he looks over at me, surprised. And he keeps looking at me as I reach behind my back and unzip the white dress my father made me wear. The dress has a wide neck and the shoulders slip down my arms, revealing the straps of my bra and my chest.
I expect Luka to look away. Not because he is a gentleman but because he wouldn’t want to give me even the slight satisfaction of knowing he likes what he sees, but he doesn’t. His eyes are wide and glued to me as I shimmy out of the dress, pushing it down my body and over my hips. When it falls in a puddle at my feet, Luka’s lips part. His green eyes look almost black as he studies me, standing in front of him in nothing but a matching set of delicate lacy underwear. It is the kind of undergarments a bride would wear for her groom, and Luka is so focused on me—quiet for the first time since he came home—that I can almost forget he hates me. Certainly, there isn’t love in his eyes, but there is lust. And that is something.
I kick the white dress aside and step into the pink dress Luka picked out, pulling it up over my body. I need to take off my bra, but I can’t expose so much of myself to him. So, I turn away and face the armoire while I reach around and undo the clasp. My fingers are shaking and nervous from the feel of his eyes on me, and I fumble with the clasp. When his warm hands push mine aside, I jolt in surprise, my hands flinching away like he burned me.
My entire body stiffens as his finger traces a line across my skin. His fingernail scratches against the muscles on either side of my spine and the dip in the center, and goosebumps rise across my back. It only takes him a second to unclasp my bra and step away, but it seems to stretch into minutes and hours. My heart hammers in my chest while I stand frozen, wondering what is going to happen next.
Then, before my mind can go there, I feel Luka step away.
“Be downstairs in twenty minutes,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I don’t move until I hear the door latch into place. As soon as it does, I grab the door of the armoire for stability, afraid I might collapse.
I wait twenty-one minutes before I leave my room—my small attempt at rebellion—but when I get to the dining room, Luka isn’t there. Two spots at the far end of the long table have been set, one across from the other, with dinner plates, silverware, and glasses of red wine. A glass casserole dish sits on a hot pad in the center, filled with what looks like a take on lasagna, with a loaf of focaccia next to it.
Apparently, Luka didn’t think my blackened chicken and avocado sauce was a good enough dinner option for him. I want to be petty about it and refuse to eat this meal in the same way he refused to eat mine—or even let me finish cooking it—but I’m too hungry. Even the sight of the warm bread with sprigs of rosemary cooked into the top makes my stomach growl.
Where is Luka, anyway? I headed down late, which means he is even later than I am. As the host, he should have been here early to wait for me. It is for this reason I feel no guilt cutting into the lasagna.
As soon as the knife cuts into the casserole, steam billows out, and it takes all of my self-control not to stick my face in it and breathe deep. Cooking is my passion, but that all stems from a love of food, and I’ve eaten less food today than any other day in recent history. I spoon a large square of pasta, sauce, and cheese on to my plate and cut a slice off of the focaccia. There is freshly grated parmesan on the table, but I’m too hungry to use it. The food is still steaming when I shove a forkful into my mouth.
And immediately wrinkle my nose.
I swallow the bite, but I use my fork to dissect the rest of the food on my plate, trying to work out all of the ingredients. Lasagna has always been like pizza to me—even a bad pizza is still a good pizza. But this lasagna is bad. Bland with overcooked noodles and an under-seasoned sauce. I’m starving, and I still don’t want to eat another bite.
Luka still hasn’t shown up, and I don’t hear footsteps upstairs or anywhere else in the house, so I assume I have a few more minutes to myself and sneak down the hall and into the kitchen. I grab the garlic powder, salt, pepper, and dried parsley and hustle back to the dining room. It is best to season a dish prior to cooking, but since that isn’t an option, I sprinkle a bit of each powder over the top of the casserole and use my clean knife to work it into the layer of melted cheese on top. Then, to hide my handiwork, I grab the block of fresh parmesan and begin grating it over top.
“What are you doing?”
The deep voice startles me, and I drop the block of parmesan cheese into the center of the casserole. Noodles and sauce splash over the side of the dish and onto the white tablecloth.
“Again, with the sneaking,” I say, trying to ignore the stuttering of my heart. Hopefully, over time, I’ll grow accustomed to being in the Volkov mansion, because I don’t think I’ll survive daily scares like this for the rest of my life.
“Again, with the making yourself at home,” Luka snaps, stomping into the dining room and grabbing the spices I used, inspecting them one by one. He changed his clothes. Instead of the black suit he wore for the funeral, he is in a pair of dark gray trousers with a light gray—almost white—sweater and black monk strap shoes. He looks effortlessly stylish. I hate that I notice the cut of his biceps through the thin material as he points sharply to my seat across from him. “Sit down and leave the food alone. I have a cook already.”
“Not a very good one,” I mumble under my breath while reclaiming my seat. If Luka hears me, he doesn’t respond.
Instead, he scoops out another square of lasagna and heaps it onto my plate. “Eat.”
I raise my eyebrows at the large portion in front of me. “First, I’m not allowed to eat at all, and now you are trying to stuff me?”
He folds his hands under his chin, his steepled fingers running through his dark beard. “Eat.”
I feel his gaze on me as I portion off a bite of the newly-seasoned lasagna and put it in my mouth. His eyes narrow as I chew and swallow. The taste is marginally better, though nothing can help the overcooked pasta. When I go for a second bite, Luka finally cuts himself a small square and begins to eat.
It takes me a moment to realize Luka thought I might have poisoned his food. It is why he didn’t want to eat the chicken I’d been making when he came home and why he was upset I was seasoning the chicken. He thinks I might try to kill him. And honestly, considering he’d walked into to see me tampering with the casserole after I’d already cut myself off a square, I can’t blame him. He probably has a good number of people who would like to see him dead. And honestly, part of me is flattered. Luka may not show it, but he is scared of m
e. It’s why I have my own bedroom. I’m not going to give you the chance to stab me in my sleep.
We eat in silence, but Luka eats one square and then another, and even if he won’t admit it, I know he likes the changes I made. Perhaps, their bland in-house cook is why his father is always eating at The Floating Crown. I’d go out to eat too if I had a chef who couldn’t even cook pasta correctly.
When my wine glass is empty, Luka refills it without a word. And despite my joke about him trying to stuff me, I eat both squares of lasagna, and Luka cuts me another piece as I’m finishing the last bite.
"Thank you," I say quietly when Luka moves another slice of bread on to my plate. I'm full, but I don't want to discourage this uncharacteristic kindness.
His mouth tightens into a line like my voice is grating to him, but he just nods and keeps eating. If he'd deign to smile every so often, he could have any woman he wanted. He certainly wouldn't need to threaten anyone to be with him. Even if his genetics may predispose him to rage and cruelty, they also gave him one hell of a jawline. I don't see many upsides to my situation, but if there is any silver lining, it's that Luka Volkov isn't the worst person to look at every day for the rest of my life.
The rest of my life.
The thought makes me feel hollow. I can’t spend the next fifty years of my life eating dinner in silence and flinching when he walks into the room. I don’t have to like Luka, but I can try to coexist with him. We can try to make the best of what is an undeniably awkward situation.
“And thank you for taking care of so many of the wedding preparations,” I add, pushing the lasagna around my plate. “Planning has never been a strong suit of mine.”
He nods, his jaw working as he chews. “Gabriel told me about your wedding dress.”
“The soldier who was with me all afternoon?”
Luka nods again without looking up.
“I didn’t realize he had such an eye for fashion,” I say. “He had a lot of opinions on my dress selection.”
“Poofy sleeves?” Luka asks, looking up at me from under dark brows. “Did you want our wedding to have an 80s theme? Should I request that the DJ bring a boom box?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and biting my lip. “I wish, but there isn’t enough time for you to grow a mullet.”
Do my eyes deceive me or did Luka’s mouth just curve up in a small smile? Hope sparks in my chest at the sight. It is possible for Luka to be happy. To be friendly, even. We just had a back and forth conversation without any harsh words or commands. It might have even been considered banter. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
I’m still smiling to myself when I look up and see Luka looking at me. His eyes dart away, and he forces his mouth into a flat line, hiding any proof of his goodness.
Just because he is capable of human emotions doesn’t mean he likes them. And it doesn’t mean he’ll be a good husband. Even the devil can smile.
Luka has killed at least two people in cold blood. Probably more. No matter how much I want my years spent in the Volkov mansion to be happy, I can’t let that happen at the expense of my morals. I can’t forget and forgive the horrible things he has done for my own selfish reasons. There is a fine balance between coexisting and accepting what Luka has done, and I will have to work every day to find it without crossing over to his side. Without forgetting how heartless he and his entire family are.
And what they’ve done to me.
11
Luka
Finding Eve cooking in my kitchen didn’t make me angry. It didn’t scare me or unsettle me. It was… nice. Which was the most unsettling thing of all.
I’ve never had a woman in my life who hung around, who made a space for herself in my life and became comfortable around me. I didn’t want that, and I didn’t feel capable of it. But I can imagine Eve making breakfast in my kitchen. I can see her sitting on a sofa in the living room. I’ve thought of her lying in my bed more times than I’m willing to admit, and I don’t understand it. Any of it. Why? Why her? What is it about her that is making me feel this way?
At dinner, I had to keep eating to keep myself from talking. From asking her all of the questions that have been running through my mind since I’ve met her—like why she cried over the death of Cal Higgs, why she agreed to marry me, why she insists on fighting back against everything and say, and most importantly, why it doesn’t bother me near as much as it should? If anyone else talked to me the way she did, I’d scare them. I’d hurt them. I’d punish them. But I can’t bring myself to do that with Eve.
When we finish eating, instead of asking a soldier to take her back to her room, I offer to do it. She follows me out of the dining room and up the stairs, standing so close that I can feel her heat on my back. When I stop to point out the bathrooms on the first and second floors, she doesn’t stop in time and runs into me. It is like a ping pong ball hitting a brick wall. The force doesn’t even make me stumble. But I feel it like an electric shock, volts radiating out from where her skin touches mine.
“Sorry,” Eve says, her voice high-pitched and nervous.
We continue down the hallway, and when I stop to show her the library, it happens again. I can feel the soft press of her chest against my back. She isn’t wearing a bra because of the low cut back of her dress, so the only layers between us are the thin material of my sweater and her dress. Eve presses a palm into my shoulder blade, pushing herself away and apologizing, and it is like she has branded me. I feel the burn of her fingers on my skin even after she pulls away.
“Here.” I step to the side and wave an arm to usher her ahead of me. If I feel her body pressed against mine again, I can’t guarantee how I’ll react.
She blushes but doesn’t argue and moves to lead the way. Immediately, I realize this is a mistake.
The dress is cut low and her thick brown hair is twisted over one shoulder, showing off every inch of her back. I can see the delicate cut of her shoulder blades under her golden skin and the small dimples on either side of her spine just above her hips. Her body is trim and lithe and fit. Seeing her swaying in front of me might be worse than feeling her against me.
“The gym is on your right,” I say just as she passes the door. She stops to open it, and I am so distracted watching her that I almost run into her, catching myself at the last moment.
“I bet you’re here a lot,” she says, her pouty lips pulled into a small smile.
I clear my throat and look past her down the hallway, focusing on the far wall. Her room is at the end. Just a few more doors and she’ll disappear into her room for the night, and I’ll be free of her. “What makes you say that?”
Eve turns to me, one eyebrow raised and gestures with both hands to my entire body. “This. You.” She reaches out and lays a hand on my bicep, her fingers wrapping gently around my arm. “No one is born like this.”
My entire body tenses when she touches me. We are facing one another and for the first time since I’ve met her, we aren’t arguing. We are close to one another—touching, even—but aren’t engaged in anything other than a normal conversation. Without that undercurrent of anger, I’m not sure how to navigate this.
I know how to deal with lust. I know how to enjoy a woman’s body with no expectations of anything else, with no emotional component. But Eve is different. The pounding in my body isn’t just in my lower half. Something in my chest is rattling, loosening every time she gets too close, and I’m afraid of what will happen when it breaks away.
I shift away from her hand and nod. “I work out in the mornings before breakfast, but it’s available to you any other time of the day.”
Her brows furrow as I put distance between us and hurry down the hallway, but I try to focus on her doorway. I just need to keep my shit together for thirty more seconds.
I gesture quickly to my room and a storage closet without slowing down and then stop short of her door to let her show herself the rest of the way. Except, Eve doesn’t walk around me like I expect. On
ce again, for the third time, she bumps into my back.
My eyes close when her body presses into mine, and then her hand reaches out to touch my elbow, a nervous laugh bubbling out of her. “Sorry. Maybe I had too much wine with dinner.”
Her fingers drag down my forearm as she moves around me towards her door and before I can stop myself, I pounce.
I wrap my hand around her arm, spin her back to me, and press her against the hallway wall. My heart is thundering in my chest and heat is building between my legs. Eve looks up at me, a mixture of fear and confusion in her eyes, and I’m confused, too. Unsure what to do next. Where to go from here.
When my hand moves from her wrist to her waist, Eve’s back arches away from the wall. Her body reacts to me, rising up to meet my touch, and I have to grind my teeth together to keep from sliding my hand up to her waist and higher. To keep from letting my fingers explore the curve of her spine. Her lips part, a small exhale coming out as a sigh, and I feel like I’m drugged. Like I’m watching a tape of myself doing things I wouldn’t normally do and don’t understand.
“What are you doing?” Eve asks.
It would be easier if she was scared or angry. Instead, she just sounds curious. Her brown eyes are liquid, swirling with gold and amber, and they are hypnotic. I have to close my eyes to gain any kind of clarity.
I need to get away from this situation. Right now.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap. Eve shifts against the wall, trying to move away from me, but instead just ends up rolling her body against my leg. I can feel the switchblade in my pocket pressing into my skin, and my fingers itch to curl around the handle. “Touch me without my permission again, and I’ll slice you the way I did your boss.”
When I open my eyes, Eve’s eyes are wide, and her chest is heaving. Her breath comes hot and heavy so she brushes against my chest with every inhale. Despite what I’ve just said, my fingers tighten on her hip. I want to drag her body against mine until I can feel every movement, every breath and beat of her heart. I want to rip the dress off of her and get another good look at her nearly-naked body. I want to run my fingers over her bare skin.
