Her growl followed me into the hall. “I do not wear white!”
As of today, I didn’t either.
If I was a virgin walking toward sacrifice, I’d do it dressed in a black hand-me-down.
fress
(n.) to eat without reservation and heartily
Sweat and animosity cloaked the dining room like a saccharine shadow, though it remained silent enough to hear a pin drop. Or just the scrape of my fork.
This wasn’t a usual dinner for me, and it wasn’t due to the presence of two of Alexei’s men, whose bruised bodies and egos were bound to their chairs, but because I preferred to eat supper at eight.
Polina swept in to grab my finished plate dressed in her nightgown, a frilly sleep cap askew on her head. Curiosity pulled her out of bed no doubt, rather than a desire to serve me herself; gossiping and cooking were two of her finest talents. It was the latter that made her become the only woman I considered marrying, regardless if she was twenty years my senior and probably weighed more than me. Poverty as an adolescent and four years of prison food taught me to enjoy a meal more than most.
When Polina continued to stand there and stare at my guests, I told her in Russian, “That will be all.”
She practically jumped out of her nosy stupor and muttered, “Of course,” before rushing from the room so fast her cap flew off. Her arm reached back into the doorway, a hand searching around until it grasped the ruffled hat, and then it and the rest of my cook disappeared.
Alexander, Alexei’s nephew, sneered at the scene, but he didn’t say anything. Probably because he was warned if he spoke a word, I’d cut out his tongue. There was nothing more nauseating than hearing loyal sentiments toward Alexei while I ate.
Albert sat at the end of the long table, eyes cold, arms crossed. Viktor sat beside him, both pinning my guests with intimidating stares. The overload of rivalry and testosterone was beginning to make me feel thirsty. And bored.
Sitting back in my chair, I trimmed the end of my cigar and wondered whether Mila would deign to make an appearance anytime soon or if I would have to drag her ass down here. Patience was a virtue. It was the only reason she got four days to play the isolated captive in my guest room. Of course the circumstances and end goal weren’t so virtuous. Solitude was an effortless way to bring even the strongest men to tears.
I lit my cigar and wondered if seclusion had changed Mila’s temperament; if it had dulled her hatred and turned her into a good, submissive pet. The idea ached in my cock, and a very impatient need to know how she would behave expanded. I found both reactions bothersome, so, instead of giving in to the urge to go retrieve her, I decided to wait a few more minutes.
I gestured to the servant who stood beside the door to pour me a drink. As always, the girl moved as quietly as a church mouse. She even squeaked like one when I grabbed her unsteady wrist before she overfilled my glass. The noise was one of pain, and I knew I hadn’t hurt her.
“Izvinite pozhaluysta,” she blurted. I’m sorry.
My grip on her wrist lifted the hem of her white dress sleeve an inch, revealing a purple bruise and the source of her discomfort. I released her, and she began to sop up spilled vodka while mumbling frantic apologies.
The girl—whose name I should know but didn’t—put a hand to her forehead and swayed, clearly growing dizzy. I knew the culprit was her papa’s short fuse—he was a reliable enforcer of mine. I didn’t usually interfere in my men’s family drama, but I gave a silent command to Viktor to speak with him. Good servants were hard to find, and I didn’t appreciate mine being abused so they couldn’t even do their job properly.
“Go,” I told the girl. “You’re no longer required tonight.”
She fled the room without a word.
Alexander’s eyes flared with disgust, probably believing I beat my servants on the regular. I merely raised a brow, amused at the show of bravery. His companion was sweating bullets and was moments away from pleading for his life.
Finally, Mila appeared in the doorway.
I pulled the cigar from my mouth, narrowed eyes sliding down her body and the stupid fucking T-shirt Gianna gave her that barely covered her ass. Elvis’s smirking face front and center was the only amused one in the room.
Anger flushed hot and heady through me, though something else intertwined—something darkly satisfied. It might be the confirmation she clearly had some fight left in her, but it was more likely the fact I was going to spank her ass for this later.
“Come here, kotyonok.”
She hesitated for a beat before complying, avoiding my gaze the entire way. I’d saved a chair for her beside me, but since she disobeyed my order to dress and wouldn’t even give me her eyes in the process, I pulled her tense body into my lap when she reached me.
Mila’s rigid posture told me she couldn’t be more uncomfortable with this seating arrangement, but she didn’t voice her complaint. Ignoring the bound and bruised men with a nonchalance the race of her heart belied, Mila decided she was hungry for dessert.
“Is that medovi—?” The rest of the word came out on a breathy yelp when I cupped a possessive palm over her pussy beneath the table.
She was either the best fucking tease on the planet, or Gianna was stingy with her underwear. Hot, bare cunt pressed against my palm, and the semi I was sporting since Mila’s ass settled on my lap hardened to stone.
“What are you wearing?” I asked darkly in her ear.
She panted, futilely tugging at my hand between her thighs, but she still managed to mock me with the obvious. “A T-shirt?”
I couldn’t decide if her sarcasm angered me or turned me on even more. “Why aren’t you wearing what I sent up for you?”
“I don’t wear silk,” she countered with heat.
I should have known she’d have a problem with the abuse of poor silkworms.
I was a second away from dragging her upstairs and forcing her into that dress, but her response changed things. She had a soft heart. I didn’t want to destroy it. I wanted it in the palm of my hand.
And right now my hand was occupied.
I gave her a warning squeeze. She sucked in a breath, arching her back in an effort to escape my hold, but when she realized she was getting nowhere by struggling, she stilled and dug her blunt nails into my hand.
The smallest amount of disquiet flickered through Albert’s eyes. Mine told him to take his concern and go fuck himself with it. He pulled his gaze back to Alexander, whose expression seethed.
As the hostility in the room grew too abrasive to ignore, Mila finally took in our guests. She seemed to focus on the one with a pretty face.
“Don’t get too excited, kotyonok,” I drawled. “He’s your cousin.”
Her lips parted, the grip on my hand eased, and she took in Alexander and the scene more thoroughly now—from his bound wrists, to the man beside him, to the revolver that sat on the table.
I caressed her soft thigh with my thumb. “No better time for a family reunion, don’t you think?”
She swallowed, and, in unveiled aversion toward my dinner party, she said, “A funeral would be a better time than this.”
A smile touched my lips. “As you can see, we’re still working on my pet’s manners.”