“You should come with us,” the scarred man says. “It’s your night off too, yes?”
“It’s tempting, but…” Jason looks to me. I asked him specifically to keep his phone close so I could send him an SOS if I felt uncomfortable with Ilya.
“Nonsense,” says Ilya. “We see how hard you work. You deserve to enjoy yourself. And the entire night is on my tab. Go. I insist.”
Mikhail plants his paw on Jason’s shoulder. “Come on, Jason. Or are you frightened you can’t keep up with us?”
Jason laughs. “If that’s a challenge, you’re on.”
I can feel my soul leaving my body, and blood drainsfrom my face. Jason seems oblivious as he throws me a backward glance. “I have my phone if you need anything,” he says as if that’s any consolation.
There’s an exchange between Ilya and Mikhail in Russian, and then they’re gone. The chef’s obviously been trained to merge into the background and busies himself with the food prep.
Ilya pours me a glass of red wine without asking. He’s drinking from the same bottle, so I presume it’s safe, and I need a drink too much to refuse. I’m just glad I didn’t tell Reid I was having dinner with Ilya tonight. He was already freaking out. It’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine.
“Thank you,” I say, taking my glass.
“Don’t be nervous,” Ilya says. “I don’t bite.”
My mind stops spinning long enough to realize that everyone leaving had been a perfectly coordinated plan to get me alone. I have to stay calm. I cannot show weakness. “Me neither,” I say, clinking my glass against his.
Ilya nods, those cold eyes assessing me for longer than feels comfortable. When his gaze flicks to the chef, he barks instructions in Russian, and two plates of food are set down in front of us a minute later.
“We do have a dining room if you’d prefer to eat in there,” I suggest. Away from the knives.
“I thought this would be more intimate,” Ilya says, stroking his hand across the polished oak.
Little does he know it’s where I was sitting when Reid fucked me with his tongue, then his cock. I draw strength from that memory. He’d move heaven and earth to get to me if I needed him. Assuming he’d forgive me for not telling him about tonight.
Picking up my fork, I push the seafood salad around my plate. “I was expecting Russian cuisine.”
“If that’s a request, we can give you a taste of Russian hospitality next time.”
Why does everything Ilya says feel like a threat? Ignoring the remark seems the safest option. “Is everything at the guesthouse and stables as you wished?”
“There are one or two things we need to correct, but nothing major.”
“Please send me a list. I’d be happy to organize any additions or alterations.”
“Good,” Ilya says. “I was hoping I could make use of you.”
I manage to swallow a piece of salmon that’s been marinated to perfection. Under other circumstances, I’d be savoring the careful mix of spices, but it’s a struggle not to gag. My eyes water and I take a long sip of wine.
Unable to risk another mouthful, I play with my food while Ilya clears his plate. He doesn’t make small talk, and I suspect he enjoys the awkwardness of our silence. He’s deliberately putting me on edge. I can’t imagine this act would have impressed Blake, but his behavior doesn’t match the man my sister had been swooning over. Is this test just for me?
Ilya doesn’t comment on my untouched food, and the chef clears the table. There’s another discussion between the two that I can’t follow, and soon after, a plate of steak and French fries is set down in front of me. The meat is rare and bloodied. I may not be a chef, but I know the steak hasn’t been rested for long enough. I glance at the chef’s expression as he sets Ilya’s plate down. Another bloodied steak that he clearly doesn’t want to serve. So, it is a game.
I reach for the bottle of wine and refill both our glasses. I don’t intend to drink much more, but what I’ve had so far is starting to relax my muscles. I pick up a fry with myfingers. I would love to have the stomach to dip it into the steak juices as a fuck you to Ilya, but that’s beyond me right now. I nibble on the fry. And I wait for Ilya to make conversation.
He cuts into his steak and chews on a piece as he scrutinizes me. His brow furrows. “You know, you remind me of someone, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
It’s not Blake, I tell myself. My sister and I don’t look alike. There’s a good chance we have different fathers, although it wasn’t something we dwelled upon. It made no difference to us if it was one father or two that were absent from our lives. The only feature we share is our chocolate brown hair, but Blake dyed hers a deep auburn. Maybe we did share similarities around our eyes. The more Ilya stares, the more uncertain I become.
“Sorry, I can’t help you there,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear and picking up another fry.
“You like piercings,” Ilya says, spotting the studs in my ears.
I shrug. “A girl can’t have too many earrings.”
