And still, something raw and alive claws through my chest. It’s repulsive how well-attuned I am to him. How easily my senses betray me. I shift in my seat as his mouth curls just slightly, as though he knows the affect he has on me.
When I glance away, a sense of relief hits me. But like a flame, I’m pulled back to him. Our eyes align, something intense and feral within his. I feel his gaze as though it’s touching me, catching fire, and spreading inside me.
I hate that he can do this to me. Even after everything.
I remember standing in court, looking him straight in the eye, and presenting the murder charge with everything I had. Every word I spoke felt fueled, every point sharpened. I wanted the jury to see the monster I knew he was.
And still, even then, every time our eyes met, something inside me splintered.
It’s the same look now. Dark. Ravenous.
I should have buried that feeling. Drowned it in every legal brief and piece of evidence I filed against him. But it survived. It grew. And when I lost the case and he walked out of that courtroom free and untouched, what cut deepest wasn’t the failure. It was the way he looked back at me on his way out, like he owned me.
ButI’mthe one who ownshim.
Obsession. Hatred. Lust. He feels it all…for me.
I’m no better, though. I feel it too. All these damn emotions tangled up in a man who should never make me feel this alive.
As I look away, I find two men approaching, clean-cut, not much older than us.
Oh, great…
“You ladies want another drink?”
Dana perks up immediately, smiling flirtatiously as they pull up two chairs.
“No, thanks.” I stare indifferently, lifting my beverage that I’ve barely made a dent in.
The taller one eyes me intently. Sure, he’s attractive, but I’m just over the whole male population.
“You celebrating something?”
“Yeah. Conviction,” I say flatly.
He laughs like I’m joking.
I know men like him. So sure of themselves. Then they get in bed and last three minutes.
Or maybe it’s just with me.
I can already see it. He’d get me naked and get turned off, but because he’s such a nice guy, he’d switch off the lights and pity-fuck me, and then I’d never see him again.
Not because there’s something wrong with my body. It’s my skin that turns them off. Segmental vitiligo, something I’ve had since I was around fifteen. The faint marbled patch of skin crawls over my right hip and around to my back. I used to hate it, but not anymore. It’s who I am, and if they don’t like it, they can fuck right off.
But I don’t even bother with dating anymore. It’s not worth the effort. There aren’t very many good guys left, and I seem to attract the shittiest of the pile.
My mother thinks I just haven’t found the right man. That one day I’ll find someone just like my dad. But I’m twenty-eight, and that still hasn’t happened.
At that, I glance at Aleksei, and instead of being disgusted, I find myself wondering if he’s the type of man who’d worship every inch of me.
Fuck, why am I even thinking that?
I turn away for just a second, and when I look back, his fingers trace the rim of his glass like he’s already imagining my skin beneath them.
Heat crawls up my neck as the image sneaks in—his hands on me, his mouth grazing mine—and suddenly, it’s impossible to sit still and act like my body isn’t already affected.
It’s dirty. Cruel. Torture.
