"Maya soloveyka, my net worth is in the eight figures." I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the door, blocking the only exit, making sure she knew she was well and truly trapped. "The pocket change in your safe does not interest me. And your police do not concern me."
I paused to let that sink in. "Try again."
"What?" she asked, her face paling, those storm-gray eyes going almost silver with fear and then darting around as she tried to come up with some plan. Some way out of this little predicament she was in.
There wasn't one.
"Try again." I pushed off the door. Took one slow step toward her, watched her flinch. "Try offering me something else that would convince me to let you go."
"I—" Her voice shook, and her eyes filled with tears, but they didn't spill over. Not yet. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
She was scared, but defiant.
I liked that. Liked it too much.
"What do you want?" The question came out raw, almost a whisper.
"I'm not just going to give you the answer," I said, enjoying the way her hands trembled until she gripped the edge of the metal table behind her, knuckles going white.
Enjoying the way her eyes still flitted around the room like a wild animal searching for escape. The subtle rise and fall of her chest from the shallow breaths she was taking, her breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her bodice with each inhale.
Stop noticing that.
"If you don't want money, what else could you possibly want?" Her eyes went wide for a second as if thewhat elsefinally occurred to her.
Her lips parted on a sharp inhale.
I considered telling her that wasn't what I wanted but decided against it.
It was far too tempting to see what she would do.
To watch that fear bloom darker, richer.
Then all at once, I saw it.
The moment she realized why I was here.
Her shoulders dropped, and she pushed them back—spine straight, chin lifted. The shaking in her hands stopped, and her eyes went from nervously bouncing around the room to studying me as she stared me down.
Reading me, looking for a rhythm, a pattern, like I was one of her songs.
Maya soloveykahad some fight in her, but it was waning. Or maybe it was just acceptance of the inevitable.
"This is because of my mother, isn't it?"
She really was smart. Too smart.
I could have toldmaya soloveykathat it was about her mother, and that there was nothing she could do to stop it. Hell, I could have told her she was going to be fine as long as she behaved.
I didn't.
Lying would end this encounter for the wrong reasons and telling her the truth would end it far too quickly. And some twisted part of me—some part I didn't recognize—wanted to draw this out. Wanted to keep her here in this dim room, breathing the same air, close enough to touch.
So I stayed silent. Let her stew in her own righteous indignation and confusion.
Even full of anger, she was beautiful, like a butterfly trying to escape a jar. Bright colors and wings beating furiously against the glass, but to absolutely no avail.
The comparison irritated me—more poetry—but I couldn't shake it.
