"Pizza is one of my main food groups," I argued.
He gave me a flat look as he sat next to me and held up the spoon. It had a big piece of carrot in thick brown gravy.
I wanted to turn my head away and refuse the food just out of sheer stubbornness, but my stomach kept growling, betraying my hunger.
"Have you eaten at all today?"
The last thing I needed was for some Russian mafia kidnapper to judge my ability to take care of myself.
"Where did you get all this?" I asked.
"I had one of my men go to the store and grab supplies. It's not much, but it'll have to do. We have a long night ahead of us. The last thing I need is for you to keel over on your heels from hunger."
"Heels? Why would I be wearing heels?"
"Because traditionally that's what women wear when they attend galas. Now, open your mouth,maya soloveyka."
I flinched, jerking my head back.
"Stop calling me your little songbird or whatever. This may come as a surprise, but I don't speak Russian. For all I know, you could be lying about what you’re saying. You could be insulting me or calling me a dead bitch."
He smiled. An actual smile that reached his eyes, and it was alarming. When he smiled, he looked almost charming. There was a glint in his arctic blue eyes, and a dimple formed on the right side of his face. My heart skipped a beat.
The last thing I needed to do was find a man this terrifying, this imposing, so damn attractive. I knew he was gorgeous—I knew it the second I saw him—but there was a difference between being classically handsome and swoon-worthy.
Classically handsome, I could recover from. Swoon-worthy would wreck me. Even more than I already was.
Men that dangerous should not have smiles that weakened a woman's knees. They should be ugly, scarred, and only have cruel smirks, not charming grins.
It was a cruel trick of the universe.
"Maya soloveykameans my little nightingale," he explained. "Because of your hauntingly beautiful voice." He lifted the spoon to my mouth, and I begrudgingly took a bite.
The rich flavor exploded over my tongue; it was almost enough to make me forget my irritation that he had heard me sing.
I never sang for an audience. I hated it when people heard me singing. It was like inviting judgment. My mother's voice echoed in my head every time I had an audience.
You're wasting your time. You don't have any talent. Only people with talent should spend any time with music. It's a waste. It's just another way for you to beg for attention.
That was why I only ever picked up my guitar when the shop was empty. It wasn't a performance. It was just supposed to be for me. A way I could process emotions I couldn't talk about.
I was the daughter of a senator. I lived a privileged life. Talking about feelings of inadequacy, unfairness, or just invisibility was entitled. Throughout my entire life, I was told how lucky I was, how good I had it compared to other people, and that complaining about anything was an act of ingratitude.
I couldn't talk about the emotions without adding guilt. So I sang about them. I used other people's words and melodies to express them. Because therapy was for "celebrities and addicts."
Was there a song I could learn that would help me deal with wanting a man who was deadly and controlling? What melody would capture the fear of having a bomb placed around your throat, hidden in diamonds? Where were there lyrics that could express a carnal desire for a man that I should hate? Probably something from Halsey.
"I really need to get back to work," I said between bites of that amazing stew. "There were things I was supposed to do last night before?—"
"No, you are not going back to work today."
"You don't understand. I don't work for some big corporation that can just replace me with somebody else. It's a small business. Edith, the owner, needs me. She relies on me, and I'mthe only employee she has. The store is barely afloat as it is. I can't?—"
Darius cut off my words by shoving another spoonful of stew with a sizeable chunk of beef on it into my mouth, forcing me to chew instead of babble.
"Your employer will be compensated fairly. Besides, we have plans tonight."
"You're insane if you think I'm going to get dressed up to attend a gala with you. Why would I do that?"
