I feel compelled to talk. I don’t know why. Maybe because he hasn’t said anything. I know I shouldn’t spill my thoughts to strangers, but the words tumble out anyway. “I’m not really sad or anything. It’s just, I mean… clubs are weird. People are close. Too close. And the music, it’s not music, it’s a wall. And, well, some people are just… gross, I guess.”
He raises an eyebrow, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. Not amused. Just interested. “Mm?”
I stumble on, nervous now, letting my words tumble faster, like I need to fill the air. “And I don’t know, tonight… It’s my birthday, and I thought I’d have fun, but then… people suck. And my friend—well, she’s not an actual friend. But the guy I—never mind.”
He shifts, just a fraction, leaning back with a weightless grace, arms crossed, head tilted. I catch the tiniest smile tugat the corner of his mouth, quick, fleeting. Not enough to encourage me, but enough to make me wonder if he’s amused by my rambling.
“What’s your name?” he says finally, holding out his hand, cigarette forgotten in the other. Dangerous in a way I can’t pinpoint, but it tingles my spine.
Chapter 17
Nikolai
Present
There’s something delicious about the silence before a man begs.
It’s a silence that lives in his throat, clawing to get out, tangled between pride and raw, bleeding fear. And that’s where I prefer them—on the edge. Still hoping, but already ruined.
He’s sitting across from me now. Mr. Lowell. Knees bouncing. Wedding ring glinting under the too-bright bulb of this little backroom in the warehouse. A back room with one window, a window giving us a perfect view of his crying family.
Messy place for a man to die.
“I’ll make it right,” he chokes out, voice shaking. “It was just a slip, Nikolai. I didn’t mean—”
I hold up one hand, gesturing for him to stop.
He does. Because they always do.
I stare at him, calculating how many pieces he’d break into if I dropped him from the story above us.
“I’m not angry, Mr. Lowell. Anger is an emotion I reserve for people I respect.”
He swallows, the sound so loud in the room that it echoes.
“What I am,” I say, stepping forward slowly, “is insulted.”
I crouch in front of him, resting my elbows on my knees like I’m a friend about to offer advice.
“See, you made the mistake of thinking you were untouchable. And you made that mistake with my name in your mouth. That’s something I can’t afford.”
His lips part, ready to protest, but I cut him off.
“Don’t grovel. It’s ugly. And useless.”
I stand again, slowly rolling my sleeves. Let him wonder why. Let him sweat.
“Please don’t touch her.”
“Your wife?” I question and gesture my body towards his crying wife in the passenger’s seat of the black SUV we picked him up in.
He nods, weary, and a grin forms on my face.
He starts crying, mumbling, “No, no, no.”
Of course he thinks I’ll rape her. That’s what he would do.
I laugh. “No, no. I wouldn’t. The thought disgusts me. I don’t find pleasure in using women who aren’t begging for my cock.”
