His greeting reinforces that fact, the cocky assumption that Idecidedto be in his presence—as if I had any say in the matter.
“I didn’t realize there was a choice,” I say dryly, that old habit of speaking my mind unexpectedly rearing its head. It couldn’t have come at a worse time, and I bite my tongue, my heart rate jumping as I brace for my captor’s wrath.
Instead, a slow smile creeps across his lips, amusement dancing over his features, and he gestures for me to take a seat in the chair next to him. Tentatively, I step forward to obey.
His three brothers sit across the table from me, their dark eyes a stark contrast to the oldest Chiaroscuro’s icy-blue ones as they study me with open curiosity.
All three are just as muscular and physically imposing as their older brother—a trait that must run in the family. I swallow hard as my hands start to shake, and I bury them in my lap beneath the table to hide my nerves.
“Do you know who we are, Signora Novikov?” Michelangelo asks, drawing my eyes back to his startling blue ones.
“The Chiaroscuro brothers,” I say without hesitation.
“Looks like we left an impression, brother,” one of the twins observes.
Michelangelo’s smirk widens as he unleashes a grin that makes my heart flutter.
If only he knew just how deep of an impression our chance encounter at that gala had been burned into my memory.
“You can call me Miko. These are my brothers Gio, Raf, and Sandro,” he adds, gesturing to each brother in turn.
They give nods of acknowledgement, then turn inward, as if to resume a conversation they paused long enough to meet me officially.
But Miko’s eyes remain on me, studying me closely, and after a pause, he reaches up to lightly brush his fingers across my bruised cheek.
The jolt of electricity that passes between us makes me gasp, and I jerk back despite the sudden, not-at-all-unpleasant warmth that floods my body.
I don’t know quite what to make of his almost tender touch, or the blatant disapproval written across his face—as if my bruise personally offends him.
“Did that happen yesterday?” he asks, a hint of what I could almost mistake for remorse tinging his deep baritone.
He’s asking if I got hurt during the attack, and it does strange things to my pulse to think he might care to take responsibility—not that he had anything to do with it.
But I’m not ready to air my dirty laundry for some stranger.
I don’t want to give him ammunition, to give him a glimpse of how low my husband has brought me.
If he realizes I’ve been treated like a dog for the past year, what’s to stop him from deciding to carry on that legacy?
“Something like that,” I say stiffly, reluctant to divulge the intimate details of my marriage—even to the man responsible for my abuser’s death. The fact remains that Miko didn’t do it for me. He killed Pyotr to satisfy his own ambitions, and I have no doubt he would do the same to me in a heartbeat if it suited him.
Miko withdraws his hand, his blue eyes darkening into a storm as he sits back in his chair.
Behind me, Chastity quietly fills a plate with food, and my stomach growls noisily, giving away my hunger, as soon as the mouthwatering smell reaches my nose.
“My men said you refused to eat the dinner I sent up last night,” Miko states, his strong brows lifting pointedly as he glances toward my audible hunger pains.
Pressing my lips together, I look down at the plate Chastity sets before me, but I don’t touch it.
“Eat,” Miko commands, and the authority in his voice makes my heart skip a beat.
Oddly, it’s not an entirely negative physical response, though I’ve spent the last year learning that it’s dangerous to ignore orders from men like him.
But his voice doesn’t hold any of the goading challenge to disobey him that lay beneath Pyotr’s commands—as if he was just waiting for me to refuse so he could punish me for it.
So the rush of adrenaline that floods my veins makes me feel stronger, bolder rather than the typical weak and shaky nerves I’m plagued with.
Miko sounds as though the idea of someone rejecting his instructions hasn’t even crossed his mind.
