“Shit like what?” I growl, standing up straight.
Amara shifts in the tub, almost exposing a nipple. She lays her arms across the rim of the tub, water dripping onto the floor, and rests her chin there, smirking up at me. “Holding people in gilded cages. Interrogating them until you get what you want.”
It almost makes me laugh. “You think this is interrogation, sweetheart? You have no idea.”
“You lured me to a sketchy warehouse in the middle of nowhere, you tied me up, threatened me, and then dragged me back here, took my phone, locked me inside, and left me for dead.”
This time, I do laugh, though I am far from amused. “Sweetheart, that’s not interrogation. That’s called precaution when dealing with an unpredictable component. You haven’t seen interrogation yet.”
Something flickers in her eyes. Challenge? Curiosity? Temptation? Whatever it is, it’s enough to push me just far enough over the edge.
“But if you’d like to see interrogation…”
In one fluid motion, I rip her from the tub and pin her against the tiled wall. “Tell me what you know!” I shout in her face.
“What the fuck are you talking about?! I don’t know anything!” She fights back. Tries to, at least. Her hands are scraping at my wrists and her wet feet are slipping on the floor. I have herpinned tight enough that she can just barely breathe. I can’t ‘interrogate’ her, as she cutely calls it, if she’s unconscious.
“Bullshit. Why are you stalking me?”
“I—”
“Are you working for someone?”
“What? Oh my God. No.”
“Ty vrag?”
“What?”
“Ty govorish’ po-russki?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying! Ransome, please, I can’t breathe!”
Her lips are turning colors and I realize I need to let off. With a grimace, my hand eases up and Amara slides to the floor, gasping and coughing.
Then she looks up at me, irritation in her dark eyes.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Ransome. You’re insane. You know that?”
I crouch down to her level. “No,dorogoya,you are insane. For fucking around with someone who could wipe your existence from the city like a bug from a windshield.”
“Fine,” she says, covering herself with a towel. “Yes, I have been stalking you. Ever since the day you interviewed me, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. You consumed every thought, every dream, every second of every day. I couldn’t even have coffee without wondering how you took yours. So I learned. I learned your coffee order, your lunch order depending on dayand time and mood. I learned what colors you wear depending on who you’re going to see. White for boring office days, black for stressful office days, red or blue for family dinners. I know your birthday, what time you get up in the morning, when you go to bed, the kind of soap you prefer in the office bathrooms. Even the soap you use in your shower. Which, by the way, you’re out.”
I grit my teeth and wait.
“So tell me, Mr. Rozanov: What are you going to do to me?”
Considering the fact that this woman just did a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage to my penthouse and admitted she’s been sniffing around in the most personal parts of my life for months, she’s got a lot of fucking salt to ask for answers.
And because of that, I make my decision then and there what I’m going to do.
“Get up,” I tell her, rising to my own feet. “And put some fucking clothes on.”
I know full well that Amara doesn’t have anything but her evening gown to dress in, but I’m not about to offer her something more comfortable. Something about seeing her in a walk of shame dress, her hair stringy and damp, her makeup smudged on her face from the bath… it gives me a certain amount of satisfaction.
The line between us right now is very thick. I like it that way.
I make her a cup of coffee and pour myself a shot of whiskey. When she shuffles out of the bathroom to join me, she looks at the mug with narrow eyes.
