Now I look at him and see complexity. And my fantasies have changed. Where I used to dream about his hand around my throat on a hard unfeeling desk, now I dream of deep kisses and indecipherable Russian words that suspiciously feel likelovemaking.
I’ve gotten so disturbed by these dreams that I even went and looked up what the word was in Russian, which only resulted in dream-Slava whispering it in my ear as he fans the flames hotter and hotter every night.
Ihateit.
But the part that I hate most of all is that on some level, I’m starting to feel sympathy for him, and I want him to look at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.
To make matters even worse, I haven’t had a chance to get inside the safe at all.
I lie to myself that it’s because I’m memorizing his schedule so that I can find the time to do what I need to do. But I already have it memorized to the minute ever since I started working for him.
And the entire time, Nico has been getting impatient.
I’m living on borrowed time.
But I’m no closer to a solution than the first day that I saw the safe.
Think, Bella. Think.
My hand grabs the glass, only to find that it’s empty. Sighing, I peel myself off the sofa and walk to the kitchen. Outside my apartment, a firetruck rushes by, and sends red and white lights dancing over my ceiling.
The light bounces off my glass, and I rub absent-mindedly at it with my thumb, leaving a dull streak across the smooth surface.
My eyes suddenly widen.
The glass.
When I picked it up and drank from it while he watched, his lip print was on the rim. But that couldn’t have been the only marks he left behind.
Slowly, I squeeze my fist around the glass in my hand. When I open them, I see them.
Five fingerprints.
Holy shit.
I start rummaging through the kitchen and quickly find what I’m looking for: a bottle of Elmer’s glue.
With bated breath, I brush a thin layer over the glass right where my thumb is. It takes a few minutes to dry, and another few minutes for me to gently peel it off without breaking.
And when I hold it up to the light, I see it.
A single perfectly-preserved thumbprint.
Suddenly, I’m too wired to go back to sleep. My mind is racing now, not with dreams but with plans. I need to get my hands on a glass that Slava has held—specifically one that he’s squeezed hard enough to leave a thumbprint—and I need to do it without him noticing.
Slowly, an idea starts to take shape in my mind.
It’s insane and reckless.
But also happens to be the best idea I’ve had in months.
I rush back into my room, and start planning what I’m going to wear.
The elevator feels smallerthan usual this morning as it hurtles towards Slava’s penthouse.
I catch my reflection in the polished doors and barely recognize myself.
My pencil skirt is still black like always, but this one sits higher on my waist and clings tighter to my hips. The hem hits mid-thigh instead of the usual knee-length ones I prefer. My blouse is thin enough that you can see my bra if you look hard enough. And to sweeten the deal, I’ve decided to leave the top two buttons opened so he can get a glimpse of the fuck-me-red bra I’ve got on.
