The only player, too.
Okay, fine, Cy comes second because the motherfucker tunes me out sometimes.
Anyway, back to the subject of Vaughn practicing his niche religion of pretending I don’t exist—something I intend to change even if it’s the last thing I do.
After he hung up on me a few times, I went for the second-best thing—sending a video.
I filmed myself lying in bed, my hair haphazard, my eyes still droopy from sleep and an orgasm, then stared at the camera for a beat and narrowed my eyes.
“So, in case no one told you, it’sreallyrude to hang up on peopleafterignoring their texts. Knock, knock, who’s there? Your manners, Vanya. Ha. What do you think of that? I know your name isn’t Ivan, but it still fits. Seriously, why did yourfullyRussian parents give you an American name? Pretty sure they meant Ivan and slipped somewhere. Anyway, Vanya sounds adorable, no? Not cuter than Mishka, though. Speaking of Mishka, did I call you that recently? I swear I had the most realistic dream last night in which I was…you know, doing dirty things to you.” I winked, grinning, then bite the corner of my lower lip. “You were so into it, too, by the way. If you don’t believe me, we can reenact the scene.”
He saw that video aaand, you guessed it, he didn’t reply.
The fact that he saw it is enough.
For now.
So since then, I’ve been sending him my video diaries, just talking nonsense, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English. Oftentimes switching up just to mess with him.
He’s seen every single one of my amateurish vlogs.
Not sure if he’s watched them, but the fact that the blue ticks appear not long after I send my video of the day is enough of a sign that I’m luring him into my trap.
And tonight is the perfect confirmation of my suspicions, because guess what? I received a QR code invitation to the Heathens’ initiation ceremony.
Yup, that’s right.
Heathens, here I come.
While I don’t give a fuck about them, I do give a wholelotof fucks that Vaughn joins his friends when an initiation happens.
However, the reason why I’m bubbling with excitement isn’t only because he’ll be there tonight.
No, it’s more due to the very logical conclusion I came to following a recent conversation.
My law professor, Kayden Lockwood. Just kidding, he’s Kayden Davenport—an important business associate of my dad’s and one of the reasons Yaroslav is so feared in the mafia world. Being friends with the Davenports is a fast track way to have power, influence, and carte blanche to kill.
Now, I’m not sure why Kayden came all the way from the States, abandoning his Davenport empire just to play law professor, but it doesn’t matter, because that’s not the important part.
It’s that Kayden said I was drugged that night.
Yup—the night I had a dream about Vaughn’s lips and hard chest pressing and rubbing against mine was the night my drink was roofied.
Maybe that was the reason the dream was so realistic, but you know what? Kayden said he dragged me to my room and saved me, but did he really? Because I swear there was someone other than Kayden in the room with me.
If there’s even the slightest chance it was Vaughn, I might roll off a cliff on my new bike in celebration.
Sure, I’m delusional—he was across the pond and all that—but I’ll stick with the fantasy, thank you very much.
I focus on the now. I’m walking through the forest where the Heathens’ initiation takes place.
Mist curls low around my shoes, the ground damp and eager to stain, and the trees are lined up like comical soldiers, all stiff and whispering secrets to each other.
Typical British weather has graced us once again today—cloudy, gray, and dramatic as hell. Seriously, why does the sky look like it wants to pour its guts out but keeps holding on?
For suspense, I think.
Honestly, the sky and that little shit Vaughn have too much in common.
