Trust me. This Russian psycho is none of those things.
"There she is." His smile doesn't reach his pale blue eyes. They never blink enough, those eyes. Watery and cold, like something dead floating just beneath the surface. "May I come in?"
Ha. Like I can tell him no. He pushes past me, his shoulder brushing mine. I make the mistake of breathing and catch a wave of his cologne. He smells of something cloying and old-fashioned, like funeral flowers left too long in stagnant water. It coats the back of my throat and makes my stomach turn.
He surveys my tiny apartment with the air of a landlord inspecting a property he's considering condemning. His gaze moves over the sagging couch I found at a thrift store, the coffee table with the wobbly leg I've propped up with old textbooks, the water stains and the drafty windows and every evidence of a life scraped down to bare survival.
"You've made it cozy," he says, running a finger along my secondhand bookshelf. The wood is warped from a leak two winters ago, but I've arranged my books carefully, spines aligned, my only luxury in a life stripped of everything else. "All these books. You know, I've always admired readers. Such rich inner lives. Such capacity for imagination." He pulls out aworn copy of Pride and Prejudice, examines the cracked spine with those unblinking eyes. "Romantic, too. Always believing in happy endings."
Once upon a time, yeah. The more naive version of me did.
"What do you want, Victor?" I know the answer, but I hate waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I try to keep my voice steady. I fail.
He sets the book back in the wrong spot, deliberately careless, and turns to face me. "Your payment was due three days ago, Katriana. You know how I feel about tardiness."
Acid sloshes against my stomach.
"I have it." The lie tastes like copper, like blood bitten from the inside of my cheek. "Most of it. I just need a few more days to get the rest together."
"A few more days." He sighs, slipping off his reading glasses to polish them on his tie. The gesture is so mundane, so ordinary, that it takes me a moment to realize he's moving closer. Each step measured, unhurried, the walk of a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. "That's what your father used to say. Just a few more days, Victor. Just a little more time, Victor. The development is almost ready, Victor."
My back hits the wall. I didn't realize I'd been retreating. The plaster is cold through my thin shirt, and I can feel the ridge of the doorframe pressing into my shoulder blade.
"Your father was a dreamer." Victor's voice drops to barely above a whisper, intimate in a way that makes my skin want to crawl off my body. "Charming man. Wonderful imagination. Butdreamers make promises they know they can't keep. And then their daughters inherit those broken promises."
He taps the end of my nose, punctuating his last words. I’ve never wanted to murder someone more.
"I've been paying." My voice cracks, and I hate the sound of it. Hate how small I become in his presence. "Every month. For five years. The original loan was three hundred thousand. I've paid you almost twice that."
He smiles. "Yes. Interest is a beautiful thing." He's close enough now that I can smell his breath beneath the cologne. Sour and stale, like something rotting behind his teeth. "It's patient, like me. It grows while you sleep. It multiplies while you shelve books and make coffee for people who wouldn't remember your name if you died tomorrow."
I bite the inside of my cheek to force my irritation and fear to take a back seat for a minute. "What do you want? I can’t give you what I don't have."
"I've already told you. I want my payment."
"And I told you, I need a few more days."
How pathetic would I look if I fell to my knees and added in some old school begging? Just that thought of getting on my knees for this man makes the acid in my stomach gurgle and fight against the sides.
"No." His single word is soft yet razor sharp. "What you need is to understand that my patience, while considerable, is not infinite."
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in an obscene parody of tenderness. His skin is dryand papery, too warm, and the touch sends revulsion rippling through me like poison in water. I try to turn away, but his grip tightens, fingers digging into my jaw until I feel the bones grinding together.
"You could pay in other ways, you know." His breath is hot against my ear, damp and foul. "I have establishments that could use a woman with your resilience. You'd start as a hostess, of course. Something respectable. But you'd be surprised how quickly debts disappear when you're properly motivated. When you learn to be... accommodating."
The implication lands like a punch to the chest. My whole body goes cold, ice crystallizing in my veins.
"No." I shove against him, palms flat against his chest. The fabric of his suit is expensive beneath my fingers, smooth and wrong. "Get off me."
For a moment, surprise flickers across his face. His pale eyes widen just slightly, the first genuine expression I've seen from him. Then something else replaces it. Something dark and pleased and hungry.
Something that makes me wish I'd stayed silent.
"Stupid girl."
The slap comes fast and hard, snapping my head to the side. My glasses fall to the floor, skittering a few feet away. Stars explode behind my eyes, white and blinding, and pain blooms across my cheekbone like fire. Before I can recover, his hand is around my throat, lifting me onto my toes, my back scraping against the wall as my feet scramble for purchase on the worn carpet.
