“We’re not in Siberia, you know,” he says.
I take a beanie out of my coat’s jacket and shove it on my head. “If you don’t like my outfit, I can always stay here. I don’t want to go with you, anyway.”
“Oh, you’re going. Now open.”
“What—” As I form the word, a piece of soft pastry is shoved between my lips. I clamp down on it before I realize what’s happening and pick it up with my hand. “What is wrong with you? I’m not your goddamn dog!”
He rolls his eyes. “Relax. I’m just making sure you’re fed. Wouldn’t want you fainting halfway to Manhattan—I’d have to stop somewhere, and the whole thing would be annoying?—”
“I got it,” I snap.
Frustration courses through me as I bite into the chocolate croissant and walk past him toward the main doors. Truth be told, I am hungry, and this tastes delicious, but I’ll never tell him that.
The ride out of the estate is quiet. It’s not awkward silence, but itisa statement. He doesn’t want to talk to me. And, well,I don’t want to talk to him either. I just wish I didn’t feel his stare burning into the side of my head when I’m looking out the window.
How can he be so… open and inviting one moment, then the next he’s acting like we’ve never met? He’s giving me whiplash, and I hate that I cling to every gesture as if it’s supposed to mean something.
I lean against the door, focusing on the road ahead as I try my hardest to ignore the buzzing energy between us. The forest begins to thin out, only the surrounding mountains remaining. They’re not very tall, but their peaks are covered in snow and icy morning sun.
We then pass through a town—Alemont City, as the sign shows—with lovely shops and cafes, all decorated for the upcoming holidays. A wave of sadness moves through me at the prospect of spending Christmas alone in that bedroom, but I push it down, refusing to acknowledge it. Better alone than with Mikhail or his family.
The houses are small and chic, with narrow cobbled streets and a romantic, old-world vibe that part of me is itching to explore. For half an hour, maybe, I could feel normal. But I’m not asking this man for anything.
Eventually, the urban jungle of New York pulls us in with its skyscrapers, smoke, and bustling atmosphere. The car stops in the parking lot of an apartment complex, and I follow him out, then into the elevator.
“You haven’t asked where we’re going,” he says, pressing the button to the 50th floor.
“Why bother? You dragged me out of bed without giving me much of a choice.”
“But you like that, don’t you? Having someone in control to tell you what to do.”
“Being used to it and liking it are two very different things. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one and the same with the people I had to deal with at home.”
The bastard has the nerve to look into my eyes. “Oh, no, sweetheart. I’m much worse.”
The elevator dings and the doors slide open, throwing us directly into a luxurious apartment. My eyes fall on a bunch of wedding dresses spread across the giant couch, each more shimmering and voluminous than the other. My first instinct is wincing, but then my eyes roll around the room, and the person standing there completely changes my mood.
“Y-You’re here,” I marvel, stepping out of the elevator.
Ms. Donatello’s smile struggles against a furrowed brow, the usual way in which she greets me. She steps in with open arms, and I embrace her fully. My shoulders loosen. My face creases with relief. And for a moment, I forget about the monster waiting behind me.
“How are you here? Why?” I beam.
“Your father wanted me to help with the wedding,” she says. “Make sure we pick something out for you that you’ll really like.”
More like, make sure we pick something that makeshimlook good among his new allies. But that’s not Ms. Donatello’s fault, and frankly, I’m just glad that she’s here, no matter the reason.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Mikhail says, coming next to me.
I wrinkle my nose. “You’re staying?”
His smirk twitches just barely, not in amusement this time. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say my question felt more like a slap.
But I can tell his mind is elsewhere. The way he watches my mentor—with cold, dark curiosity—leads me to believe another menacing thought has taken root in his mind. Fortunately, Ms.Donatello isn’t the kind to cower in front of any man, and the threat in her eyes when she assesses him proves it.
Mikhail’s gaze remains on her as he drawls, “Wish I could stay, sweetheart, but I’ve got work to do.”
Two predators staring each other down. That’s what this is.
