The library is closer than my office. There’s a full bar stocked in there. And if anyone comes looking for me, they’ll go to my office first. It will be a little while before they find me.
I push open the heavy wooden door, step inside… and stop.
She's there.
Why the fuck is she in here?
Liesl is curled up in one of the leather armchairs near the fireplace, a book open in her lap, and her hair falling over one shoulder. The honey blonde of it shines in the lamplight, glossy and looking like it would feel like silk sliding through my fingers. She's wearing soft clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder—and her feet are tucked under her.
She looks comfortable. At home.
Like she belongs here.
The thought makes something twist in my chest that I don't want to examine.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes widen slightly—taking in my appearance, probably. The blood on my hands, my rumpled shirt. The tension radiating off me in waves.
“What,” I begin slowly, “are you doing in here?” I enunciate each word, carefully, and I see her eyes widen slightly. The book drops into her lap.
"Andrei," she says. Her voice is slow and soft, like she's approaching a dangerous animal. "I didn't think anyone would be?—"
"That’s not what I asked. What are you doing here?" The words come out harsh, rough with anger that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with her father.
She blinks. "Reading. One of your men said I could use the library if I wanted. I thought?—"
Anger floods through me—more at the idea that she spoke with one of the men than the fact that she’s in here… even more so than the knowledge that someone was buttered up enough by her beauty and her glib tongue to disobey me. "Who said this?"
"I don't know his name. Tall, dark hair, scar on his?—"
"You should be in your room." I cut her off before I can say anything else, already thinking dark thoughts about what I’m going to do to the man who she’s referring to. The one who talked to her, let her out of her room, left her unguarded. Three orders, broken. Enough for me to put a bullet in him, and that’sbeforethe part where I want to let him bleed out slowly for spending enough time around her to let her charm him. That possessiveness is sliding through my veins again, that feeling that I want to keep her locked up and away from everyone, not just to keep her captive, but to make sure no one else gets to look at her.
This beautiful little bird.
"It's barely nine o'clock." There's a hint of defiance in her voice, and that brightness that never quite dims no matter what's happening around her. "I'm not a child who needs a bedtime."
My teeth grit together. "You're a captive who needs to follow rules."
"Well, what I was I supposed to do when he said it was okay? Say I was just kidding, that I didn’t want to leave my room afterfour dayslocked up without…” She suddenly stops, and goes still, her face paling slightly. As if she’s remembered the clock that’s running out. She swallows hard, and I can’t help but lookat her throat as it moves, remembering how it felt under my palm. My cock twitches, thickening against my thigh. “Did my father call?”
"No."
The word hangs in the air between us. I move further into the room and close the door behind me. The click of the latch sounds too loud in the quiet space.
Her face has gone pale in the lamplight. “He hasn’t called?” she repeats slowly, as if trying to believe the words herself. I could almost feel sorry for her, for the way her world must be fracturing around her right now, if I wasn’t so damn pissed off.
I’ve been put into an impossible situation, one I wouldn’t be in if my men had just grabbed the right fucking girl in the first place. I wouldn’t be thinking about how I wanted to fuck her, how I still want to fuck her, and how much more complicated that makes all of this. I wouldn’t be worrying about what my men will think if I don’t kill her. I wouldn’t be imagining her face right before I pull the trigger and feeling my soul shrivel up inside my body every time I do.
“Andrei…” she whispers my name, and my teeth grit against each other.
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t say my fucking name.” I walk to the bar cart in the corner and pour myself three fingers of vodka. Drink it in one swallow. Pour another. "Your father is playing fucking games.”
She’s white as a sheet now, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. All of her calm, all of her relaxed demeanor, is gone. Her gaze flicks to the gun hanging from my leather shoulder holster, under my arm. "I don't understand."
I turn to face her. She's watching me with those wide eyes, her expression confused and so fucking naive it makes me want to shake her. “Your father won’t pay. Like I said. He’s playing games.”
"What kind of games?" Her voice trembles.
"The kind that get people killed."
