Page 13 of Nemesis

I’m not going back to that.

Is there a reality where I could actually get away with killing him? Maybe I could lure him into a controlled, sequestered space. I haven’t let a single man take sexual pleasure from my body in years, but he doesn’t need to know that. I’d play along, just as I am now, letting his wayward limbs leave their slimy marks all over my skin.

His friends’ mouths keep moving, but all their eyes are on me.

On that stagnant hand.

The longer I stand still, the more my mind drifts into a protective blank space. For some reason, my violent thoughts turn static, stuck on one single image.

Bambi.

I see the loose curls pulling free around her face, and the way she gazed up at me as she offered the rose. There was so much naive admiration in the gesture. I remember looking at older dancers that way, once. They made the career look so shiny and achievable. They left out the dark corners when they encouraged the next generation of women to take their place.

It’s too late for me. I’ve already been used up and spit out. It’s the thought of any of this, so much as touching the sweet girl who brought me a single rose, that makes my stomach turn.

The men are safely lost in a business discussion when I decide it’s a safe time to extricate myself.

“Gentlemen, would you please excuse me? I believe I need another drink.”

They wave me off, finally distracted enough with their own whims to let me be. My feet want to run, but I force my steps to slow. Predators love to chase.

The champagne lying forgotten on the table probably costs more than my rent. I pour the contents of my full glass into the plant beside the table and refill it. No one notices, busy faking niceties and milling about the room.

The only people remotely close by are two men dressed in black from head to toe. I can only see the backs of their heads. Donor events are quite incestuous. It’s usually the same collection of assholes every time, but I don’t think I’ve seen these two before. One is a dirty blond, while the other’s hair is so black it seems to reflect the bright light of the chandelier dangling above.

I edge closer in an attempt to overhear their conversation.

“Morozov, do try to pretend like you’re remotely interested in being here,” the blond man mutters, turning his chin towards his buddy. His features are handsome in a regal sort of way. Not like the other wealthy men in the room who have no choice but to smile beneath the tension of their surgical nips and tucks.

The second man sighs heavily before throwing back his drink. “I have no idea why Solokov wanted me here. We both know that my limited talents lie elsewhere.” His voice is deep and accented. Russian, I think. He still hasn’t turned his head, attention locked on one of the corps dancers perched on a donor’s knee at the far table.

“Yes. Poor boy,” the other guy mocks. “You have to spend the night surrounded by beautiful women and expensive liquor. Must be so difficult.”

That’s when the second man finally turns, offering me a glimpse of cold, piercing blue. He’s not handsome like his friend. That word is too soft for the figure in front of me. His face is composed of harsh lines, and his stunning blue eyes are relaxed into a bored expression. My body’s already drifting closer when he responds.

“I have no interest in paying whores to hang off my arm like these old bastards.”

I freeze.

The words sift into my ears like a crackling spark, lighting the fuse of every furious wire I’ve shoved deep down throughout this night from hell. Before I know what I’m doing, my heels are moving of their own accord, stomping a direct track to the unsuspecting duo.

It happens so quickly.

One second, I’m talking to Ivan and sipping something bubbly and disgusting.

In the next, my vision is filled by a tiny woman, her long, wine-red hair swinging from a high ponytail with every step as she stares me down with the most unusual green eyes I’ve ever seen.

And they look furious.

People usually know better than to approach me, let alone storm up with such an accusatory gleam. I’m so stunned, I don’t even step out of the way before a nail is jammed into the center of my sternum. It’s like the odd little creature has managed to switch off years of my combat training with that vicious glare.

Now that she’s close, I recognize her. She was one of the ballerinas—the one in the very back who turned half a second faster than the others.

I’ve never cared for dancing, and watching it always bored me even more. It’s like sitting down to watch a marathon in a quiet, dark room for three hours straight. That aside, there was something about her dancing that wouldn’t let me look away. I had always thought ballerinas were soft, delicate creatures, but when this girl moved on stage, all I felt pouring off of her was pure rage.

It was captivating, to say the least.

And now here she is, standing in front of me and jamming her finger into my chest, challenging me like I don’t have a good foot and a couple of hundred pounds on her. My brows rise as I wait to hear whatever she has to say.