Dangerous Games

4

I open my eyes, stand up straighter, and take a deep, steadying breath. “I’m ready.”

An odd expression crosses the soldier’s face.

It’s probably my imagination, but it looks like fear.

The interior of the jet is the definition of the word ostentatious. Everything is black leather, black lacquer, or gold leaf, except for the plush carpeting, thick pile the color of oxblood. On one wall is painted the Ivanov family crest, a gold arched crown encrusted with jewels and topped by a cross on a checkerboard background of blue and yellow.

Looking at it, I spit on the oxblood carpet.

“Another new bad habit?” says Dimitri. “I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

He sits stiffly in a chair down the aisle, just outside the closed cockpit door. He’s pale and sweating. Beneath his open suit jacket, his black dress shirt is saturated with blood.

“If you don’t die of that gunshot wound first.”

He smiles coolly. “You know very well it would take far more than a bullet to kill me.”

Despite his injury, he’s in control of himself. He hasn’t even loosened his tie.

I should be terrified or furious or experiencing something else other than this strange detachment I feel. I suppose it must be shock. Either that or all my brain capacity is tied up dealing with the agony of my broken arm and smashed face, which has swollen so badly I can’t see out of my right eye.

“Sit down,” he commands, “and let me look at you.”

I hesitate for only a moment, out of a useless flare of rebellion, but then take the seat across from him and gingerly settle back into the comfort of buttery-soft leather. Then I lift my eyes and meet his gaze and simply sit and stare at him.

Those red lips, as plump and pouty as a girl’s. That glossy blond hair. That classically handsome face, fine-boned and aristocratic, with its innocent aspect and pleasing symmetry of features.

It’s said that Lucifer was the most beautiful of all the angels, before he betrayed God and was cast out of heaven. Sitting across from me is undeniable proof that the most lovely of things can hide the greatest of evils.

After a long time, Dimitri says, “First, truth. You knew I’d find you. Yes or no.”

I breathe in. I breathe out. I manage the urge to shriek and gnash my teeth like one of those undead creatures in a horror movie, ravenous for brains.

“Yes.”

Oh God, that sickening smile. That smug, sickening smile.

“Do you know why you were always my favorite, Evalina? Why I would chase you across thousands of miles and go to so much trouble to get you back, when it would’ve been so much easier to simply dispose of you?”

I consider it. The monster is in a generous mood, the man I love could be dead, and all the world is ashes. Might as well play this dark game to its end. “Because you can’t stand to lose?”

“No.”

When he doesn’t continue, I say, “Is this multiple choice, or are you going to tell me?”

“Because of all the women I’ve ever had, only you have proven to be unbreakable.”

Unbreakable.

There’s an echo of an unmet goal in his tone, the excitement of a game hunter talking about the man-eating tiger he dreams of tracking down and turning into a stuffed trophy for his wall. When I swallow, a fine tremor running through my hands, his smile turns sinister.

“‘The green reed which bends in the wind is stronger than the mighty oak which breaks in a storm.’ Confucius said that.”

“How illuminating.”

He ignores my bitter sarcasm. “You’re my green reed, Evalina. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on you. You danced out onstage at the Mariinsky Theatre all those years ago, and my heart stopped, because I knew I’d found what I’d been looking for.”

I grimace, my stomach curling into knots. “A slave?”

“No,” he breathes, his eyes glittering. “An equal.”

The laugh I produce is sharp and ugly. “Putting aside for a moment how ridiculous that is, you kept me like a dog. In a cage. With a collar. You did unspeakable things to me, things I can still feel right now sitting here talking to you. Don’t try to make it sound like anything more than it is: you got off on my pain.”

“Trial by fire,” he says, sounding reasonable. “There’s no other way to determine if the clay you’re molding will crack unless you put it into the kiln.”

I stare at him in disgust that’s only outweighed by disbelief. “So I’m the pottery and you’re the potter?”

“I admit it’s a rough comparison.”

“You’re completely insane. You realize that, right?”

“Am I? Look at yourself. You’re sitting there composed, even defiant, though at least one of your bones is obviously broken, your eye is swollen shut, and your lover was killed in front of you. Without the experience of your years with me, you’d probably be curled up in a corner, catatonic with pain and grief.”

“Your lover was killed in front of you.”

Breathe, Eva. He’s the prince of lies. Just breathe.

Through gritted teeth, I say, “I suppose you think I should thank you for that.”

He lets his gaze drift lazily over me. “You can show me your gratitude later.”

“Oh, I’ll be showing you something later for sure, but it won’t be gratitude.”

He c***s his head, examining my expression with a clinical look of interest. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

Loved, past tense. If he’s lying, he’s being very careful.