Dangerous Games

20

He says nothing of Connor and Tabby, but they’re in the slight tightness around his lips. I haven’t been punished yet for them betraying him and diverting money from his bank accounts, but I suspect I will.

I can hear the dullness of my voice when I speak. “Yes. That was wise. Considering.”

“You seem tired.”

He’s not being ironic, only observant. His gaze skips over my bruised face, my rumpled jeans, and my filthy bare feet, before traveling back up and settling on my disheveled hair. His mouth takes on a slant of disapproval.

I say, “I sheared it off on the Silver Shadow after Killian kidnapped me. I didn’t want him to be able to use it like a leash again to hold me while he beat me.”

I explain it in a matter-of-fact tone, like something that happened to someone else I’ve never met. It almost feels that way. A distant memory, fuzzy around the edges, already starting to fade.

“Killian?” says Dimitri, his voice edged with violence. “That’s what he told you his name was?”

“Yes.”

His face hardens. After a moment, he says, “He’s going to pay dearly for harming you.”

It’s a weird species of curiosity I feel, hearing his anger that another man hit me. It must register in my face, because he asks, “What?”

“May I speak honestly again?”

“You won’t be punished for being honest with me, only for disobedience.”

Without thinking, I say, “That’s new.”

His small sigh is discontented. “No. There’s a difference between insolence and honesty, rudeness and truth, rebelliousness and simple confusion about what I want.”

“You once broke my arm for forgetting to make the bed.”

He gazes at me, his look level and cool. “Had I instructed you to make the bed?”

I think. “Not that particular day.”

“But it was a standing expectation. I hadn’t changed it from the time it was given. Therefore you disobeyed, therefore you were punished.”

When I stare at him with my lips parted, wrestling with the insanity of his logic, he smiles.

“Let me illustrate. Answer the following questions. Do you think I’m angry with you for sleeping with another man?”

“No,” I answer instantly, “because you orchestrated it. You wanted me to have feelings for another man so you’d regain the leverage you lost when my mother died.”

“Correct. But did I ever forbid you to sleep with another man?”

This time my answer isn’t so swift. “I don’t think you did specifically, but it was certainly implied.”

“I wouldn’t care if you f****d the entire Russian army. But only if you’d received permission from me first.”

Dazed, I say faintly, “Oh. How liberated.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Not really. I’d just like to watch.”

“But you were going to have Vlad whip me. Why be angry with Killian but not Vlad?”

He stares at me, waiting for me to catch up.

“Because Killian didn’t have permission?”

“Because he had the audacity to steal you and attempt to use you for blackmail. And yes, also because he didn’t have permission to put his hands on you. You’ll tell me all about him later.” His voice roughens. “I want to hear what he did to cause all that bruising you had in the video he sent.”

It isn’t anger that roughens his voice, but excitement.

This man is an onion of evil. Peel back one stinking layer to reveal another one, even more rotten, beneath.

He misinterprets my expression as one of confusion. “Don’t overcomplicate it. It’s very simple. Do what I tell you to do. If I don’t tell you to do something, don’t do it. As a perfect example: the lighter you took from Vlad. You knew it was wrong. If I’d wanted you to have one, I’d have given it to you.”

Ah, but then you wouldn’t have been able to orchestrate the lovely mindfuck of making me the cause of my own harm and murdering an innocent man as a bonus.

We’re turning into a long, curving driveway and slowing down. The house looms ahead through the windshield, imposingly large. We pull to a stop in front of a double set of tall carved wooden doors, painted midnight black.

The color of Naz’s hair.

I have to squeeze shut my eyes to keep the tears from falling.

Stefan follows glumly behind Dimitri and me as we walk through the echoing foyer and main corridor of the manor. Every surface gleams so much I want sunglasses to help with the glare.

Acres of marble, mirrors, and polished wood are only occasionally interrupted by a silk wall tapestry or Turkish rug. Casablanca lilies overflow from Ming vases, filling the air with that pungent, sickly-sweet funeral parlor perfume that I associate with life under Dimitri’s thumb, and have therefore come to hate with a passion.

Every so often we encounter a servant in uniform. All of them stop and bow silently until we pass, never raising their gazes from the floor. As we walk, our footsteps echo hollowly off the walls.

The place has the feel of a mausoleum.

Which, in my case, I suppose it is.

“You’re smiling again,” notes Dimitri, stopping in front of a set of closed doors. These are white, with gold handles and matching trim.

I lift a hand to my lips, disturbed to discover he’s right.

A few steps to the side and behind, Stefan stands looking at me. His gaze on me is cold and penetrating, like an interrogator’s when waiting for a response in between smashing your toes with a hammer.

Dimitri turns the golden handles on the doors and pushes them open, revealing the vast suite within.