DAMSEL MEETS DANGER

THE ULTIMATUM

IVY

Bar the man who pointed a gun to Grandma's temple earlier, and the one who approached me with determination in his eyes, I hadn't seen any other man this up close in five years.

Usually, the men who dropped by our all female villa were delivery guys, who I only ever caught glimpses of.

This one just before the foot of the bed, staring down at me, was well– quite the discovery.

Not only did he tower above mere mortals, I assume, he also had very striking features.

What kind of grown ass man was blonde? Why were his eyes so blue? And was he wearing an amused expression?

“Why is he so handsome?”

My breath caught, and I immediately rebuked that naughty voice in my head.

Handsome? Oh please! Men could never be anything synonymous to beauty.

They were cruel, evil, downright mon–

“Hello princess,” he repeated, invading my thoughts.

I lowered my gaze to clear my throat. All clear, I mustered enough willpower to rise to my feet.

When my head lifted up to look at him again, it lifted all the way up, almost twisting my neck.

Mind you, I would be described as tall myself.

“Ivy,” I said.

He blinked, and blinked again. A double-blink.

Wow, his lashes were so long and curly. A full head of curly blonde hair, and thick long lashes.

Just–

“No!” I chastised my internal voice, absolutely refusing to willingly check him out.

“I know your name is Ivy,” he said again in that Russian accent of his that clashed beautifully well with his English accent.

It wasn't lost on me the word beautiful had come up again. I really needed to find another word when describing him.

“But your grandmother calls you princess. If I call you the same, you're more likely to feel at home.”

I chuckled, tickled by the nerve of him to make mention of my grandmother.

“Look here, Blondie, only my grandmother calls me princess. To you, and to everyone else including your creepy, bald father, mentor, or whatever he is to you, it's Ivy. Capiche?”

He just stared at me as if I had lost my mind.

Maybe he didn't understand English all that well, considering how his accents clashed.

“Blondie?” He double blinked again, and followed it with a deep chuckle that made his throat rumble.

My stomach flipped, but I couldn't explain why.

“We-ll you're–” I pointed up to his head.

“I got it, Princess. You're very– peculiar.”

I kissed my teeth, downright irritated now. “I said it's, Ivy, okay? Also, tell your father, mentor, or whatever he is to you that I think I'm dying, so I won't be marrying him. Except he wants to be a widower immediately after the vows are exchanged.”

“You're dying?” He asked in an amused tone that clearly showed he wasn't buying what I was selling.

“Yes, I am,” I coughed, trying to sell it harder. “I have this genetic disease that suffocates me every time I'm around men.”

The giant man threw his head back, and burst out laughing.

It sounded like sporadic gunshots striking a guitar cord, in the most soothing way. If that made sense.

I didn't want him to stop laughing because it was annoyingly intriguing, but I had to weasel my way out of impending doom that was marriage to an old creepy.

“Look, why don't you laugh all the way to the old man? Tell him everything I've said. Surely, he can get any other woman in the world. He doesn't need a sick, dying one.”

He stopped laughing abruptly, and when he looked at me again, there wasn't a trace of warmth, or a crack of smile in his eyes.

“What if he doesn't want any other woman, but you?”

“Yeah right. I doubt that's true. There are women younger than me. I'm twentysix. Don't let my youthful appearance fool you. Since he's a cre,” I swallowed the insult, and swiftly restrategized. “Since he's an older man who prefers women of younger appeal, he'll definitely want to hear this information. Hurry up, and tell him okay?”

“Okay,” he said, much to my surprise. “I'll tell him.”

He turned around, and took a couple steps towards the door.

Relief began to uncurl the tension in my lower tummy. That didn't go as bad as it could have gone.

Maybe I might have a future in theater the way I just killed my role as a bonafide liar.

Or maybe I spoke too soon, because he paused, and turned around again.

He began to walk back my way, and my heart picked up pace.

“I– I thought you were leaving to inform your father, mentor, whoever he is to you, what I said?” I stuttered.

“I told him already,” he replied, stopping directly in front of me.

His cologne, woody and earthly masculine, drifted into my nose, playing with my senses.

“I– I don't understand. I didn't hear you speak to anyone.”

“That's right,” he nodded.

“So how–”

“Because I'm the old, creepy man,” he shot straight at me.

My ear twitched, and I got the urge to deep my finger into it, and swipe it clean so I could hear clearly. Because surely, I didn't hear what I thought I just heard.

“I'm the pervert who is looking to secure a woman way younger than me,” he continued, as if the first information wasn't heart stopping enough. “I'm the dirty, old creep. Some people call me Vladimir though. Vladimir Bratva.”

My pounding heart dropped to my stomach, where it flipped, and kicked back to my throat, forming a lump there that sealed my lips.

“You're not going to respond to me anymore?” He began to lower his head towards me. “And there I was, thinking, damn, she can talk a storm! What is it, princess? Cats got your tongue?” His face stopped inches away from mine.

I swallowed hard to wet my tongue, and perhaps, push down the blockage in my throat.

Still, I couldn't find the words, heavy enough to push away the shock of his reveal.

“Since you've gone silent, let me take it up from here,” as he spoke, his breath circled all over my face.

I perceived whiskey, and knew what it was because grandma always had some in her special flask. Cigarettes too, because Monica, our cook would always puff two sticks before she proceeds to whip up her delicacies.

No one told me that mixed together, it could produce an explosively alluring scent.

“You're going to walk out that door after me, and meet me at the altar where you'll say yes to the priest to be my wife, or you'll be having your beloved grandmother's liver for breakfast. Which is it going to be, princess?”

An icy chill ran down my spine at the violent visualisation of my grandmother's precious liver being served to me on a ceramic plate.

There was no option, and my mind knew that too, because suddenly, wedding bells began to ring in it.