Rough Exile

Of course, it was Bronislav, and therefore probably Ilya. I had no idea what to make of these two. They kept to themselves, but always seemed to be watching me. I’d never even seen them with a woman. What was the point of coming here if they weren’t into hunting down women like prey? It was the only reason rich men paid to be here.

“I thought the two of you only spoke Russian.”

“There’s no point in making conversation with a woman you can simply take and use when you wish.”

“Some women are worth having a conversation with.”

“Here? Doubtful.” There was the flash of white teeth in the darkness, splitting the impressive beard I knew was there. I had a difficult time telling them apart, but only Bron ever seemed to speak, and only he was covered in tattoos. I’d heard they weren’t related, but they could have been twins—same height, similar builds, same long hair and beards. If someone told me they were lumberjacks I might believe them, except lumberjacks could never afford to come here.

There was no point in getting offended. Many of the men here were misogynists, so it wasn’t like coming across this in the real world, where it was still a surprise, sometimes.

“So, you didn’t come to the Island to make conversation. What did you come here for?”

“Our business here is none of your concern, woman.”

I had to swallow my pride. It would be easy to walk away from this conversation and go to bed, but every scary man I could sleep with voluntarily might stop short of really hurting me during a hunt.

“You know, if the two of you are looking for some company, I’m free for the rest of the night.”

“The last thing I want is a cunt already dripping another man’s seed.”

I didn’t let his disgust hurt my feelings. It was hardly the first time someone insinuated I was a slut. Hell, he hadn’t even said the words aloud. If he wanted to slut shame me, he’d have to get more creative, and maybe build a time machine. My entire high school had called me Dirty Delilah for two years because of something done to me without my consent. It had made me bulletproof in the shame department.

You can’t hurt me with your words, you big Russian ox.

He pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning on and stalked toward the door. Ilya followed him, more like a menacing shadow than a man.

I expected one of them to turn back and say something cutting, but they only spoke to each other in what I assumed was Russian, as though I really had interrupted something important. Once they were in the ballroom, I could see them more clearly as they headed for the predator wing. They looked like they’d recently raided a village with bloody axes in hand.

Why did they stare at me all the time, then avoid speaking to me? If I couldn’t even get them into a conversation, how was I going to get them into bed? My complete inability to engage with them made me nervous.

I understood how the other men here ticked. Those two were a complete mystery.