Torrid (Sordid 2)

God, I should have sucked it up and left my notebook behind, rather than just a copy. I didn’t know how long it was going to take to do what I needed to do, and how could I be without my music for that long? I needed it to give me strength.

He led me into a darkened chef’s kitchen, not bothering with the lights. When he opened the fridge, it cast a harsh glow across his body. I begrudgingly admitted the “good looking” label assigned to him was correct. He wore a dark, long-sleeved shirt over jeans and the fabric hugged the lines of his muscular frame. He pushed the sleeves up to bunch at his elbows then pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge, setting it on the counter.

His eyes and hair were both dark, and a day’s worth of scruff shadowed across his jaw. He had ‘resting-asshole face,’ which made a promise he had no problem fulfilling. Hot and smug son-of-a-bitch. It was a look my half-sister Tatiana would chase after, if it wasn’t attached to Goran Markovic’s nephew and second in line to the Serbian crime family.

A bottle opener was dug out of a drawer and the cap popped, dropping noisily to the granite countertop, and I tried not to watch his hands or the way the tendons in his strong forearms moved beneath his skin. Think about what those hands are going to do to you, Oksana.

They might kill me. They certainly would if he found out the truth.

He leveled a gaze in my direction, and my anxiety increased tenfold. His stare was carnal and indecent. I should have been happy, but it was terrifying. It drifted slowly down my body, lingering first at my breasts, and then down to my hips. I already felt naked and exposed, which was sure to come soon.

The beer was Osterhägen, which was ironic. It was my father’s favorite brand.

Vasilije drank a long sip, and then motioned to the hallway, carrying his beer and my notebook with him as he went. The Markovic house was elegant and classically decorated. It wasn’t gaudy. The luxury was refined and understated. Another unexpected thing from him. I’d heard the Serbians loved to show off. They flaunted their mafia money, most of it made off the backs of my people.

We reached the entryway that led to several parts of the house. There was a home office to my left, a large dining room to my right, and a living room before us, with a staircase leading upward. My body seized as I noticed the black beauty sitting beneath a picture window. In the moonlight, the Steinway grand piano was utterly breathtaking.

Sheet music rested on the rack, and my heart thudded faster. “Do you play?”

Could I find common ground with him?

Vasilije turned to stone. “Fuck, no. That thing hasn’t been touched in years.” My hope deflated, but his reaction was . . . strange. He acted like the piano wasn’t anything of importance, but it was just that.

An act.

When he guided me to the bottom of a staircase, my heart plummeted all the way to my toes.

Fear grew in me with every carpeted step I climbed beside him. My stomach churned with bile. If I threw up, he’d cast me out, and months of planning would be gone. I couldn’t fail at this. I pressed my lips together and fought against my nerves. It was just sex. There were worse men I could fuck than Vasilije Markovic, I told myself.

We reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and he took my elbow, turning me to my right. His cold, dominating grip forced me down the hall and to the doorway at the end of it, where he pushed a door open and flipped on the lights.

The back wall was gray stone. An unmade platform bed was centered beneath it. The room was stylish, matching the rest of the house, and not what I’d expected of a twenty-four-year-old boy. He closed the door behind us, pulled out his phone, and set it on a charging dock on a nearby dresser. Then he yanked open a drawer and dropped my notebook inside.

Off came the holster. He made a show of removing the magazine from his gun and emptying the round from the chamber. Was I supposed to be impressed? Konstantine had shown me how to do that, and faster, too. The Glock was put on top of my notebook and the drawer was shut, but I didn’t feel safer. He was stronger and faster, and I assumed he could kill me without a weapon if he wanted.

“The bathroom is through there.” He flung a hand to the doorway to my left. “Go take a shower.”

Like I was unclean.

I scurried through the doorway and shut the bathroom door behind me, gripping the doorknob and leaning against the frame for support. I was so fucking stupid. I’d volunteered for this. I’d asked for it. But now that the moment was here, and I wasn’t ready.