Just a Bit Ruthless (Straight Guys 6)

“My father is dead,” Luke said tightly. “Your friend was avenged. You have no reason to mess with me anymore.” He met Roman’s eyes and whispered, his voice raw with honesty, “So why are you doing this? You can’t be that cruel.”

Roman put his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I’m not doing anything, pet,” he said in a very soft tone. “I didn’t come here for that. You’re the one who jumped me the moment you saw me.”

Glad that the darkness hid his blush, Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s Stockholm syndrome. I’m going to see a therapist and get cured of it.”

“You don’t sound very sure.”

“I’m very sure,” Luke said, lifting his chin. “If I wasn’t sick, I’d never cheat on Dominic. I never cheat on my partners.”

“Cheating implies a committed relationship,” Roman said. “Has it occurred to you that you may not be committed enough to that…epitome of perfection?” He stepped closer to Luke again and leaned down until only half an inch separated their faces. His breath brushed Luke’s cheek. “Maybe your body knows who it belongs to.”

Luke’s eyelids grew heavy and his body felt weak. “No,” he managed.

“You’re trembling, love, and I’m not even touching you.”

Luke swallowed thickly, fighting the insane urge to lean into Roman. I’m dating Dominic. I hate you.

Roman’s teeth grazed his jaw. “Who do you belong to, baby?”

Luke almost whimpered.

“Has he touched you?” Roman said. “He fucked you?”

Luke wished he could say yes, just to shut him up. “My father died,” he whispered. “Sex was the last thing on my mind.”

“Really?” Roman said, kissing Luke’s cheek. God, his lips, his beard. “I remember differently. You’ve always been such a slutty little thing, always hungry for cock.” He sucked on Luke’s jaw, teeth sinking into the flesh.

For your cock, Luke nearly said, swallowing another moan.

“Why do you care?” he said instead, lifting his eyelids with some effort. “Why do you care if I fucked him yet or not? I was a toy to you. A pawn. But now the game is over. The king is taken down. What do you need a pawn for?”

Roman pulled back. “You’re right: I don’t. You’re of no use to me anymore.”

Luke pasted a smile on his face. “Exactly. So please, please don’t ruin this for me. I have high hopes for my relationship with him. He’s good, he’s nice, and he’s kind to me. We have common interests. I like him a lot.” He can give me what you can’t—and won’t—ever give me.

A muscle in Roman’s jaw twitched. “I’m not interested in ruining your perfect relationship. But before you marry your Mr. Nice, you might consider searching his house for stray pets.”

Luke frowned. “What?”

“You’re too trusting and idealistic,” Roman said, eyeing him with obvious distaste. “Try living your life on the assumption that everyone is an asshole. Some people just hide it better than others.”

“That’s a pretty sad way to live,” Luke said softly.

Roman shook his head. “Don’t come crying to me when you get hurt.”

Luke blinked, a funny feeling settling in his stomach. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

Roman lips thinned. “It isn’t.” He looked at Luke for a moment before saying, “Goodbye, Curly.” He turned away.

Something like panic pulled at Luke’s throat. “I’m not even curly anymore,” he heard himself say.

Roman looked back at him. His gaze made Luke very self-conscious of his straightened hair and boring, safe clothes. He looked nothing like the bare-footed curly boy in bright, flamboyant shirts Roman was used to seeing.

“Goodbye, Curly,” Roman said, his tone a little different, a little tight, before disappearing into the night.

Luke sagged back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to swallow the thick lump in his throat.

Goodbye.

Chapter 22

Luke barely slept that night, tossing and turning, and woke up the next morning feeling tired and frustrated but with angry determination coursing through his veins. He was going to erase Roman Demidov out of his mind.

Dr. Miranda Benson was a middle-aged woman with intelligent brown eyes framed by a thin pair of glasses. Her office was tastefully decorated and yet managed to look comfortable and homey. Luke felt instantly at ease when she smiled and invited him to take a seat.

For half an hour, she simply listened without interrupting him as he stumbled through his story. He told her everything. There was little point to seek a psychologist’s help if one didn’t intend to be honest.

Miranda’s face was mildly sympathetic as Luke described his problem, but, to his disappointment and confusion, she didn’t immediately agree that he had Stockholm syndrome.

“While I do agree that the isolation and the obvious power imbalance in your relationship with your kidnapper couldn’t be healthy for you, you do not display the typical behavior of someone with the syndrome,” she said. “You are not making excuses for your captor. You don’t think he’s actually a good guy. You were able to escape. Every case is different, of course, but victims of Stockholm syndrome typically don’t even want to be rescued.” Her eyes held no judgment when she added softly, “As for the power imbalance in your relationship, I understand that it stemmed from your sexual preferences, didn’t it?”