not lost on me that this is why I’m finding it so difficult to kill her. The night we met, then again both times she tried to escape … the niggle of guilt and repugnance shot through me. I want to believe I showed mercy because of Father Moya, but I’m lying to myself. When she knelt for me, I was holding my breath and praying that Elena would choose life—choose me over a bullet.
Her acceptance doesn’t mean anything, except that she still has a lot of fight left in her. And maybe it also means there can never be any end to this. There are only two inevitable ways this can be over, and one of them is me killing Elena. The other is her remaining my slave in perpetuity—something that doesn’t make me feel as guilty as the thought of murdering her. My reasons are selfish. In exchange for giving Elena her life, I can have whatever I want from her … all the things I wouldn’t dare consider when I thought her of as only a piece of collateral.
But she’s no longer a piece of collateral. Elena is mine.
As Oleg peppers Elena with questions about fashion, I notice that his son has also become engrossed with her. Viktor leans close, smiling and asking questions. My fingers tightening painfully around my spoon. She’s doing well, maintaining a polite aloofness and inching away when Viktor gets too close.
That doesn’t stop fantasies of murder from flashing through my mind. Inside, my vision is painted red, and Victor lays strewn in several pieces. His eyes keep dipping to Elena’s cleavage, so of course I’ll have to yank those out.
“I’m very proud of Elena,” I interject, drawing both hers and Viktor’s gaze to me. “She’s done well for herself. I’m a lucky man.”
Elena slips a hand into the one I extend across the table. I hold Viktor’s gaze while letting my fingers stroke along hers, a not-so-subtle warning emanating from my eyes. Oleg’s son is no pussy. He holds my stare with a smirk, lifting his eyebrow in a mocking challenge. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a quick, strong urge to kill someone without a bit of guilt. If it weren’t for Oleg, I’d tear Viktor’s head off right here and now.
“You’re so sweet,” Elena replies, her voice pulling my attention away from Viktor.
I flash her a smile, aware that we’re attracting attention. I toy with her fingers, lowering my guard enough to let her see what I’ve had the hell of a time hiding. I want her. The stroke of my touch on her hands is a substitution for what I really want to do to her with my fingers. As soft as her palms are, I imagine the insides of her thighs being even softer.
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, and she looks as if she’s in a daze. But she never looks away, communicating back to me. I don’t think I know her well enough to decide if she’s acting, or if what I’m seeing is real. In the grand scheme of my plan, it doesn’t matter. But plan aside, it does fucking matter.
The second course comes, forcing us to end our display of affection. As soups are replaced with salads, Nataly rests a hand on my forearm. I’d forgotten her presence entirely.
“Diego, are you fond of sailing?”
I blink at her, uncertain how to respond to a such a banal question. It’s like being asked my favorite color. The question as infantile as the woman asking it.
Hiding my true feelings with a polite smile, I turn on the charm. “I do enjoy being out on the water, Miss Yezhov … but I’m not much of a sailor myself. I prefer to enjoy the ride while someone else does the piloting.”
She looks at me as if my answer is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard. “Please, call me Nataly. Our families are soon to be one, aren’t they?”
I stiffen under her arm, knowing she isn’t just referring to the mafia side of things. She’s as pushy and desperate as her father. As she talks my ear off about her horses, sailing, and her favorite sport—ballroom dancing—I contemplate jamming my knife through my ear. Oleg thinking we would make a good match is laughable. She digs for compliments, offers surface-level commentary on whatever is being discussed, and tries her best to get and keep my attention.
But my eye is always drawn back to Elena, who’s watching