Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,61

wearing a nightgown.

“Nikt nie nauczył mnie polskiego,” she says haughtily. I learned it myself, in the library. I have a lot of time on my hands.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been struck dumb before.

Her pronunciation is shit, and her grammar is mediocre. But she really has learned a shocking amount.

That tricky little devil. I didn’t give a damn about her sneaking around because I didn’t think she could understand our conversations. Not that it matters—she can’t do anything with the information. She’s still my prisoner.

But . . . I’m impressed. Nessa is smarter than I guessed, and more daring.

Still, she’s got another thing coming if she thinks she’s going to boss me around in my own house, in front of my own men. She doesn’t give orders here. I do. I’m the master. She’s the captive.

“What are you going to do about it?” I growl, staring down into her face. “You think you can threaten me? Try to attack me? I could break every bone in your body without even trying.”

She shakes her head, more tears streaming down her face. When she cries, her eyes look greener than ever. Each tear is like a refracting lens, clinging to those black lashes, magnifying every freckle on her cheek.

“I know you’re stronger than me,” she hisses. “I know I’m nothing and nobody. But I love my brother. Can you understand that? I love him more than anyone in the world. Did you ever feel that way, before you got so cold and angry? Did you love somebody once? I know you did. I know about Anna.”

Now I really do want to hit her.

How fucking dare she say that name.

She doesn’t know anything, anything at all.

She thinks she can poke in my brain, trying to drag out the things I’ve successfully hidden.

She wants to make me as weak and emotional as her.

I seize her by the front of her nightgown and speak directly into her face.

“Don’t you ever say her name again.”

Nessa raises her hand and I think she’s going to try to slap me.

Instead she rests her hand on top of mine, her slim little fingers clinging to my clenched fist.

She looks up into my eyes.

“Mikolaj, please,” she begs. “My brother is a good man. I know this is a war and you’re on opposite sides. I know he hurt you. But if you kill him, you won’t be hurting him back. You’ll be hurting me. And I never wronged you.”

She’s talking about fairness, justice.

There is no fucking justice in this world.

There are only debts that have to be paid.

But there’s more than one kind of currency.

Nessa is standing in front of me—slender, delicate, trembling like a leaf. Tangles of light-brown hair in a cloud around her face and shoulders. Big, tear-soaked eyes, and soft pink lips.

She’s touching my hand. She’s never touched me voluntarily before.

My hand feels like it’s on fire. It’s sending heat and warmth throughout my body. It’s making every part of me throb like flesh that was frozen and is coming back to life.

“Convince me, Nessa,” I say. “Convince me that I should spare your brother.”

She looks up at me, uncomprehending at first.

Then realization dawns in her eyes.

I’m still holding the front of her nightgown. I feel her heart pounding against my clenched fingers.

I let go of her, waiting to see what she’ll do.

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips.

Then she says, “Sit down on the couch.”

I take a seat on the low sofa. It’s the first order I’ve obeyed in a very long time.

I sit back against the cushions, hands beside me, legs slightly spread.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Nessa whispers.

I pass it to her, silently.

She scrolls for a moment, then presses the screen. Music comes out of the speakers—a low, moody, insistent beat. It’s not the usual music I hear my little ballerina playing. This is much darker.

The rain is pounding against the windows. The beat of the raindrops mix with the beat of the music. The light is dim and watery, the shadows distorted by the raindrops.

Nessa looks like she’s underwater. Her skin is paler than ever. She stands in front of me, and she starts to sway to the music.

I’ve watched her dance countless times. But never like this. Never right in front of me. Never directed at me. Her eyes are fixed on mine. Her body sways sinuously.

The very first time I saw her at the club, she danced a little bit like this.

That was a peek through a keyhole. Now