by Jasmin Quinn
His eyes wandered the room, taking it in, trying to see signs of her presence. There were very few. He settled back on her face. “Esma, we’ve discussed your swearing. It has no place in my home. To call me what you did is disrespectful on a nuclear level. And to walk out on me, to leave a room the way you did while I’m in it, is completely unacceptable.” He knew he sounded arrogant, controlling, the king of his castle. But that’s who he was, and he needed to bring her to heel if he wanted to move forward with her.
Esma blinked at him slowly, dropped the pencil she was holding onto the desk and lowered her chin to her chest. Not looking at him. “And accosting me in the sauna? That’s not out of line?”
Rusya shifted, crossed his legs. She was right about him being a fucking prick. “Would you like to report me to Eduard? He handles those kinds of complaints.”
He heard the intake of her breath as his eyes stroked her smallness, her vulnerability. All of it touching his cock, heating him up in a way that tested his control. He heard her whisper, fuck, under her breath and he gave a little shake of his head. She was so enticingly defiant.
“That’s not what’s pissing you off though. Is it? You’re angry because I didn’t stay and fuck you.”
He watched her quiver, watched the colour in her cheeks rise. She turned, her breath shallow, stabbed him with her eyes. “Get out!”
He didn’t move. His unwavering gaze pinning her while he waited for a better answer. She dropped her elbows on the desk, brought her hands to her head and rubbed at her temples. Agitated, thinking, trying to find the right words.
Finally, in a small voice, she said, “Am I fired?”
He didn’t expect that. Almost laughed at how innocent she sounded. “I don’t fire people who displease me.” He stopped there. She got the message, her eyes widened fractionally and she sucked in a breath, then a shaky exhale.
“What will you do, then?”
He considered her. Fuck her. Yes. That sounded like a good idea. Maybe in the basement, in a cell. She could spend a few days thinking about how to choose her words, the appropriate way to exit a room he was in. “Whatever I want, Esma.” He wanted to pull the chair closer, wanted to yank her to him, show her his power, but he stayed seated, kept his distance, kept his voice cool and flat. “You, however, will not. You will treat my home with respect. You will treat me with respect. You won’t question my decisions, my actions. You will fucking do as your told.”
Esma studied his face, searching for something, maybe his compassion. She didn’t know it yet, but he had none. “Okay.” She hesitated, and the set to her mouth told him she had more to say. He waited. “But hands off, Mr. Savisin. I’m not a saint, not a virgin. But I have my own rules that I live by. And I don’t… mess around with men who are messing around on me.”
He dropped his head a little to the side. “That’s what I’m doing? Messing around?”
“No, not messing around, but you won’t let me use the ‘F’ word.”
He grinned, she made him do that and it was one of the things that unsettled him about her. That she made him smile in a way no one else ever had. But she wasn’t finding his smile endearing and the look on her face told him she wanted to pulverize him. Still, it was fucking funny, gratifying, even if his feelings were childish. Her anger, not about the sauna, not even about the swearing. No. She was pissed at him about what he’d done last night at the hotel.
He left it then, left her, returned to his office, to his desk, made some phone calls, hoped tomorrow would start better.
It didn’t.
The remainder of the week was tension-filled, Esma drawing the battle-lines. There was nothing subtle or coy about her. She wore her regard for him on her sleeve. Rusya saw it now, wondered how he missed it before. If she wasn’t brittle around him, she was overnice, wildly swinging between the two emotions in a way that made him crazy. He didn’t know how to manage her emotions or the ones she was invoking in him. This was foreign territory for him. To care about a woman in a way that it mattered how she felt.
But Friday was the worst day by far and through the afternoon, it was almost all out war. She seemed angry that the weekend was coming and he hadn’t tried to be conciliatory, angry perhaps that he’d left her alone, kept his attention off her as she’d insisted. No reaching out, no small-talk, nothing personal. Hands to himself.
He’d been at his desk, sifting through a contract, bored with the legalese and fatigued by the tension that hung thickly in the air. He glanced at Esma, who was sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, her new home since their fight.
As he caught her eye, she said, “The news articles on the current Turkish riots. Do you want the comments translated as well?” Her voice was soft, but her words were perfunctory. She was a hard woman, unforgiving, still angry at him. But then what did he expect? He’d made no attempt to find a bridge and she was not to blame for this. Whatever was between them had stalled and Rusya wasn’t sure it was wise to pick it up again. But if that were the case, he should let her know and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do that. He wasn’t willing to make a promise he couldn’t keep.
He reflected on her question as he sifted the pages of the contract through his fingers, but he wasn’t fast enough in his response and she interrupted his thoughts as she snapped. “The day’s almost over, Rusya. I’d like to leave before Monday.”
Anger seared him, a hot knife in his chest as she hurled her disrespect at him. It was the bravest and stupidest thing she had done to date and he was about to make her regret it. He slammed out of his office chair, stalked over to the fireplace, slid his fingers through her hair, and snapped her out of her chair. The laptop clattered to the floor and her papers flew everywhere. It was irrelevant. He wrenched her head back and lowered his, so she had no choice but to look up into his face. Her expression was one of shock and surprise. Then anger.
“What the fuck?” She clawed at his wrist viciously. “Let me the fuck go!”
He shook her then, his anger growing. He felt his control slipping, tried to hang on to it. “You need a reminder of who I am. Your boss, but more importantly, I am one deadly motherfucker, the head of the bratva for a reason. No one talks to me or treats me the way you have this week. At least no one generally lives to tell about it.” He brought his other hand to her throat, his long fingers circling it. A small squeeze, a small shake, and he saw what he was looking for in her face. Shock, a little panic, but she was still not ready to back down. She slammed her arms up between his and smashed them against his forearms, trying to break his hold.
It was almost cute that she thought she could overcome him. Rusya dragged her up by her neck, so that she was barely touching the floor, held her for a few seconds as she scrabbled at his wrist while she choked, then he threw her from him. She was so small, so light that she flew several feet, landing in a heap on the floor. He didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath or get to her feet as she rolled onto her back. He went to her and dropped into a crouch, towering over her, looking down at her, waiting for her next move.
A frown split her face and her head tilted back, her neck exposed, giving him access if he wanted to crush her windpipe. “You fuck.” The words were soft, pain-filled. He’d hurt her. Emotionally, maybe physically.
He pulled her hair through his fingers, dragged her to a sitting position, and brought her face close to his as she circled his wrist with her hands. “If you call me that again, if you use that word in my presence again, I will beat you until you can’t walk.”
Then he saw it, the flare of fear. He wasn’t sure it was what he wanted to see, but he rode it. “Let’s start again. You work for me. I’m not a nice man. There isn’t a single fucking line that I won’t cross.”
Esma stared into his eyes, the fear fusing with acceptance. “Let go,” she whispered tugging at his wrist.
He ignored her. A small pull on her hair. “I do what I want. I don’t ask permission and I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks.
You understand?”
“Yes.” She struggled with the word, tried to strengthen it, but the fear cracked it.
“Including you.”
She swallowed and for a moment he thought she was going to disagree, but instead she said, “Yes.”
She was hurt by his words. Wanted to mean something to him, which gave him a happiness. But no matter what happened next, he was still Rusya Savisin and she needed to remember that. He let her go and stepped back, his anger still bubbling close to the surface. She needed to leave now. She needed to not utter another single word to him. He hoped she understood that.
“The work day is over. Get out.” His voice was cold, deadly meaning implicit in his tone, and she trembled as she climbed to her feet. He saw her hesitation, briefly before she stumbled away from him, fled the room, not stopping to pick up her things. Smart girl.
Chapter 13
Esma slammed the door to her room, turned the bolt with shaking hands and then dropped her ass to the floor, shoving her back against the solid wood. Fuck, fuck. “Fuck!” What the hell had she been thinking? Stupid, impetuous. She needed to get out of here. She needed to pack a bag, take off. Go into hiding. Back to Mexico. She had a few friends who would take her in, maybe. But Mexico. She’d drink. And drinking would make her vulnerable. She’d slip up and Jackman would find her. She probably wouldn’t last a week.
And she didn’t want to go. Crazy, but she felt safe here, safe from Jackman. But Rusya, fucking Russian asshole. So angry, threatening her for being disrespectful. Threatened to beat her if she used the word fuck in his presence. If that was his reaction over something so small, then what would he do when he found out the truth?
She couldn’t best him, not in hand-to-hand combat, because he was a fighter too. She could tell by the way he held her; he knew how to protect himself from attack. She didn’t dare anyway, try to kick him in the balls or head butt him. He was strong and she shivered as she flashed back to his hold on her throat, as he picked her up by it and threw her. She was small, but still, he threw her like she was fluff.
How could she protect herself from him? She had to find a way because she was not good at following rules, especially rules that involved her mouth. He didn’t know that she was trained in combat, though she might have given something away when she tried to break his hold on her. She couldn’t take him down in a fair fight, but she was good with a knife, and he wouldn’t see it coming. Not if she played the fearful role well. He’d let his guard down eventually because he didn’t know how skillful she was.
But that was all stupid thinking, because the problem, the reason for the fight, for his assault was because she was so hurt by him, by what he went out and did. And if he could hurt her emotionally, if she was drawn to him in that way, she wouldn’t be able to kill him. She didn’t think she could weather that loss. She had to tell him though, she had to find a way to tell him who she was, because every day he didn’t know was another day further from her redemption.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rap on the door and a turning of the door knob. Then Janice’s muffled voice, “Esma, let me in, please.”
Esma climbed to her feet, unbolted the door with hands that were still shaking and opened it a crack. “What?” It sounded harsh to her ears and she thought she should work on her social skills.
“Let me in.” Janice shoved at the door and Esma stepped back, turning and walking to the table in the alcove, sinking into one of the armchairs.
Janice entered the room and closed the door, followed Esma’s path and sat opposite her. “Are you okay?”
Esma shrugged. “Sure.”
“What happened?”
Esma studied the woman across the table. Tall, thin, late 30s, early 40s. Hair was light brown, cropped so it hung below her jawline. Professionally cut, but she wore little make-up. Regular. Esma wondered about her story. Ten years here with Rusya. Loyal, devoted, which meant Esma couldn’t trust her. “I used the fucking f-word in his lordship’s presence.”
Janice tutted with her tongue and narrowed her eyes. “You’re a fool. Your throat’s bruised and you’re mocking him.”
She was right, Esma thought. The fool part for sure. “Yeah.” She twisted in her chair, threw an arm across the table, palm up. “I need a drink, Janice. I need one so bad it’s all I can think about.”
Janice took Esma’s upturned hand, held it in her warm, firm grip, squeezed it. “I won’t let you drink, Esma.”
Esma gave a couple of brief nods as she stared across the table. “Thank you.”
They stayed that way for a few minutes, Esma savouring the strength of Janice’s grip, the fellowship that flowed through it from Janice to her. Then she gave the hand a small squeeze and moved her hand away. Silence, because Esma was out of words and Janice had some things to say. Esma could see the inner struggle, waited for Janice to get past the empathy she was feeling to tell Esma what was next.
Janice shifted, brought her hands to her lap. Not looking at Esma, she said, “He wants you to have dinner with him tonight. In the dining room.”
Seriously? Esma threw her head against the back of the chair and looked up at the ceiling as adrenaline flooded her body. She had to fight the urge to run from the room, out of the house. “Fuck.”
“Stop using that word and it’s less likely to slip out.”
Esma shifted her eyes to Janice. “He uses it. He’s a fucking hypocrite.”
Janice sucked in a breath and her eyes flashed, her next words reproachful. “I like you. I think you’re good for Rusya, but you’re messing him up too. I know what he’s capable of, but never in the house, he tries not to bring the violence here. I’m loyal to him. He’s been good to me, so if it comes down to you or him, I choose him.”
Esma didn’t like being scolded. “I get that. I’m not an idiot.”
Janice disagreed. “You are an idiot, Esma. He can do whatever he wants. What he’s asking from you is that you respect him and his home. So stop challenging him. Stop swearing. Be good to him, he’ll be good to you.”
“Arggh!” Esma ran her hands over her face and grabbed at her hair with clenched fists. Janice didn’t really get it and Esma was no good at words. Not the pretty words, the soft words. She’d been isolated too long. Been self-reliant. No girlfriends, a sister she didn’t dare reach out to, only men in her life. Useless fucking men. “I don’t want to have dinner with him tonight. Tell him no.”
Janice barked out a sharp laugh. “No one says ‘no’ to Rusya.”
Esma leaned across the table. The muscles in her face felt tight. “Less than an hour ago, he was holding me by the throat, then he threw me across the room like I was nothing. Now he wants me to eat with him?” She stood, kicked her shoes off, gave one a violent kick, sending it careening across the carpet, then turned on Janice, crossing her arms. “No!”
Janice stood too. Towered over Esma. “Yes.” Her tone was motherly, reproachful. Brooking no argument. “Go take a swim, Esma. Work out your shit and get it together. Dinner’s at 7 and you will be there!” She turned and left, slamming the door.
Chapter 14
Esma stood inside the entrance way to the dining room. The room was warm, dark wainscoting on the walls, dark polished oak wood table. Cushioned chairs that served the dual purposes of comfort and aesthetics. Heavy drapes, drawn to keep out the cold windy day, were complemented by a friendly fire crackling in the fireplace. Pictures on the wall, original, tasteful. A table setting for two. The scene was incongruent with the anger Rusya turned on her earlier today. This was a home, a haven, not a place for violence.
Rusya hadn’t yet arrived and Esma hoped he wouldn’t show. Hoped he changed his mind, got called away, fell down a well. Anything. She wasn’t ready to face him after what had happened. She was still unsteady, still afraid, wasn’t equipped to deal with him.
Earlier, Esma had taken Janice’s advice and went swimming. She swam the craving to drink out of her, stroke by stroke, lap by lap. Until she was
exhausted. Until she could barely move. Then she climbed out of the pool, laid down on a lounge chair and closed her eyes, gave in to her exhaustion. Let her mind drift.
The problem was that it drifted to Rusya and each time she tried to move it away, it circled back like a sly fox. Setting aside the fact that she was a spy in his house. Setting that fucking little inconvenience aside, she explored her feelings. So far, he’d approached her in the sauna, then went out and had a fuck with another woman, then dismissed what he did to her in the sauna, didn’t think it should have any impact on their relationship. And then today, he manhandled her, yelled at her, threatened her. And through it all, despite it all, her stupid fucking heart kept nagging at her. That was the problem. She liked him. A lot. And it was interfering with her ability to think straight.
After she got her shit together as Janice inelegantly put it, she showered, dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, canvas shoes on her feet, hair loose, curls exploding. And now, she was standing alone in the dining room, full of self-doubt, thinking she should leave. But too late as she heard him approach from behind. He’d changed too. Other than the sauna, this was the first time she’d seen him so casual. Jeans, a sweater, dark shoes, maybe slippers. He made her lose her breath.
He walked up to her, stopped directly in front of her, less than a foot between them. “Thank you for having dinner with me tonight.”
Esma nodded, said nothing as heat hit her. Two kinds of heat. One made her want to jump his bones, the other made her want to punch him in the face. She fought them both down. “What’s for dinner?” That seemed innocuous enough.