36
Goran seemed to abruptly end his conversation with the man he was talking to, and my heart clogged as he made his way over. His dark, terrifying eyes trapped mine.
“Nice to see you again, Natasha,” he said.
“Oksana,” Vasilije corrected.
“Oh. Yes.” Although I suspected Goran remembered my name and this was an intentional slight to show us both how little he cared.
I said nothing, choosing to deliver a tight, polite smile.
Goran wore a suit with ease like he didn’t own any other type of attire, and he held a glass half full of ice and an amber colored drink. His gaze flitted to the crowd, and he surveyed them like they were his subjects. His attention slowly worked its way back to us.
“It’s good to have Luka back here.” His tone was deceptively casual. “Maybe you can convince your brother this is his home, and get him to stay.”
Vasilije glanced over to Luka, and Addison at his side. “He’ll never leave her.”
“Get her on board, too. She’ll be useful.”
I felt tension roll through Vasilije’s body, and his face soured. “Addison’s been used enough, don’t you think? Luka doesn’t want her near any part of what we do.”
“Fucking Russians,” Goran muttered under his breath before taking a sip of his drink. “How much longer do you want to wait on Konstantine?”
“A few more days.”
Goran’s black eyes slid to me, like he somehow knew, even though he didn’t. “I’ll admit,” he said, “I’m surprised you’re still around. At first I thought my nephew was trying to piss me off, but he must be really taken with you.”
I hadn’t eaten much today due to my nerves, and had downed a drink for courage. The alcohol warmed my veins and made me indifferent. “Vasilije and I have a lot in common.”
Vasilije chuckled, enjoying my admission, but Goran’s eyebrow lifted. “Such as?”
Oh, shit. I couldn’t exactly say we both wished he was dead, or how we had murdered people who’d wronged us.
Vasilije had me covered. “I love sticking my dick in her, and she loves when I do it.”
His uncle lifted his gaze to the ceiling, visibly annoyed. “Charming.” When Filip materialized at his boss’s side, Goran motioned to me. “Filip, this is Vasilije’s whore, Natasha.”
“Oksana,” Vasilije hissed. “Is your memory going, old man?”
There was a silent battle over which Markovic could lift their eyebrow higher in displeasure, and Vasilije seemed to win. Or maybe I just wanted him to.
“Hello, Oksana,” Filip said automatically, before turning to his boss. “The caterer is asking for access to the wine cellar. We’re almost out of white.”
Goran waved a hand. “That’s fine, but go with her.”
“I’ll come with you,” Vasilije said. “Filip and I’ve got shit to talk about.”
The younger Markovic cast a look to me, heavy with meaning and wordlessly wishing me luck. My blood pressure spiked as I watched the men go, leaving me alone with Goran. With Vasilije gone, his uncle did nothing to disguise the desire from his face, raping me with his eyes. “That’s some dress you’re wearing.”
“Thank you. Your house is nice.” I shuffled forward on my heels, closing the distance between us, and dropped my voice low. “Maybe you could give me a tour and . . . show me what I turned down.”
Suspicion clouded his eyes. “It doesn’t sound like you’re having regrets, given how much you ‘like him sticking his dick in you.’”
I sighed. “It’s the same every time with him. Vasilije’s boring,” I lied. “He’s a boring . . . boy.”
As I hoped, implying Goran was a superior man caught his interest. “Is that so?”
It was easy to stay silent. I didn’t have a clue what to say, and he’d told me he liked quiet women.
He searched the crowd and his expression turned down in disappointment. “I don’t have time to give you a proper tour right now.” He made the simple word sound dirty. “I can’t leave my guests.”
“Maybe some other time,” I forced out. Hopefully my tight voice came off to him as eager, rather than anxious.
He blinked his dark eyes slowly. “Tomorrow.”
I hesitated. “Christmas day? I’m not sure I can—”
“I’ll send Filip over to pick you up after dinner.” His grin was terrifying. “If Vasilije has an issue with it, I’ll explain it to him.” He probably viewed this as the ultimate power trip, taking Vasilije’s favorite toy away on Christmas. “I have a big house,” he continued. “It may take a while, but I think you’ll . . . enjoy it.”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to distract myself from throwing up in my mouth. His gaze moved over my head, and he motioned to someone behind me, and then his attention returned, settling on my blood red lipstick.
“I’m sorry, I need to talk to someone, if you’ll excuse me.” As he stepped to the side, he set his hand on my arm, and I tried not to bolt from his touch. “But I’m looking forward to tomorrow, Natasha.”
“Oksana,” I whispered back, but he was already moving through the crowd and out of earshot.
We had to stay through dinner, and as I sat at one of the long tables and listened to Goran give his speech about family and loyalty, my insides churned. Not because my family had been enemies with the Markovics for years, but the hypocrisy of Goran’s words. Luka’s face was a cool, emotionless mask, but in his eyes I could see him struggle to contain his anger.
Vasilije was the opposite. He smiled at all the right parts, flashing his dimples and laughing at jokes, putting everyone at ease. It seemed like he was in a great mood. And maybe he was. Now he had a firm date of when he was going to take his uncle down.
♪
Christmas morning was . . . weirdly wonderful.
We slept in, and when we went downstairs in our pajamas, we discovered Luka and Addison hovering around the coffee pot, not dressed for the day either. Vasilije cooked breakfast for everyone. We ate and had conversation like we were two normal couples celebrating Christmas together. The strangest part was how it didn’t feel strange.
After breakfast, we gathered around the tree Vasilije and I had decorated a few days ago with ornaments from the basement he’d been reluctant to go in. He’d admitted to me later that night, after having smoked some weed, he was glad I’d gotten the tree. Some of the ornaments were from his childhood and it was good to see them again.
It made him feel less like an orphan.
There were only a handful of presents between the four of us, and since I had more than one, Vasilije demanded I go first. I tore the fancy silver and gold paper, recognizing the Faire Avenue branding, and laughed as I opened the box and peered inside.
“What is it?” Addison asked.
I held up the red, gauzy lingerie for her to see.
“Oh,” she said, like the word had been punched from her lungs. Her cheeks tinted, but I smiled. She thought I should be embarrassed, but I didn’t feel shame, and she must not have realized how Vasilije and I had heard them having sex the other night.
This lingerie set was elegant and sophisticated. “Did Daphne help you?”
“She did.” His dark eyes were full of lust and a promise I couldn’t wait for him to fulfill. “Open the other one.”
He sounded impatient as he tossed the small, letter-sized box at me. This one looked like it’d been wrapped by a man and not a clerk at a department store. I peeled back the paper and lifted the lid.
Now it was my turn to gasp. I had to read the tickets to the Chicago Lyric Opera more than once. “Salome?” I whispered. “You got me tickets to see Salome?”
“I got us tickets, yeah.” He tried to play it cool. “They should be good seats, because they were fucking expensive.”
“What is that?” Luka asked.
“An opera,” I said, pulling out the two sheets of folded paper and handling them like they were printed on gold. Vasilije had gotten us box seats, and the idea of sitting beside him while we watched one of Strauss’s masterpieces made my insides flutter.
I hadn’t been to the opera since my mother died.
Luka stared at Vasilije like he had two heads. “Jesus. You bought opera tickets?”
Vasilije cocked his eyebrow. “Fuck you. I heard the girl gets naked on stage.”
“I heard that happens at strip clubs, too.”
I choked back a giggle. Vasilije was right. As Salome performed the “Dance of the Seven Veils,” she removed each one until she was naked. Like most operas, the story was one fucked up piece of work. Salome demanded the head of her lover on a silver platter, and once she had it, she kissed it until her father Herod had her crushed to death.
“It doesn’t open for two more weeks,” Vasilije said.
I grinned. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
It really was. The opera was twisted, and erotic, and dark, just like we were. I scrambled for his present and shoved it at him with nervous hands. He looked down with surprise. I hadn’t asked him for money, and was used to not having any, so my gift was something that couldn’t be bought.
He ripped at the paper and threw open the lid to the box.
His long fingers dipped inside and pulled out the stack of paper, bound with red ribbon. His eyes scanned the pages as he flipped through them, his fingers trailing over the printed sheet music. And then he noticed the other item in the box. He lifted the flash drive out and looked at me with confusion.
“It’s finished,” I breathed. “Your symphony.” Last week I’d asked if he would buy me composing software, and he’d done it. “The program you bought can play back the composition as a full orchestra.” It wasn’t anywhere near as good as a true, live performance, but the recording had depth and layers my performance on the piano couldn’t capture. “I hope you like it.”
Vasilije’s pleased smile was a slow burn and warmed me to my core.
After we’d come home from the party last night, he’d fixed me a glass of vodka with a splash of cranberry juice, taken me to our bedroom, and we discussed everything we had planned. It led to him fucking me until I was beautifully sore all over. I’d lounged in the bed, recovering and sipping my drink, while he went to the drawer and got out his metal lunch box.
The smell of his burning joint turned me on, even though he’d left me satisfied. Usually he smoked before the sex, and I had a Pavlovian response to it.
“You want some?” he asked, blowing a puff of smoke out the window and into the freezing night air. “Could be our last night together.” He extended the joint out to me, but I shook my head. I’d never smoked before, other than one tiny puff on a cigarette when I was fifteen, and it had sent me into a coughing fit.
“No, thanks.” I took the final sip of the glass and set it on the nightstand. “I’m already drunk.”
He finished, stubbed it out, and shut the window before crawling into bed beside me. The cold skin of his chest pressed against mine as he kissed me. He’d given me rough tonight, and now seemed to want to give me the other side. He gently brushed his lips over mine, slow but needy.
We made out for a while. Long enough for the alcohol to make me sluggish and warm, and long enough for him to reach the peak of his ‘high.’ His mouth was everywhere. It roamed from my lips, over my cheekbone, and onto the shell of my ear.
“It’s a good thing,” he murmured, “I don’t have a fucking heart.”
“Mmm?” I had my eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of his warm breath filling my ear.
The cadence of his voice was slow and hushed. “If I did, I might love you.”
I drew in a deep breath, letting it fill my body and using it to try to push away the warnings flaring up. This was the weed talking, I was sure. But . . . could it be true, just a little?
“Lucky for you,” I said on a shaky breath, “I don’t have one either. Because if I did, I . . . might feel the same.”
“Good,” he whispered. Then, his mouth sealed over mine and there was no more conversation.