Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1 Page 10

  She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. “Oh, it is. Moscow is… a whole other world.” Her red lips tilt up without humor. “Not always a nice world.”

  “Oh?”

  She resumes her careful dabbing. “It’s quiet here. Calm. And the nature is beautiful. Nikolai wanted that for his son.”

  “So you’re here for Slava?”

  “My brother is.” She frowns, studying my face, and uses the pointed end of the sponge to add a little foundation under my eyes. The dark circles must be bugging her. “Me, I just needed a break,” she continues as she moves on to the bridge of my nose, “a little timeout, if you will.”

  “From life in Moscow?”

  “Something like that. Close your eyes.”

  I obey, silently digesting what I’ve learned as she sweeps eyeshadow onto my lids and applies mascara to my lashes. It makes sense that they’d be here for the boy—the timing of their move to this compound lines up with Nikolai’s learning of his son’s existence. And I suppose if quiet, calm nature is what you’re after, you can’t do much better than this place.

  Still, something doesn’t smell right. I’m sure there are spots of wilderness untouched by civilization in Russia and other countries nearby. Why move halfway across the globe if pretty nature is all you’re after? The time difference alone must make it difficult to stay in touch with family, or conduct any type of business—assuming there is a business.

  I wait until Alina is done tracing my lips with a pencil before opening my eyes to ask, “What do your brothers do, work-wise?”

  “Oh, this and that.” She carefully applies lipstick, has me close my lips on a tissue to smudge off some of the color, and repeats the process two more times. Finally satisfied, she puts the lipstick away and picks up a little container of blush and a long-handled makeup brush. “Our family owns a bunch of companies in various sectors—energy, technology, real estate, pharmaceuticals,” she says, swiping the brush across the apples of my cheeks with quick, expert strokes. “Nikolai oversees it all… or he did until recently. When we learned about Slava, he handed over most of the responsibilities to Valery and Konstantin, so he could move here and spend time with his son.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. Is she talking about the same Nikolai? The coolly distant father who barely interacts with his son? I can’t picture him leaving a business meeting early to be with Slava, much less stepping down as head of some major conglomerate.

  I must be missing something. That or Slava is a convenient excuse for something shady.

  “What about you?” I ask when she steps away and surveys her work with a critical eye. “Are you involved with the family business as well?”

  She laughs, a light, trilling sound. “Oh, that’s not for me.” Taking half a step forward, she smooths my left eyebrow with her thumb. “Not bad,” she declares. “Now we just need to do your hair. Come.” Clasping my hand, she drags me back into the bathroom, where she takes out an entire array of styling products from another drawer while I gape at my reflection in the mirror.

  I have never, ever looked this way before, not even when Mom shelled out fifty bucks to have my makeup professionally done for my high school prom.

  The girl in the mirror is beyond pretty, her skin smooth and glowing, her brown eyes large and mysterious above delicately contoured cheekbones and soft, plump lips the color of dusky rose.

  I don’t look like Alina, with her bright red lips and dramatic cat-eye makeup. In fact, I don’t look like I’m wearing makeup at all. Instead, it’s as if I’ve been Photoshopped, all my imperfections blurred and smoothed out.

  “Wow.” I lift my hand to touch my face. “This is…”

  Alina slaps my hand away. “Don’t touch, you’ll mess it up. In general, the less you touch your face, the better. You have nice, clear skin, but it’ll be even better if you keep your hands off it. The oil and dirt on our fingers clog the pores, causing them to look larger over time.”

  “Right, okay.” Chastened, I keep my hands at my sides as she goes to work on my hair, first freeing it from the bun, then misting it with water and applying various styling products to tease out the wave in my otherwise-limp strands.

  “There, all done,” she says after a few minutes. “Now you need shoes, and we’ll be all set.”

  Oh, crap. “I don’t think I have any—” I begin, but she’s already walking out of the bathroom.

  I follow and see her beeline for my closet. A second later, she emerges with a shoebox. Jimmy Choo, the logo on the box proclaims. Setting it down on the floor, she takes out a pair of strappy gold heels and hands them to me. “Try these.”

  They bought me shoes as well? Stopping my brain from doing the math on the not-so-small fortune that must’ve been spent on my wardrobe, I put on the heels—like the dress, they fit perfectly—and walk over to the full-length mirror hanging next to the closet.

  “How do they feel?” Alina asks, coming to stand next to me. To my surprise, she’s now only a couple of inches taller than I; those high heels she always wears have fooled me into thinking she possesses a model’s height.

  I experimentally shift my weight from foot to foot. “Surprisingly comfortable.” Not as comfortable as my sneakers, obviously, but I can stand and walk in them better than in any dressy shoes I’ve worn before. Likewise, the peach gown doesn’t pinch or scratch anywhere; all the seams are smooth and soft against my skin, the silky inner lining pleasantly cool.

  No wonder Alina is able to dress like a queen at all times. If all her clothes are of this quality, looking glamorous is nowhere near as big of an inconvenience as I imagined.

  “You just need one more thing,” she says, smiling at my reflection. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She hurries out of the room, and I stay in front of the mirror, marveling at the way the shimmery gown drapes over my too-skinny body, giving the illusion of healthy curves.

  I’ll never be as beautiful as Alina, but I’m definitely the best version of myself.

  She returns a minute later with a small jewelry box in her hand. Setting it down on the nightstand, she opens it and takes out a pair of diamond studs and a heart-shaped pendant on a thin gold chain.

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly,” I say as she comes toward me, holding the jewelry. “That looks really expensive.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s just a little trinket.” Ignoring my protests, she drapes the gold chain around my neck and locks it into place, then inserts the diamond studs into my ears. “There, now the outfit is complete.”

  She steps back, and I turn to face the mirror again.

  She’s right. The jewelry has added that final touch of polish, the heart-shaped diamond glittering an inch above the faint hint of cleavage created by the bodice of the dress. I look equal parts elegant and sexy, like a modern-day princess about to attend a ball.

  If Mom saw me like this, she’d be so proud. She’d make me take a million pictures in dozens of different poses, and she’d set up the best ones as her screensaver and phone background, so she could show them off to her coworkers at the restaurant. She’d—

  I blink the sting out of my eyes and turn back to face Alina. “Thank you,” I say, my voice only slightly strained. “I appreciate this.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Her green eyes gleam as she gives me a final once-over. “Let’s go down to dinner. I can’t wait for Nikolai to see you like this.”

  And before I can wonder what she means, she heads out of the room, leaving me no choice but to follow.

  20

  Nikolai

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” My voice is low and pleasant, my expression neutral as I address my sister in Russian. Across from me, Chloe has her head bent toward Slava, talking to him about the food on his plate as if he can understand her, and all I can think about is how much I want to reach across the table and rip that pendant off her smooth, slender throat—right after I throttle the person who gave it to her.

  “You asked me to
help her get dressed.” Alina’s tone matches mine, even as chilly amusement glitters in her eyes. “Don’t you like the results?”

  “Where did you get it?” I drop my voice further as Slava glances at us curiously. Unlike his American teacher, he understands exactly what we’re saying, if not the context of it all. “I thought it was lost.”

  “Mom’s favorite necklace? Hardly.” Alina’s smile is as icy bright as the diamond glittering on Chloe’s chest. “She gave it to me for safekeeping. Right before… you know.” She waits for my response. Getting none, she flaps her lashes with exaggerated innocence. “Don’t you like it on her? I thought it was just perfect for this dress—and for your pretty new toy.”

  My molars squeeze together, but my outward demeanor remains calm. I now understand what game Alina is playing, and I don’t intend to let her win. “You’re right. It is perfect, and so is she. Thank you for being so helpful.”

  Not waiting for her reaction, I turn my attention to Chloe, ignoring the white-hot rage streaking through my veins each time the glimmering stone catches my eye. That pendant is all I’ve been able to see since Chloe came to the table, so now I take in her actual appearance—and as I do, the burning fury inside me transforms into scorching lust.

  She’s beautiful. No, more than that. She’s breathtaking, a painting of a Grecian goddess come to life. Like in the picture I saw earlier, her hair tumbles down to her slender shoulders in a cascade of sun-streaked brown waves, and her smooth skin glows with a mysterious inner light. Whatever my sister has done has enhanced the radiance that’s captured me from the beginning, emphasizing Chloe’s bright, tender beauty.

  The kind of beauty that all but begs for a despoiling touch.

  My gaze trails from her face to her fragile collarbones, then, determinedly skipping over the pendant, to the hint of shadow between her breasts, temptingly pushed up by the tight bodice of her dress. With vivid clarity, I imagine how her erect nipples will feel when I palm those small, delicious globes, how they’ll taste when I suck them. She’ll moan, her head arching back and her slender arms rising to—

  I stop, the fantasy evaporating as I stare at the dark red scabs on her left bicep.

  What the fuck?

  They look like puncture wounds, deep ones.

  “She said she fell on some broken glass,” Alina murmurs in Russian, as uncannily tuned in to me as always. “Interesting, isn’t it?”

  It is indeed. While it’s theoretically possible to fall on broken glass and end up with puncture wounds, one is far more likely to get sliced up—and I don’t see any marks of that kind on her arm.

  “I wonder if she was stabbed or caught some shrapnel,” Alina continues, again echoing my thoughts. “What do you think? My bet is on the latter.”

  I force myself to sound disinterested, bored by the topic. “I think she fell on some broken glass.” I haven’t told my sister about the additional report I commissioned from Konstantin’s team, and I’m not planning to do so.

  Chloe is my mystery to unravel, my puzzle to solve.

  My pretty toy to play with.

  Her eyes meet mine, and she quickly looks away, her hand tightening on her fork as her small chest rises and falls in a faster rhythm. I smile darkly, watching her. I unsettle her, make her nervous, and it’s not just the sexual tension that heats the air between us. I caught the way she looked at my banged-up knuckles during lunch, saw the questions in her eyes.

  My zaychik is smart enough to be wary of me.

  She knows, deep down, what kind of man I am.

  I study her throughout the meal, feasting my eyes on her while she feasts on the fruits of Pavel’s kitchen labor. She’s still discreet and subtle about it, but at least three heaping portions of plov, Pavel’s Georgian rice pilaf specialty, disappear from her plate in short order, followed by a serving of every salad and side dish on the table, along with an entire plate of lamb kebab, tonight’s main dish.

  Her off-the-charts appetite both amuses and upsets me because it reveals something important.

  It tells me she’s known real, true hunger in the recent past.

  The realization adds to my frustration, as do the marks on her arm. Konstantin still hasn’t come through with the report, and it’s driving me mad. I want to know what happened to her. I need to know it. It’s fast becoming an obsession—and so is she. This afternoon, when she went hiking with Slava, I found myself climbing walls because I couldn’t watch her through the cameras. I want to know what she’s doing every moment of every day, and no matter how hard I try to distract myself, she’s all I’m able to think about.

  As the meal draws to a close, I contemplate getting her to stay for an digestif with me, but when I catch her covering a yawn, I decide against it. Alina’s skill with makeup has hidden the outward signs of Chloe’s exhaustion, but she’s still fragile, still breakable… too much so for all the dark, dirty things I want to do to her. Besides, I can’t be certain of my self-control tonight.

  The desire searing my veins feels too powerful, too savage for a smooth seduction.

  Soon, I promise myself as I watch her walk out of the dining room and disappear up the stairs.

  Soon I’ll get to the bottom of what makes Chloe Emmons tick, and appease this hunger.

  * * *

  It’s nearly two a.m. when I admit defeat and get up to go for a run. After barely sleeping last night and working off much of my restless energy by sparring with the guards, I should’ve been dead to the world. Instead, I lay awake for hours, my body burning with unfulfilled desire and my mind filled with restless thoughts. Each time I’d come close to drifting off, I’d see the fucking pendant dangling above me, and rage would flood my veins, jerking me awake.

  My sister knew what she was doing when she hung that bauble around Chloe’s pretty neck.

  The night sky is clear when I exit the house, the light from the half-moon illuminating my path as I begin jogging down the driveway. Not that I need it—I have excellent night vision. As the forest thickens around me, I speed up until I’m sprinting down the road leading to the gate. Halfway there, I take a sharp right and enter into the woods, my sneakers crunching on leaves and twigs as I weave through the trees. It’s darker here, more dangerous, with the uneven ground and fallen branches, but the challenge is what I’m after. Running like this forces me to focus, to exert myself both mentally and physically. At the same time, something about the night forest soothes me. The quiet rustling of wild creatures in the bushes, the hooting of an owl above my head, the loamy scent of decomposing vegetation—it’s all part of the experience, part of what attracts me to this place.

  I run until my lungs burn and my muscles feel like lead, until sweat runs down my face in rivulets. When my legs threaten to give out, I turn back and run up the mountain, pushing myself past the point of exhaustion, past the limitations of my body and the memories encroaching on my mind. I run until I can’t think about anything, much less picture the heart-shaped pendant on Chloe’s chest.

  Finally, I stop and walk the rest of the way, letting myself cool down. By the time I enter the dark, silent house, my breathing has calmed and my legs are starting to feel like they’re attached to me. Toeing off my dirty shoes, I lock the front door and make my way up the stairs, the weight of sleep deprivation descending on me like a layer of bricks. I can’t wait to fall into my bed and—

  A choked cry stops me short.

  I freeze on top of the stairs, all my senses on high alert as I scan the dark hallway.

  A moment later, I hear it again.

  A muffled scream, coming from Chloe’s room.

  Adrenaline blasts through my body. I don’t stop to think, I just act. Soundlessly, I pad down the hallway, every muscle in my body coiled for battle. If someone’s broken in, if they’re hurting her… The mere thought of it paints my vision red. Only a lifetime of training keeps me from kicking down the door and rushing in. Instead, I stop three feet from her bedroom and press my palm against the wall
, feeling for a tiny ridge. When I find it, I push in, and with a quiet whoosh, a small square of the wall slides away, revealing one of the mini arsenals I’ve hidden throughout the house.

  Moving silently, I reach into the niche and grab a loaded Glock 17, then approach Chloe’s door.

  All is quiet again, but I don’t let it fool me.

  Something isn’t right. I know it. I feel it.

  Clicking off the safety with my right thumb, I carefully twist the knob with my left hand and open the door a crack.

  Another cry rings out, followed by a choked sob.

  Fuck it.

  I push the door wide open and charge inside, prepared to do battle.

  Only no one attacks me.

  There are no flying bullets, no movement of any sort.

  The faint moonlight reveals no one in the dark bedroom besides me and a small bundle underneath the covers on the bed—a bundle that jerks suddenly, emitting another one of those muffled cries.

  Of course.

  I lower the gun, the worst of the tension draining from my muscles. This must be what Alina heard last night. No wonder Chloe looked so uncomfortable when my sister brought up the topic.

  She has nightmares. Bad ones.

  I should leave now that I know she’s safe, but I remain rooted in place, staring at that bundle of covers as my heartbeat takes on a hard, thumping rhythm. She’s here, sleeping only a couple of meters away. The adrenaline in my veins transforms into a sharp, hot need, a hunger so fierce and potent I shake from the effort of containing it. I want to feel her smooth, warm skin under my fingers, smell her crisp, sweet wildflower scent… sink deep into her tight, wet heat… My pulse roars in my ears, my body so hard it hurts, and my legs move against my will, carrying me forward.

  No. Fuck, no.

  I stop half a meter from the bed, jaw clenched.

  Move the fuck back. Now.