Page 15 of Dancing With Distraction

“To buy a suit,” he hisses.

I roll my eyes as he glares. “We both know you own more than enough suits. It’s all I see you in.” Maybe he isn’t used to women speaking back to him, so I smile. “Look, if you want to waste your money buying expensive suits just so you can see me, I’m flattered. Don’t be embarrassed.”

He moves fast, and I gasp when he pushes his face inches from my own. “You turned up at my house.”

“I was in the area,” I whisper as my heart slams hard in my chest. I don’t feel threatened. No, I feel fucking turned-on, and I’m not sure what that says about me, but each time this man is close, I want him to devour me like I’m his last meal. As if he’s read my mind, his eyes trail down to my lips. My tongue darts out, sweeping over my lower lip to wet it, just in case he should decide to carry it out.

He smirks. “And you decided to try and climb my gate?”

“I wanted to know what you were hiding.”

I feel the warmth of his breath on my face. “I told you to stay away from me.” His lips are almost touching mine, but I refuse to be the one to make the first move.

“I was never good at doing as I’m told.”

His hand goes into my hair and a thrill shoots through me as he tugs my head back, exposing my neck. “What is it about you?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against the spot just behind my ear. My breathing hitches and I clench my thighs together. I feel his other hand trailing up my leg, gently tracing his fingers along my skin. I’m so lost in him that I don’t immediately register what he’s about to do until it’s too late. His hand pauses, feeling the roughness of my skin, and he frowns before looking down between us. I grab my towel and try to cover myself, but he’s too quick, and he tugs my head harder until I’m staring up at the ceiling. Placing one of his legs between mine, he forces them apart, and I hear his sharp intake of breath. He suddenly releases me and steps back, giving me the perfect opportunity to break away from him. I run out the sauna and into the changing rooms, where I pull on my joggers even though my skin is still damp from the heat. Grabbing my bag, I run out of there, not bothering to explain to Phoebe. I’ll send her a text with some excuse.

By the time I get home, my hands are shaking uncontrollably. It takes a couple attempts to get the key in the lock before I push into the flat and throw my bag on the bed. I drop to my knees and reach under my bed, moving my hand frantically until I find what I’m looking for. The old tin box instantly calms me as I hold it against my chest and twist until I’m sitting on my backside. I inhale through my nose and slowly release it, trying desperately to calm my racing heart.

I lift slightly and push my tracksuit bottoms down my legs, kicking them off and staring down at the ugly, raised marks that scar my inner thighs. Tears blur my vision as I carefully place the tin on the floor between my legs and open it. The shiny piece of mirror I stashed in there from the other day glints in the light, and I take it out, gently running my finger over the sharp, pointy edge.

The minute I push it against my thigh and feel the breaking of flesh, my mind clears. I rest my head back against the bed and close my eyes as I drag the glass along my skin. The stickiness coats my fingers, but it doesn’t deter me as I make a second slice, each cut releasing more tension.

I don’t hear the door open, and it’s not until Marcus clears his throat that my eyes spring open and my moment of peace is shattered. He leans his shoulder against the door frame and fixes his eyes on my exposed thighs. “Don’t let me stop you.”

I drop the mirror into the tin. “Get out,” I hiss, shame washing over me. Marcus knows about my scars. He should—he’s the reason for them.

He sneers. “Look at the state of you.” I swipe at my tears, not caring that my hands are covered in blood. “You’re a fucking mess.” He comes in farther, slamming the door closed. “No wonder no one wants you. What must men think when they see that?” he hisses. I make a grab for my bottoms, but he kicks them away. “You’re disgusting.”

“Tori?” It’s Phoebe, and Marcus rolls his eyes in irritation. “Are you okay?” she asks through the door.

“Don’t worry, I’ll fucking save your arse . . . again,” he mutters, opening the door and slipping out before she can peer inside.

I slam my hand over my mouth, smothering the sobs as my entire body shakes with exhaustion. And then I pull myself onto the bed and lie down. My eyes begin to drift closed, and the last thing I remember hearing is the sound of Marcus’s footsteps going up the stairs to Phoebe’s flat.

Dmitry

Isit on a bench in the male changing room and fist my hair in frustration. Her presence seems to be infiltrating my every fucking thought. The look of torment in her eyes when I trailed my hand up her thigh wasn’t what I expected. The fire had been replaced by shame and disgust before she darted out of there.

Now more than ever, I know exactly what she needs. Those scars confirmed what I was already thinking, and the way her body responded to my touch was like a drug, and I crave to hear her cries of ecstasy. Victoria needs someone to show her control, to help her fight the urge to harm her perfect skin, and I can give her that.

There’s a voice in the back of my mind warning me not to let her cloud my judgement in other areas of my life. Otherwise, it could be the downfall of me and my father’s expansion into London.

Sighing loudly, I make my decision and change back into my suit, indicating to Marshall and Nik that it’s time to leave. Once we’re in the car, I say, “Take me to Victoria Harding’s place.” They both look back, eyeing me with curiosity, though neither dares to question my request and I refuse to elaborate.

It’s only a short drive from the gym before we pull up outside the grand house. There’s no way she can afford this place as a personal shopper, and as if reading my mind, Marshall says, “She’s in bedsit three, ground floor. I looked into it after we discovered she couldn’t afford to pay for the damages,” he offers as a way of explanation.

“Wait here,” I mutter as I get out the vehicle.

Standing on the path outside, I undo my tie, leaving it hanging loosely around my neck, already planning my next move once I get in there.

I stride up the steps leading to the impressive house. From the outside you would never think it was separated into bedsits.

I’m working out how to get into the building without alerting her to my arrival when I see the man she was dining with a few days ago at The Ivy leaving through the main doors. He’s too busy shouting into his phone to even notice me, and he pushes right past without so much as an apology. Prick. I ball my fist, wanting nothing more than to slam it into his face. I hate the idea that he’s been here, comforting my Ognyena Maria. I give my head a shake, scolding myself for the train of thought. She isn’t mine . . . yet.

The hall is dark and dingy, in stark contrast to the outside of the building, which looks well-maintained. I pause outside her door, listening for any signs of movement. Clearly, this asshole has only just left, and I need to know what their relationship is before I decide if she’s mine to play with.

Before knocking, I try the handle and realise it’s unlocked. Shaking my head in irritation at her inability to ensure her own safety, I remind myself to warn her of what my consequences will be for not protecting herself. Should she agree to my offer, of course.

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