Page 59 of Diamond Don

“But it’s just not the same, and you know it.”

“I know no such thing. What I know is that you’re being unfair to me. You’re setting these extremely high standards for me when you don’t uphold them yourself. For example, you resent my attempts to exert a minuscule degree of influence over you through the sexual attraction between us when you’ve been taking every chance you get to control me—mind, body, and soul.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “So you do admit to trying to control and manipulate me.”

Kat’s response is to roll her eyes at me. “Are you really going to ignore the point I’m trying to make?”

I sigh. I guess I’ll have to point out the obvious. “The problem with your logic is that you believe we should be on equal footing, and that’s just not the case. I may not have fully disclosed everything about myself the night we first met, but I didn’t steal a priceless diamond from you. I didn’t betray you.”

“I didn’t know it belonged to you.”

“It doesn’t matter. The point I’m trying to make here is that I get to control you. Because you owe me.”

“What you’re really trying to say is that you own me.”

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant when the mere thought of truly owning her—mind, body and soul, as she put it—gives me an insurmountable amount of pleasure.

“Unfortunately for you, Kat, I do have leverage over you, so I get to impose my will over yours. Unless you have an ace up your sleeve I don’t know about, I don’t think you can say the same,” I say.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Kat squints her eyes at me, and it’s as clear as day that she will take my bold statement as a challenge.

She smiles at me. Slowly. “I think you and I know that’s not exactly true, Nik. I’m sure you’ll come to see that there are different kinds of leverage. If memory serves, you struggle to resist mine,” she says in a sultry tone.

“Well, may the best man win, I suppose, Kat.”

Her only reply is a smirk.

22

KAT

The rest of the morning flies by in a blur.

Soon after Nik made the fatal mistake of challenging me, the personal shopper he said would be coming over to help me select my new wardrobe arrives.

Her name is Caroline, and she has impeccable taste. She and I get along well, and I have a great time for the first hour of her visit. I sigh and squeal in pleasure as she helps me try on all her luxurious offerings.

But as the hours pass, I begin to feel weary. As I stare at the mirror, I physically feel the stress of the past couple of days catch up with me, even as I drool over my reflection.

“So lovely, right? Well, the dress is Chanel, these shoes are YSL, and the bag is Dior. Your lingerie, of course, is Agent Provocateur,” Caroline says, smiling at me while gesturing towards the beautiful strips of lace and silk on the bed in my new bedroom—my jail cell.

“It’s all gorgeous. I’ll take it. All of it, obviously,” I say, returning her smile.

Caroline nods, still grinning, before showing me the other gorgeous pieces she selected for me.

Once I have spent enough money to make even multibillionaire Russian mobsters pause, I’m secretly glad when Caroline says her goodbyes.

My relief is short-lived, however, as the doctor Nik mentioned earlier shows up mere moments after her departure. My distractingly handsome captor watches in silence from a distance as the physician examines my head.

As I predicted, my injury is very mild. The good doctor recommends rest and cold compresses, reassuring Nik that I don’t have a concussion and should feel completely normal in a few days. The man leaves after reminding us to contact him if my condition changes. After spearing me with another glowering glance, so does Nik.

Glad to be left alone, I hurry to change into clean clothes. Once I feel the soothing touch of a fresh cotton t-shirt and shorts against my skin, I have to fight to keep my eyes open. I feel more exhausted than I’ve felt in years.

I waste no time getting under the enormous bed’s covers. Their weight is comforting, and a sigh escapes my lips as my muscles relax.

Soon, delicious sleep starts to take over me. I don’t fight it, slipping into a sweet, dreamless slumber within minutes.

It feels like hours—maybe days—pass as bone-deep relaxation makes all my worries seem far away. Somewhere deep inside my dark pit of unconsciousness, I’m vaguely aware of a presence. I can’t say how much time goes by before I detect the soft pressure of warm lips on my forehead, followed by an impossibly gentle Russian whisper.

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