Page 43 of Raven

I’m so lost in my fantasies that when there’s a knock at the door, my heartbeat spikes two-fold.

And here he is, standing tall on my porch, hands in his pockets, his unblinking gaze on me when I open my door.

His eyes probe me in the strangest way I can’t explain—warning, prying, and… arousing. They are gray-blue but shiny like steel, piercing and unsettling. I can’t look away.

When I let him in, he walks to the middle of the room and does a quick evaluation of my studio and open-concept kitchen. There is nothing to see here. My nightstand light is on, making the room sink into comfortable dimness. As much as this scenario can be, that is. Soft music trickles from the speaker.

I stand just a little behind him, studying him. He is a little taler than me, not too muscular but toned. He is wearing a black long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and Converses. His dark hair is, as always, slightly disheveled, strands falling onto the right side of his forehead.

He turns around slowly to face me and takes slow steps toward me until he is only inches away.

He cocks his head, those icy eyes of his studying my face. He’s trying to detect how I feel. He knows that the longer he stares at people, the more self-aware they become.

But I’m the wrong girl. I hope he knows that. I’ve faced dangerous men all my life, been in bed with them, played them. His gaze doesn’t unnerve me, but his intentions do. And though I don’t react, my heart is sending an SOS signal, and my legs go weak.

A cold smile hitches the corner of his lips. “We have a deal, Maddy. Rules are established.” He talks slowly, like a businessman, or maybe trying to unnerve me. “I take what I want. You give it without acting like a princess.”

His eyes roam my face, and I’m waiting for his first move.

He lifts his hand to my shoulder and traces the length of my dress strap with his finger. I know he can see the goosebumps on my skin.

“Strip, Maddy,” he says softly. “I want to see what I got.”

Here we go.

He steps back and walks to the chair by the dresser. He turns it the other way and straddles it, arms folded on its back. He gives a backward nod toward the spot in front of him, in the center of my small studio, and there’s that slight tilt of his head—he’s letting me know he’s waiting.

I stay calm.

Deep breaths, Milena.

I take slow steps to stand in front of him.

“Right there,” he stops me. “Perfect.”

I wonder if I can do this gracefully—take my white socks off.

“Leave the socks on,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving in a smile.

I swear, he can read my mind. Maybe that’s why he is good at his job. Maybe that’s why my body is in an emergency mode, though my mind calmly instructs me on what to do next.

I pick up the hem of my dress and pull it up, over my head and arms, and drop it on the floor.

He nods in approval.

I’ve done this so many times, hiding my emotions, acting cool. Pretending. Back in the day, I could watch without flinching as a man was pummeled into a pulp, despite my insides turning. Later, it was all about lies. Lying to my father, to his dogs that guarded me day and night. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Feigning innocence when I laughed inwardly at some stunt I pulled off.

I remember one of my last visits to Russia, when I was seventeen. It was a function in Vladivostok, and many of the guests were in the top 100 of the world’s who is who, many whom I knew growing up. Private jets, tuxedos and evening dresses, a two-million-dollar raffle, same old conversations about new deals and investments and one man whom I never knew being introduced by my father.

“I hope for this to be a great alliance,” said the handsome guy in his mid-twenties who turned out to be some Kazakhstani businessman.

I didn’t realize right away what his kissing my hand had to do with any alliance, considering I heard him earlier out on the terrace joking about a party with models in Courchevel, France. Until my father told me in private only ten minutes later, “Get to know him. He is a great asset to our business.”

It wasn’t “our” business, but my father’s. And everything was an asset.

“I don’t have any interest in him,” I said.

Dad didn’t even flinch. “You should. Considering you will marry him as soon as you graduate from whatever university I let you enroll in.”

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