Page 41 of Inked Adonis

“We need to talk.”

I tuck the towel tight and stand as tall and defiant as I can. “About what? The weather? Your murder schedule for the week?”

There’s a soft thud as he leans against the door. The steam clears enough for me to see his eyes. Half his face. The cruel twist of hismouth. “You’re smart enough to know why you’re here. And why you can’t leave.”

“Because the law doesn’t apply to men like you?”

“Because the law won’t protect you from what’s coming.”

His certainty makes my skin crawl. Men like him, men like my father… They’re all so fucking sure they know what’s best.

“Your phone is here,” he says, setting something down on the marble sink counter. “Call whoever you need to. But I must warn you: if you breathe a word about your situation, they’ll join you here. Permanently.”

The threat wraps around my throat like a garrote. “You’re threatening my friends?” I squeak out.

He sighs, a sound like ocean water churning beneath icebergs. “I’m doing what must be done. If you’re telling me the truth about everything, then in two weeks, you’ll have nothing to worry about, and all your loved ones will be safe. If you aren’t… well, some things are beyond even my power.”

“Thanks for the rundown of your shady, shitty operating manual,” I snap. “Where’d you learn your intimidation techniques from?Better Call Saul?”

Samuil merely chuckles. “You sound hungry. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. I’ll see you there.”

Without waiting for me to reply, he turns and leaves.

I stay in place until he’s gone. My heartbeat thumps in my throat. Only when his footsteps fade do I retrieve my phone with trembling fingers. His cologne lingers in the air—dark and expensive and dangerous.

I ignore the smell as I swipe open my home screen. I have three missed calls from Hope.

Two from my grandmother.

And one from my father.

And I can’t call any of them for help—because if I do, the devil in designer who waves death around like a baton will come for them just like he’s come for me.

He thinks he can just drop that bomb and then dangle food in my face and I’ll heel like Rufus?

Fuck. That.

Fuck. Him.

I don’t want his dinner, I don’t want his threats, and I sure as hell don’t want his sympathy. If I have to sit here for two weeks to protect my loved ones, fine.

But I’m not going to make it easy for him.

14

NOVA

My hunger strike is off to a rough start.

I’m locked in my room, but it turns out that cell reception doesn’t care too much about deadbolts. My phone hums with pictures from Samuil of chicken satay dripping in peanut sauce, pad thai glistening with oil and lime, and a chilled glass of white wine big enough to swim in, all artfully arranged against the Chicago skyline.

I have only myself to blame. I handed the bastard the playbook to my own undoing.

When he texted me that first week to ask what my final meal on this earth would be, I thought it was so he could take me out on a thoughtful date. I never thought it might be so he could make it myactualfinal meal.

My phone buzzes again.

SAMUIL:You sure you don’t want to eat? I make a mean pad thai.

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