Page 91 of Dangerous Beginnings

Aslanov

She’s so beautiful, I can hardly believe it. Her very being is bright and bold, better than I am. Her soul shines and her freckles stand out even more with the red flush crossing her cheeks. Red hair, red dress, and red lipstick. I want to pull, tear, and smear it. Her hair is my weakness; red, silly, and long enough for me to wrap around my fist twice.

I move closer to her, pulling a coat over her shoulders. And when I move in closer to inhale her addictive scent, I whisper next to her flushed ear; “Such a good girl obeying my request, and good girls will be rewarded.”

She shivers as the rash consumes her ears. She closes her eyes at the sound of my voice. I can see the lump in her throat being swallowed down. She scrunches her nose, and I’ve tendedto see that a couple of times whenever she’s nervous. She’s shy. Intimidated easily. Wanting to be a good girl, praised and used. But behind the shy demeanor, there is a brat hiding. A woman with fire igniting her bones. A woman to be fucked into submission. She gets off on fear. Fear ignites her arousal. And she fears me an awful amount. I even killed her daddy, perhaps she needs a new one.

Isabella

I shiver at his words. A whimper escapes my lips. Being alone with him hurts my insides more in ways I could imagine. I clench my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat that’s building. He affects me in ways I’ve never felt before. A need, a desire. A desire for fear.

He pushes my back towards the door, walking down the stairs outside. I spot his car. I make my way over to it, my heels clicking on the ground. He’s behind me, but just as I go to open the passenger seat door, he moves in front of me, opening it.

I get inside and he slams it shut. Who thought a couple of months before this moment that I would be sitting here like this instead of in handcuffs? From captive to date? I think I’ve developed Stockholm syndrome, God help me.

As the car pulls away from the estate, tension hangs heavy in the air, palpable between us. The silence stretches between me and him, broken only by the soft hum of the engine and the occasional shifting in the leather seat.

Beside me, Aslanov remains stoic, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. The lines of his jaw are tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel with controlled intensity. He’s preoccupied with thoughts of his own.

After several minutes of silence, I finally gathered the courage to speak.

“Where are we headed?” I ask, my voice tentative. Aslanov’slips curve into a faint smirk, but he doesn’t meet my gaze.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he replies cryptically, his tone unreadable. I’m not sure if that is supposed to excite me or give me anxiety. After a drive of 15 minutes, we arrive in the pulsing heart of the city.

As the car pulls up to a grand building in the heart of Moscow, my eyes widen in awe at the sight before me. The exterior of the restaurant exudes elegance and prestige, its name emblazoned in golden letters above the entrance.

“Welcome to Le Magnifique,” Aslanov announces with a smile, gesturing towards the imposing building. My breath catches in my throat as I realize the significance of our destination. Le Magnifique is one of the most renowned restaurants in Moscow, frequented by the city’s elite and coveted for its exquisite cuisine and impeccable service. He parks the car and exits, then walks over to my side and opens my door. His hand reaches out to help me out of the car, an electric shock magnified as our hands lock.

We step into the opulent interior of Le Magnifique, where the air is alive with the murmur of conversation and the clink of fine china. My eyes widen in amazement as we are greeted by the staff, who welcome Aslanov with deference and respect. They greet him with a nod and a lowered gaze. As we make our way to the table, I can’t help but feel a sense of intimidation at the power and influence that he commands. The restaurant is abuzz with activity, patrons vying for his attention and eager to bask in the glow of his presence. They all seem to welcome him. Suddenly it hits me.

“You own this restaurant?” I ask, my voice tinged with disbelief.

“It’s one of my ventures,” he replies, his tone understated yet filled with pride.

When we reach the table he grabs a hold of my chair, we have a window table. A view over the city lights of Moscow. “Allow me,”he murmurs, his voice warm and inviting.

Gratefully, I accept his assistance, my heart fluttering at the gentle touch of his voice as he pulls out my chair. I settle into my seat, feeling a rush of warmth at the chivalrous gesture. A devil dressed and behaved like an angel tonight.

The waiter approaches with the menu, but before I have a chance to peruse it, Aslanov takes charge.

“Allow me to order for us,” he looks at me, his voice confident and authoritative. My pulse quickens at his commanding tone, a thrill coursing through my veins. I nod, my eyes locked on his with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. I’m sure he knows what the best food is here. Without hesitation, Aslanov turns to the waiter and rattles off a series of orders in Russian, his voice firm and unwavering. When the waiter nods and is dismissed by Aslanov his eyes come back to me and I feel completely intrigued, intimidated, and shy.

Aslanov reaches into his pocket and holds out his hand.

“Give me your phone.”

I furrow my eyebrows as I reach into my bag to give him my phone. As I watch him deftly insert what seems to be my old chip card, I can’t help but wonder what he’s up to. A few moments later, my phone buzzes to life, and my heart skips a beat as I see a flood of messages appear on the screen. My mother, Ada, and Nadia—all messages of concern.

“I figured you’d be well-behaved by now to respond to these without revealing unwanted information.”

I can only nod at his statement. He hands the phone back to me. I stare at it. Honestly, I didn’t think my mother would reach out, but she has, multiple times. However, with his gaze on mine, I remind myself now is not the time. If they had to wait for weeks, another night won’t hurt. I put the phone in my bag again.

Just then the waiter comes back with a bottle of red wine andtwo glasses. Thank God, Ifuckingneed a drink. He elegantly fills the glasses and dismisses himself this time. He doesn’t even raise his gaze towards Aslanov. I raise my glass, the crimson liquid swirling within, and take a sip, savoring the rich, velvety taste.

With a steadying breath, I turn my attention back to Aslanov, my curiosity piqued by the waiter’s peculiar behavior. I gesture subtly towards the departing waiter and raise an eyebrow in question.

“Did you notice that?” I ask, my voice low and measured. “The waiter didn’t even acknowledge you.” Aslanov’s lips curve into a faint smile, his eyes glinting with amusement.

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