Page 92 of Dangerous Beginnings

“It’s not unusual,” he replies casually, his tone understated yet filled with a hint of intrigue. “Some people prefer to keep their distance.”

I furrow my brow in confusion, my curiosity growing with each passing moment. “But why?” I press, my voice tinged with curiosity. “You’re the owner of this restaurant, aren’t you?” Aslanov’s smile widens slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I am,” he confirms, his voice tinged with a hint of mystery. “But that doesn’t mean everyone is comfortable in my presence.”

I snort out a tiny laugh, “Really? I wonder why.” Sarcasm drips from my comment. I take another sip of the wine, the bold flavor lingering on my tongue.

The food arrives and it is delicious, never tasted anything better, and for once I’m having fun. I feel at ease, how weird that might be. We had a normal conversation.

“What’s your type?” I suddenly blurt out. He raises a single eyebrow before placing the fork on the side of his plate.

“Red hair, brown eyes, stubborn, and talks way too much.” I choke on my food. “How tall are you again?” he asks as he brings the wine glass to his lips with a smirk.

“5’6,” I reply while staring at him.

“5’6,” he repeats.

I snort out a laugh and roll my eyes as he takes in the sight of me.

I think I’m five glasses of wine in and that might also have something to do with it. My cheeks are stained red and I’m hot. I pull my hair up in a messy bun and devour my last bite. Aslanov is staring me down; he has a grin on his face that you give little children when they tell you they just turned five. I blush.

“Can I have more wine?” I yell at this point. Aslanov raises his eyebrow when the waiter comes up to our table and wants to fill my glass, he raises his hand and tells him something in Russian. After that he leaves, and my glass stays empty.

My eyes shoot to his. “Really?” I groan, “I’m old enough to decide for myself, boss.”

He’s not smiling anymore now. I get up and grab my glass, he pulls me by my arm. “Sit your ass down.”

I shake my head, bravery and bratty on my tongue.

“No,” I state while pulling away, but his grip is like iron.

“You realize you’re still talking to one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the country?” His voice is laced with danger, unlike the past hours of our dinner. Aslanov’s gaze is fixed on me with a steely intensity, his eyes boring into mine with a silent warning. Despite the playful banter that has characterized our evening thus far, there’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere, a tangible tension that sends a chill down my spine. I try to maintain a facade of nonchalance, but the weight of his gaze is oppressive, and suffocating. A nervous energy crackles in the air, thick with unspoken words and simmering resentment.

Feeling emboldened by the wine coursing through my veins, I give him a bratty sneer, and a defiant tilt to my chin as I meet his gaze head-on. Aslanov rises from his seat and now I have to look up again to meet his gaze. I open my mouth to protest, but beforeI can utter a word, Aslanov’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

“Isabella,” he warns, his tone low and dangerous. The use of my full name sends a shiver down my spine, a stark reminder of his authority over me. I turn my gaze away, wanting to part from his radiant dominance. His fingers grip my chin and turn my attention back towards him, it’s an iron grip, not a gentle one. He tilts my chin so high I whimper as my neck is arched back.

“Sit back down.” Thus, I take a seat again.

But the alcohol burns under my skin, causing my tongue to split into a snake. I cross my legs, an act of casual defiance, my posture relaxed yet alert. Aslanov’s gaze upon me is unyielding, a silent assertion of dominance that seems to fill the space between us with electric tension.

“You really should learn when to keep quiet,” Aslanov advises, his tone low but clear, every word a calculated drop of intimidation. I tilt my head slightly, my eyes sparkling with a mixture of defiance and mischief.

“And what if I told you I’m not afraid of... you?” I counter, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves I feel. This is a game and I’m not willing to swerve first. Never back down, never what?

Aslanov’s lips curve into a semblance of a smile, but there’s no warmth in it—only a cold acknowledgment of my words. “Not afraid,” he muses, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You have no idea what you’re inviting.” He pauses. “But it could be arranged if you’re so eager to learn.” My gaze lands on Aslanov’s wine glass, it’s half full. And before I know it, I reach out to it, throwing it down my throat. Guess I still got my wine, after all, I smirk. But that doesn’t last long.

His eyes narrow, a dangerous gleam surfacing as he processes my action. Then, almost unexpectedly, a deep, resonating laugh escapes him, filling the room with its sinister tone. It’s not asound of amusement but rather one of dark amusement.

“You truly have no idea what you’ve just invited upon yourself, do you?” he says, his voice laced with a menacing calmness that belies the laughter that had just broken free. His gaze hardens, locking onto mine with an intensity that seems to probe my very soul.

“The audacity...” Aslanov continues, slowly standing up, his height and presence suddenly more imposing than ever. “You think you can play with such... childish provocations?” I swallow. I press my tights together as he approaches, “Stand up and get in the car Isabella.”

So I stand up, follow him, and get in the car. I tell myself it is because I am becoming tired, cold, or anything else. I know that is a lie. And I know he will punish me dearly for it.

26 days.

Losing sight of my terms.

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