Page 115 of 10 Days to Ruin

Notjustthat, at least. What I want is to make him be honest with me. Beauthenticwith me. Is that so much to ask of a man who saved my life and bared his soul last night?

I don’t know.

I guess we’re about to find out.

Moving quickly before I lose the nerve, I strip off my PJs and chuck them aside. Then, using all theTab A into Slot Bexpertise I gained from building the IKEA bookshelf, bedframe, and nightstand in my apartment, I assess the ins and outs of the lingerie and shimmy it into place. I do it without looking in the mirror so I can keep my composure. But when it’s on and all my bits and bobs are adequately covered, there’s nothing left to do but turn…

Oh, Jesus, Mary, Joseph.Throw in the Three Wise Men and the goats in the manger, too, while we’re at it.

Because this is positively indecent.

The harness bites into my thighs. The mesh thong disappears between my butt cheeks. The padlock tinkles at my throat as I take in a deep, shuddering inhale.

I look like sex. I feel like a demon. Now, onto the main event.

What will Sasha think?

I stick my head out of the dressing room curtain. Yvonne spots me immediately and starts to hurry over, but I shake my head and point at Sasha instead. “Sweetheart,” I call out in a cloyingly girlish voice that makes my own skin crawl. “Could you give me a hand, please?”

Sasha turns to look at me. His face is taut. “Can’t you?—”

“I needyou,” I say. “This is a future husband kind of task.”

His scowl darkens. But then he rises and starts to cross the room toward me.

I step back and let the curtain swish closed. My heartbeat is kicking up higher and higher. One-fifty. One-seventy. One-ninety.2 Fast 2 Furious.Any second now, that curtain is going to open, and neither heaven nor hell knows what’s going to come next.

I hear his footsteps. It feels like the gala bathroom all over again—me trapped in a tiny little space, breathing hard, wondering what kind of man those footsteps belong to.Thump, thump.Closer. Closer.

They stop. I see the tips of his toes underneath the curtain’s hem. Not oxblood, like before, but black. Black as sin.

Then the curtain rips open.

And there he is.

It occurs to me, not for the first or even the hundredth time, how beautiful he is. It’s unfair, really. No one man should get to have hair that thick and eyes that blue. No one person should get to be so tall and so broad and sothere.There’s too much of him, too much width and depth. I feel overwhelmed. It’s hard to breathe.

But it’s his eyes that draw me in most of all.

Because they’re looking at me like he’s never seen anything quite so divine.

He’s not saying anything, though. Just standing there, working his jaw side to side. His fist tightens on the swath of curtain in his grasp.

I finger-comb my hair into something approximating sex-messy. “Well? Will this properly degrade me at Bratva dinner parties?”

I brace myself for what has to be coming next. A crude remark, alearn your place,a scathing dismissal. Or maybe I’ll get what I’m longing for: hope, heart, humanity.

What I get instead is this:

Nothing.

He turns to leave.

Before he can even finish his pivot, though, a word flies out of my mouth all on its own: “Coward.”

Sasha pauses. The curtain is draped over him, not quite open, not quite closed. He doesn’t turn back all the way, but he doesn’t leave just yet, either.

So I press on. “You’re a fucking coward. You know that? You think you’re all big and tough because you have money and you hurt people. But one little kiss you didn’t mean to give and you turn into a big, fucking coward.”

---