Page 62 of 10 Days to Ruin

“So arrest me, officer.”

His jaw twitches.

We’re off to a good start.

The attendant—a nervous twig of a man who introduces himself as Emil—emerges and ferries us back through a labyrinth of soaking pools and cedar saunas before landing at a private suite.

In here, the air is thick with eucalyptus, the walls shimmering with condensation. A single massage table dominates the center of the room, flanked by shelves of oils and salts and who the hell knows what else.

Emil starts babbling about hot stone therapy. “When we begin the treatment, you’ll see how?—”

“There will be no treatment today.”

Emil and I both look at Sasha in utter confusion. “P-pardon, sir?” stammers the poor man.

Sasha answers him, but he’s looking at me the whole time. “We don’t need a masseuse. I’ll handle this myself.”

Then he ushers Emil out in a way that’s both polite and undeniable at the same time. How he manages that little balancing act is a mystery to me, because I’m still gawking back and forth between the swiftly closing door and the lone massage table and all the implications resting upon it.

Then the door clicks shut.

And those implications start to feel very, very real.

I arch a brow as I try to hide my nervous gulp. “Handling it yourself, huh? Planning to drown me in mineral water?”

“Planning to see how long you last before begging.” Sasha shrugs off his shirt. His scars are harsh in this light—ridges of ruined flesh carving highways across his shoulders, his abdomen, the serrated noose mark around his throat. A lifetime of violence etched into his skin.

My mouth goes dry.

He catches me staring. “See something you like?”

Blushing, I turn away. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He plucks a glass jar of cream off the shelf and saunters closer to me. “Turn around.”

“Excuse me?”

“You need protection from the steam.” His voice drops. “Unless you’d prefer to burn…?”

Challenge flares in my veins. I shrug off my coat and let it pool at my feet.

His exhale is audible.

The bikini must be worse than he imagined—black lace triangles held together by fishing line and audacity. This moment is worse than I imagined, too. Even when I was putting it on in my apartment this morning, I was humming with anxious energy. I told myself it was all in the art of the tease. Show him what he can’t have. Plant my flag in the ground.

Now, that plan feels flimsy and distant.

What’snotso distant?

Sasha.

He’s here and he’s huge and he’s looking right at me, waiting to see what I’ll do next. Will I roll over and heel like the good little pet he wants me to be? Will I submit?

For a moment, I consider it. Maybe all this fighting is stupid. Maybe I should just give Sasha what he wants, give my dad what he wants. God knows it’d be less effort. Less headache and heartbreak.

Then I think four little words to myself:

What would Jasmine do?

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