Page 65 of 10 Days to Ruin

“That’s a little improper to ask a lady,” I fumble.

“Only if that lady’s scared of the truth.” Sasha’s hand, lolling off the table, grazes the inside of my ankle when I pass by.

I grimace as I dig an elbow into Sasha’s lower back. I want a whimper of pain, but all I get is a contented sigh. “I was nineteen,” I whisper. “Freshman year of college. There was a T.A. in my journalism ethics lecture with nice eyes. He kissed me in the library stacks and… Yeah. Kinda unfolded from there.”

His palm hooks around my ankle and pulses, just once. “Was it everything you dreamed of?”

I consider lying. Men like Sasha are built one way: jealous. And wouldn’t getting him riled up over the thought of this T.A. making me see stars be worth it? Wouldn’t that get me where I want to go?Handled merchandise—surely he’d despise that kind of thing. He’d want a virginal bride who’s never so much as locked eyes with a man before.

But he’d know.

He’d know I’m full of shit.

He’d know that Danny Moreno kissed nice but didn’t know what he was doing with his fingers, and that I ended up walking out of those library stacks with a cramp and a headache and nothing even remotely close to a climax.

“No,” I say shortly. “It wasn’t.”

“Mm.” He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Did you hate yourself afterward?”

“Nope. I save all my hate for you,” I retort. “Your turn. First time you killed a man.”

His answer is immediate. “Twenty-two. Back alley in Grozny. Chechen smuggler, ventured too far onto our turf. I put the pistol right here—” He grabs my hand and guides it to the back of his head, where my fingers instinctively clutch the thicket of hair.

“And… bam?” I guess. “No more Mr. Smuggler?”

Sasha shakes his head. “It jammed. I used a broken bottle instead.”

“Jesus.” I shiver. “Do you regret it?”

“That’s two questions. My turn again. How old were you the first time you came?”

“Thirteen. Who was the first girl you took to bed?”

“Marta. My father hired her for me. She taught me how to use my teeth properly.” He turns his head to eye me. “She cried when I left Moscow.”

“Adorable. Why don’t you marry her instead?”

Sasha’s hand darts out to loop around my waist and tether me close to the table. Slowly, slowly, he sits up, until we’re eye-to-eye. “Because youare the only one I want.”

He’s iron around my hips, but even if I could leave, I’m not sure I would. Not when he’s this close, when the steam is lassoed around us, when all these secrets feel like they can finally take their first breath of air in a long, long time.

“You don’t want me. Not in any way that matters.”

“Wrong. I want you in the only way that matters: utterly, completely, and permanently.”

His face is still, eyes level, breath calm. But this close, I catch something I don’t think he ever intended to show me: the faintest tremor in his hands.

He’s not as in control as he pretends to be.

Something about that realization makes me salivate. I’m not the only one teetering some razor’s edge betweenWhat the fuck is happeningandWhy not let it?

But the danger remains because Sasha is a hell of a lot more comfortable walking this tightrope than I am.Utterly. Completely. Permanently.Who can say things like that with a straight face? Who can lie like that?

Because it has to be a lie, doesn’t it? Sasha doesn’t want ME; he wants what I bring him. He doesn’t want me; he wants what he can use me for.

He doesn’t want me.

He can’t want me.

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