Page 21 of Beautiful Beast

“Since you’re good at torturing people, that seems to fit the bill.”

His lips quirk into a smile. “I can’t tell if you’re lying or telling me the truth.”

Sweat forms on my back, and I keep my face neutral, lest I give something away. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’re still a mystery to me, Anya. And I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he murmurs into my ear. “I don’t like mysteries. I like to know my enemies.”

“I’m your enemy?” I ask breathlessly.

“I feel like you think I’m your enemy, so in a way, that makes you my enemy. Let me offer you some advice.”

“Can you not?”

He smirks. “Don’t lie to me. Life will be easier if you’re just honest with me.”

“Then don’t lie to me either. If you’re going to hurt me, then just tell me so I don’t have to worry about it.”

He stops us in the middle of the dance floor. His hands tightens on my waist, and a flood of heat moves through my body. It’s sudden and intense, and I don’t fully understand it.“I’m not a good man, Anya. I won’t deny that. In fact, I love hurting people. But if you’re a good girl, I won’t hurt you.”

A shiver runs down my spine, and my breath comes out in a fast pant. My vision turns black at the edges for a moment before clearing.

“And if I’m not a good girl?”

He places his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up toward his. “Then I’ll have to put you in your place.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. “You really are beautiful. You blush so easily. I like that. It gives me a sign of what you’re really thinking.”

“What does it tell you?”

“That you’re not telling me the full truth. Don’t lie to me, Anya. I don’t appreciate liars.”

My arms go limp as he continues to hold me. All the fight leaves my body. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His eyes narrow.

The doors to the ballroom open up, and shock whispers go through the crowd. It forces Erik’s gaze away from me as he turns to look.

After a beat, I do the same.

A man has entered the ballroom. Not anyone I know. He looks to be around Erik’s age—in his thirties—with black hair and a wicked grin. His skin is tanner than a lot of the other peoples’ skin in the room. Russians aren’t known for their super tan skin.

Which means this man probably isn’t Russian.

“Dante,” Erik says in a clipped voice.

Definitely not Russian. Dante is an Italian name.

“Erik,” he replies, stepping right onto the dance floor and approaching us. “Is this your new wife?”

Erik lets me go and places himself between Dante and me. Interesting. “Clearly. Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to wish you congratulations.”

“At my wedding? You weren’t invited.”

“I didn’t feel like I needed to be.”

“Leave,” Erik practically growls. “I don’t want a filthy Italian like you at my wedding.”

“You think I’m filthy? I could say the same about you Russians. Do you ever take showers?”

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