Page 16 of Torn Souls

Fuck me. The last thing I need is for my father to feel like I’m disrespecting Kirill Volkov. Not with what he’s expecting of me.

Kirill clears his throat, and I swear there’s a hint of amusement in his voice as he points toward the last man who is sitting closest to my father as if shielding the other men from him. It’s almost laughable because while my father may be cruel and he has no problem putting his hands on me, he would cower instead of violently confront when it comes to these men.

“That is Baker Dalton,” Kirill offers without further explanation.

There is something rougher about Baker. There is an edge to him, something razor sharp with a side of feral intentions. His hair is shaved and he’s clean shaven. His body is the most muscular of the group, his muscles straining against the fabric wrapped around him.

Baker’s eyes are hazel, almost the color of whiskey. His jaw is clenched, but something softens in his gaze when I meet his eyes. Everything about him screams danger, but there’s something else there too. I can’t put my finger on it at all, but I desperately want to find out.

His arms look like they would feel strong and secure while wrapped around me. My soul yearns for that feeling. That feeling of safety is not something I’ve ever experienced before.

My body is buzzing, but I force myself to focus, taking in everything around me even though I don’t look at the men directly again.

“Gentlemen, it’s nice meeting you,” my father tries to sound magnanimous.

Before he can say anything else, the man who led us into this room slides back inside along with another person carrying a tray. The man doesn’t seem like just a server, but what do I know? If he introduced himself, I didn’t catch it. I was far too nervous to retain the information anyway.

He places a small plate in front of each person, starting with Kirill and working his way through the men he brought along before placing it in front of me then my father last. I almost suck in a breath of surprise, but I simply hold still knowing I’ll pay for the slight later.

As we eat, the men pull my father’s attention. The conversation is stilted and barely touches the surface. I’m not sure I’ve ever been witness to a more awkward conversation.

My father barely acknowledges anyone other than Kirill. If it annoys the other men, they don’t let on. I’m not even sure what to do other than nibble at the food, keep my eyes down, and not say a single fucking word.

The longer I’m silent, knowing it’s what my father wants, the more the resentment for him, which I’ve harbored in my heart for a really long fucking time, grows. I might not say anything, but I can feel eyes on me throughout every course delivered to us.

At least the food is delicious. It’s the only saving grace I’m able to find.

The longer the obvious elephant in the room, my presence which is linked to what my father is after in the first place, is ignored, the higher the tension rises. I can feel the calculation coming from my father. He’s looking for the perfect time to offer me up like a plaything for the rich and powerful.

It’s not until coffee is served and the last of the plates have been cleared away that Kirill and the men with him lean back in their chairs. Something shifts in the air, and I know that this dinner is about to change direction.

Everything I’ve just eaten turns in my stomach, souring at the same time. Kirill flicks his eyes in my direction, but I focus my attention on my father.

“Dinner was delicious,” my father’s voice is oozing like a snake oil salesman. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Yes,” Kirill’s voice is a patient drawl which is at odds with the intensity of his focus, “well, after how many times you’ve requested a meeting, I figured I couldn’t put you off any longer.” His eyes sweep over me and his lip curls slightly, “I hadn’t expected you to have your daughter joining us.”

My father grinds his back molars and it’s clear he’s seconds away from losing it. He’s never done well with disrespect and Kirill’s words are dripping with it.

“I felt like it was important for Oaklynn to be here,” my father insists.

“And,” Kirill challenges him, “why is that?”

After steepling his fingers together, my father leans forward as if he’s about to do Kirill a huge favor. “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he begins magnanimously. “I’m sure you are aware of who I used to work for.” Kirill nods, his eyes narrowedas if he’s trying to figure out my father’s angle. Good luck with that. “It was only business,” my father continues, his tone indulgent and insistent at the same time.

“And now you’d like to do work for me,” Kirill intones, not posing it as a question but a statement of obvious fact.

I have to bite my lip to stop myself from smirking. Kirill has read my father correctly. If it wasn’t my life, freedom, and future hanging in the balance of this conversation, I would find this much more amusing than I already do.

“As a sign of good faith, to show you I’m committed to collaborating with you and building a strong relationship and proving my loyalty, I’d like to offer you my daughter’s hand in marriage.”

His words land like a bomb. No one says anything, hell, no one even breathes for a moment.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and I have to fight them from spilling over my lash line. Even though part of me is shocked at how he just threw the offer out there so casually, I’m not nearly as surprised as I should be.

This isn’t how normal fathers use their daughters, but nothing about Richard Chambers has ever been normal when it comes to being a parent. Why does this still sting? It shouldn’t and I should be immune by now to every way he can hurt me, but the little girl deep in my soul is screaming and thrashing at the injustice and unfairness of it all.

Kirill’s eyes go hard, and I swallow when he notices me watching his reaction. His eyes race between mine, seeing so much in the space of just a few heart beats.

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