Page 42 of Nine Months to Love
“It means there are other ways to handle threats.”
“Stefan—”
“That’s my offer, Olivia. Take it or leave it.”
I pull my hand away. “You know, your mother said something interesting. That there might be more to your story than you know. More to what happened with your father.”
His face transforms, rage flooding his features. “You look and sound like Olivia, but I’m starting to think it’s Natalia talking.”
“Or maybe I’m just trying to understand?—”
“There’s nothing to understand. She’s poison, and she’s poisoning you against me.”
“No one’s poisoning me against you, Stefan. You’re doing that all by yourself.”
He steps back like I’ve slapped him. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you’re so consumed with revenge that you can’t see straight. And I think you’re keeping secrets that are going to destroy us.”
“Some secrets are meant to be kept.”
“Not from me. Not if you want this to work.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, that calculating look in his eyes. “We still have dinner tonight.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t.”
“We need to have this conversation, Olivia. Unless you prefer to remain blissfully ignorant?”
The condescension in his tone makes me see red. “Get out.”
“Olivia—”
“Get. Out.”
He heads for the door, then pauses. “I’ll send the maid up with a proper breakfast. Real food, not crackers.”
“I don’t want?—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want. You need to eat.” He opens the door. “Seven o’clock tonight. Wear something nice.”
The door closes with a decisive click.
I sink onto the bed, my whole body shaking. The worst part—the absolute worst part—is that even now, even when he’s at his worst, I still want him. Still crave his hands on me, his mouth, his body pressing me into the mattress until I can’t think about anything but him.
I’m definitely getting that tattoo.Idiot.
But first, I need to find out who’s in that basement.
I wait an hour, then slip out of my room. The hallway is empty, pale sunlight leaking through tall windows. My bare feet are silent on the thick carpet as I make my way toward the main staircase.
The basement door is exactly where I remember—just off the main foyer, a burnished bronze facade that looks more like art than an entrance. Ornate little studs run along its edges. I try the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
“Looking for something, dear?”
