Page 13 of Twisted Hearts

“Eilish, we can sit here with you insulting me by pretending I’m an idiot. Or we cantalklike two adults. Do. They. Fucking.Know.”

I quail under the fierceness of his gaze and the power emanating from him.

“Look, I…I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I amsosorry. I shouldn’t have gone in there.”

“No shit.”

I wince. “It was a stupid hazing thing for this club—”

“I’m well aware.”

There’s a dark violence rippling just beneath the surface. But outwardly, he’s perfectly calm as he sits further back in his chair.

I smile weakly. “Look, I know it’s irreplaceable. But I can pay for it—”

A cold, mirthless laugh rumbles in his chest.

“Oh, I very much doubt that.”

I actually spent an hour last night researching the price of Fabergé eggs. They’re not cheap by any means, but at around forty thousand dollars, which most of them seem to be, it’s doable. It’s going to sting. But I’ve got money in my trust fund.

“No, honestly. I can pay you back. Here…” I twist, reaching over and plucking my bag off the chair next to the one toppled to the ground. I pull out a pen and my checkbook as I turn to smile weakly at the venomously gorgeous and completely terrifying man sitting across from me.

“Let’s settle this, okay?”

Gavan smiles as I open the checkbook to a blank one and pop the cap on my pen.

“If you insist, Ms. Kildare,” he growls with a cruel curl to his lips. “You can make it out to Gavan—that’s two A’s. Tsarenko. T, S—”

“I know how to spell your name.”

“I’m honored.”

I ignore his biting sarcasm as I finish writing out his name before moving my pen to the dreaded “amount” line.

“And the damage?”

I’m ready to write “fifty thousand”, which is ten more than the auction evaluations of most of the Fabergé eggs I saw online, just to smooth things over, when he clears his throat.

“One hundred and twenty-four million dollars.”

My pulse skips. The pen goes still in my hand as my throat closes.

Hold up. Fuckingwhat?

I raise my eyes to his, swallowing. “It’s not worth that much.”

“It is. It was actually recently appraised at one hundred and twenty-four million, five hundred thousand, but I’m feeling fuckingcharitable.”

I stare at him, a horrible whining alarm sound slowly rising in my ears.

“I—no,” I shake my head. “No, Fabergé eggs—”

“KnownFabergé eggs. Yes, they’re cheaper. But what you destroyed last night like a rhinoceros in a fucking cutlery shop was one of thelostFabergé eggs. It’s called the Imperial Shield, and it was commissioned and owned by Tsarina Alexandra. It was lost during the revolution that claimed her and her family’s lives. It belonged to my father,” he adds with a venomous hiss in his tone.

My stomach drops straight to the floor. I blink as my eyes go as dry as my mouth.

“I—”

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