If not more.
Knox Van Doren.
That’s his full name. I found it after I ran from the elevator and browsed the higher employees in Weaver & Shaw and googled them. Sure enough, his name was there, with the junior partners.
And I might have researched him all night long. He comes from a mega rich family in England. His father owns an empire that’s recognized on the international scale and knows tremendous growth.
Not only that, but Knox also gained a reputation in the American press because of his antics and charming side. In the law circuit, he’s known to be a cunning devil in disguise who’s super picky on which clients to accept.
Those who are lucky to be represented by Van Doren might as well have acquired their “get out of jail free card.” Is what one of the magazines wrote about him.
I read countless articles about him and each one painted him in a more sinister light than the previous one.
What? A girl has to look out for herself.
The fact that Knox knows my real name and keeps repeating it and suspecting me is dangerous. Not only that, but it could ruin everything I’ve worked for. My new beginning.
My freedom.
Babushka’s life.
And desperate times call for desperate measures. Which is why I suggested that he have me.
Or that’s what I tell myself as I get incinerated by his presence. There’s something about it, about being so close to him that our breathing mingles together and I’m trapped by his size and his broad shoulders and those golden, intense eyes that could have been created from the combination of a forest and fire.
Or maybe a forest on fire.
There’s something about being so far beyond my comfort zone that it feels both foreign and exciting.
Delirious.
Maybe even addicting.
And like any addict, I can’t help sniffing in more, breathing in more.
Just taking in more.
“You,” he repeats slowly in that deep voice of his, with that eternal calm that still manages to steal shivers from my soul.
“Yeah, me.” It’s less confident now, betraying all the chipped things inside me.
His index and middle finger sneak beneath my chin and lift. The act is so minimal, but he might as well have doused me with gasoline and set me on fire. A touch. It’s a mere touch, so why the hell does it feel like a whole experience?
“What makes you think I want you?”
The sting of his words burns and jostles one of the broken pieces in my chest, but I grab on to my confidence with bloodstained fingers. “You did two weeks ago.”
“That was before I knew you were a liar.”
“What does that matter when I’m offering myself?”
“You were a good fuck, Anastasia, but not good enough to go against my principles for. I don’t do liars. So you’ll have to give me something first.”
“Forget it then. My offer is off the table.”
His lips curve in a cruel smirk. “I’ll be the one to decide that, and believe me, when I figure out who you are and what you’re after, you’ll be well and truly fucked. Hold on to these little lies while you can.”
He releases me with a slight shove and I stumble backward, my thigh hitting the chair.
“Oh.” He stops at the entrance and turns to face me. “Don’t even think about leaving or I’ll make this personal.”
Then he’s out the door.
I slide onto the chair, my nails digging into my palms and my heart nearly hitting the floor.
He’ll make this personal? Personal? Then what has he been doing ever since he saw me in the elevator? Making it impersonal?
Just what type of man did I get involved with?
Even my desperate attempt of offering myself has failed. How the hell am I supposed to keep myself and Babushka alive now?
*
“How are you, my little bunny?”
I clench the phone in my hands and resist the urge to bawl my eyes out, to tell her everything is not fine, that it won’t be anymore.
That I could be in danger and so will she.
Instead, I force a smile, straighten my spine, and stare out the window at the gigantic buildings of NYC. Then I speak in Russian since her English is rusty, “I’m fine, Babushka. How are you? Are they treating you well in the clinic?”
“Of course. The nurses are so nice and the food is exquisite. Not as good as your momma’s, but it’s close enough. How is she? Did she leave that lowlife yet?”
This time, I can’t help the tears that gather in my lids. Babushka isn’t my blood-related grandmother, but she practically raised me when I was young. She hid me in her house whenever Mom told me to run. The reason I traveled through the forest was to reach her place.