The Devil's Beauty (Crime Lord Interconnected Standalone Book 2) (8 page)

Later, when she wasn’t floating on a sea of memories, lost in her own ocean of lust and hunger, she would kick herself for not being smarter, for allowing him to simply waltz back into her life after the pain he’d caused as though nothing had happened. What was worse, she knew, even then through the haze of alcohol, that if he kissed her, she’d let him. Hell, she’d let him do more than simply kiss her. And she hated herself for it, hated her body for being so weak. She wasn’t the sort of woman who allowed herself to be played by a man. She’d walked away from plenty of relationships without any emotional connections at all and hadn’t thought back on them at all. But his … that single year of being lost in his arms, captivated by his kisses, lulled by the sweet whispers of his promises, had broken her. She couldn’t butter toast without thinking of their mornings together. She couldn’t tie her shoes without remembering the nights he’d help her crawl out her window to watch the sun come up. She couldn’t brush her hair without feeling her scalp prickle as though his hands were still there, wrapped in the strands, tugging back her face. She should hate him.

“Myshka.”

The familiar whisper of his pet name punched her in the throat, but it was nothing compared to the brush of his fingers swiping away the tears she hadn’t known she’d been shedding.

“You can’t call me that anymore.” Her voice choked on the words. “You gave up that right.”

There was pain twisting the corners of his mouth, flickering in his eyes, but he kept her unfocused gaze.

“You’ll always be…” he broke off, maybe realizing what he was about to say.

The elevator doors opened and a group of women scampered out. The door shut and the ascension continued.

“Why are you here?” she asked again, briefly wondering if the rollercoaster of emotions would ever stop.

For a long moment, he said nothing. He glanced at the climbing numbers above the door, possibly bidding his time. It didn’t even clue in how he knew what room she was in or how he’d been able to talk the front desk into giving him a key, or why he had a key to begin with. These were things she should have asked, probably would have, if she hadn’t been struggling to stay awake.

“We need to talk,” she heard him say faintly.

She started to tell him there was no point, that odds were she wouldn’t remember any of it and anything she said in her state of intoxication couldn’t be taken seriously, but her empty stomach had begun to show signs of her bad choices. The elevator didn’t help. The perpetual rise and jerking stop was beginning to remind her why she didn’t normally drink to access.

“I need to sit,” she blurted, already starting to sink to the floor of the lift, hoping the distance between her and the ground meant she wouldn’t get her shoes when it all finally came up.

She couldn’t have been down there very long before Dimitri’s fingers were pulling her up. She tried to warn him jostling her was a bad idea, but he’d already hoisted her up into his arms and was marching with her out of the torture box. The restricted bundle of recycled air tinged with sweat, body odor, perfume, and cleaner faded into a new impression of scents her insides were not finding comforting. She squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself not to give in.

It was a wonder when she found herself in a bathroom, being forced down on her knees in front of a toilet. She had a split second to be amazed before it was game over.

Her hair was scooped up and back from her face as the handful of chips she’d forced down hours earlier made a reappearance. The rest was purely alcohol and stomach lining.

Spit, tears, and sweat were mopped from her face with a damp cloth. She was pulled up to her feet when it was all over and guided into the next room.

“I’m never drinking again,” she vowed to herself as she was pushed down onto the edge of the stiff mattress.

He said nothing, but he helped her strip and change into a clean t-shirt that didn’t smell of vomit and booze. The whole time, his expression remained firmly set, as though he weren’t even there mentally taking off her clothes, seeing her naked. She would have been hurt if she hadn’t been exhausted.

She was tucked beneath the sheets and left there. She had no idea where he went. He might have stayed. But the world faded to black the moment her head touched the pillow.

It was closing on one when she made a groggy roll out of bed. The sheets tangled around her ankles, tipping her sideways into the nightstand. She barely caught herself as the lamp rattled. Something clinked and cold liquid trickled down her naked thigh.

“What…?”

The lampshade took the back of her hand before she fumbled under for the switch. Despite being prepared, the explosion of light punched her in the eyes with a violence that nearly sent her backwards. Her tearing eyes immediately slammed shut as she made a series of whimpering sounds.

There was a glass of water on the table when she mustered the courage to face the light again, sitting in a small puddle she’d caused. Next to it sat two aspirins and her blinking cellphone. On the floor, inches from her foot, was a trash bin. All things she had no memory of setting there.

Ava straightened, mind grappling with the fragmented pieces she could remember from the night before. There was the convention, the growls of her stomach as she waited for each panel to end so she could eat. Then finding her way into the hotel bar. The rest was a series of burns as the alcohol had ripped up her empty insides going down.

“Christ.”

One hand braced against her brow, a pitiful attempt to keep her brain from rattling against the inside of her skull, she shuffled in the general direction of the bathroom. Her big toe snagged on the carpet and she yelped a curse, but somehow, she made it into the cramped bit of space that smelled of her shampoo and sickness.

Disgusted with herself, she left the lights off as she did her business. No amount of preparation could prepare her for the stabbing pain of lights. If she fell into the toilet … it was a risk she was willing to take.

Pleased when she made it out unscathed, Ava retraced her steps back into the other room. She’d made it all the way to the bed before she realized she wasn’t alone.

The figure sat just in the corner of the room, on the other side of the desk, bathed in a thick puddle of darkness where the lamp’s light didn’t extend. She only realized it was there because it moved, a subtle shift that scared the ever loving fuck straight out of her.

Ava screamed.

The figure jolted.

She screamed louder, spun on her heels and bolted back into the bathroom. The door slammed behind her and she snapped the lock into place.

Then she was standing in absolute darkness, in a silence that kept getting punctured by her panting, by the thundering of her heart, and her low gasps of,
what the fuck, what the fuck.
Had she gone into someone else’s hotel room the night before? Where the fuck was she? Oh God, she was naked in someone’s shirt.

Mind in a frantic tailspin, she lunged for the light switch. Her brain melted in her skull, but she snapped it on and peered down at herself.

Her shirt. Thank you, God, it was her shirt.

Exhaling, she slumped against the counter.

But the relief was short lived as she remembered why she was locked up in the bathroom. She wondered who she’d brought back with her from the bar. The bartender? She had a vague recollection of thinking he was hot.

In no way pacified by her newfound logic, Ava hurried to the door and smacked it several times, making her palm sting.

“Hey! You!” she shouted through the crack. “Get out.”

She pressed her ear to the cool surface and waited for a response.

It came in the form of shuffling, the distinct amble of a man. It stopped just on the other side.

“It’s me,” came the response.

Ava squinted. “Me who? I’m warning you, I’ve got razors in here.”

She glanced at the counter with a confidence that shattered when she realized her things weren’t there. All her products were missing.

“Where are my things?”

There was a short silence, then, “In my car.”

Ava blinked. It surprised her that she was surprised by his honesty. Then she was just pissed.

“Are you kidding me? What on earth are you planning to do with deep pore cleaning solution and tampons? Doesn’t matter. I can take you down with a plunger.”

There was no plunger. What kind of hotel didn’t have a fucking plunger? Unless that too was in his car.

“Ava, it’s me,” the voice said again, louder.

“I don’t care,” she shot back. “Bring back my things, you lunatic!”

Her companion sighed heavily. “Dimitri.”

Of all the crazy people she expected—and it stunned her just how long that list was—he was the last person she ever expected to steal her tampons, or wind up in her hotel room.

She was wrenching open the door even before the little voice could warn her not to. The light from the bathroom spilled down his front in a warm, yellow glow. It illuminated his eyes, the thickness of his hair pulled back in a small ponytail at the base of his skull, the fact that he was topless. The latter distracted her a split second longer than was appropriate.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. Then she noticed the stain seeping through the bandage plastered to his shoulder. “Your stitches!”

He waved her concern aside. “They’re fine.”

“It’s bleeding,” she argued, reaching.

“I already checked. It’s fine.”

Taking his word for it, she speared her hips with her bunched fists. “What are you doing here, in my hotel room, stealing my things?”

“I figured you would need them.”

Ava nodded slowly. “Yes, I do need them. That’s why I brought them.”

He said nothing. Instead, he took a step back and was immediately swallowed by the shadows. His seamless merging with the darkness sent a shiver along her spine.

“Get dressed.”

Not expecting that at all, it took a full minute for her brain to notice the bundle of neatly folded clothes he held out to her.

“What…?”

He set the items in her hands, pivoted on his heels and stalked into the next room.

She followed him, her jeans and a t-shirt gripped to her chest. She snapped on the overhead lights to see him better.

“What is this?”

“Clothes,” he supplied helpfully, reaching for his t-shirt that lay draped over the back of a chair by the round table in the corner.

“Yes, I have the brain power to deduce that. Thanks. But why are you giving them to me?” She peeked around the room. “Where’s my suitcase?”

“In the car.”

“Why are my things in your bloody car, Dimitri?” Her voice rose with her building panic.

Shirt tugged properly over the waistband of his black jeans, he turned to her. “Because I’m taking you hostage.”

There were many responses she had expected, everything from bed bugs to a fire, but being taken hostage was not one of them. The fact that it was said with a deadpan expression and an unwavering stare only made it harder to laugh like she wanted to.

“Are you serious?” Then a more plausible reasoning came to her and she frowned. “Is this your way of apologizing for what you did? To swoop in here and carry me off to some exotic island for a romantic one on one getaway, because this is horribly prepared. I’m not ready for an island. I haven’t packed anything I would need, and I’m not even sure I want to forgive you, never mind go anywhere with you.”

He prolonged his response by taking up his coat next. He shook the material out and shrugged it on.

“Get dressed.”

“No!” She dumped the bundle down on the tussled bed and folded her arms. “Not until you tell me—”

“Either get dressed or I will take you out of here like that.”

Her jaw unhinged. Her eyes widened in disbelief. He was serious.

“Then I’ll scream and wake the whole damn hotel,” she countered hotly.

He tugged down the collar of his coat with a sharpness that made the leather snap. Annoyance flickered in his golden eyes, but she didn’t care. How had he expected this to go? That she would just go along with him?

He drew in a breath. It was slow and even, like he was trying to calm himself. She thought maybe he would finally see sense.