Page 37 of Surrender

I just know he doesn't feel the same about me.

And that thought pops the bubble that was in my chest.

But instead of letting me shrink, he laces his fingers through mine and squeezes my hand. A silent reassurance. Of what, I'm not sure, but it feels incredible to hold his hand. Like I mean something to him. Like I mean something to anyone. Like I matter.

Chapter twenty-one

Serenity

Aweek later, I'm in The Envelope's kitchen, cutting up limes for Benji. It's towards that part of the evening when the members tend to migrate from the Green Room to the Red Room or any of the private rooms, so my tables have lightened up dramatically. I'm alone as the food service stopped an hour ago. Mindy shut down her bar and moved into the Red Room to serve but Benji wanted to make sure his station was still stocked, just in case.

We still haven't heard anything from my parents, or the police officer Johnson, and the not knowing has my anxiety flaring up. I'm jumpier than I had been before the police station, and I'm trying to give Declan plenty of space. I hate being a burden to him, and I hate the idea that my ADHD and anxiety are putting him out. He's already done so much for me.

In fact, tonight my anxiety means my heart is racing and my hands are shaking so badly that the knife slips off of the lime and slices into my finger, causing me to curse and shove it in my mouth. The coppery tang of blood immediately hits my tongue.

"You should be more careful with yourself, Zaya," a deep voice calls from the door to my left. I startle and spin around to face him. Unfortunately, my elbow swings wide and knocks the knife to the floor and look between it and Mr. Volkov.

I want to reach for it and hold onto it for my own safety, but would that be offensive to a client? But then, I am a girl, alone in a kitchen with a man easily three times my size. I look up at Mr. Voklov again, eyes wide. If he moves, I can lunge for it.

I must be as bad of a liar as Declan said I am, because a broad, wicked smile spreads across his face. "You will not need that with me, little pet." His accent leans heavily on the 't's in his pet name for me and it makes me even more nervous.

He takes a step forward, but I take a step backward. I have a walk-in freezer a few feet behind me, so I don't have very far I can retreat, but I could run to the other side of the work island if I had to.

"Is it the scar? Does it turn you off?" He motions to his face and takes another step forward.

I take it in again and wince. Whatever happened to him I can't imagine how painful it would have been - how long it would have taken to heal. I wonder if it happened back in Russia or in the United States, and which country has better plastic surgeons, because I don't see any marks from the stitches. The skin of your eyelids is so thin. The scar is shiny and not overgrown with scar tissue, so whatever cut him must have been very sharp. I wonder if it was intentional, or an accident. What kind of accident would cause a cut like that? Car accident maybe?

He takes another step towards me, pulling me out of my mental train derailment. "No," I answer honestly. I've seen it so many times over the last few weeks that I've come to ignore it entirely. It was shocking at first, but now I'm used to it.

I take another step backward, hitting the cold metal doors of the walk-in.

"I know most people are scared of me, Zaya, but you do not need to be. If you were mine, you would not have to work here anymore." His icy blue eyes stare into mine and I'm forced to look down onto his cheek. The energy vibrating off of him is intense and does nothing to calm my nerves.

He grips my hand in his and it's now that I remember the cut. I've been slowly dripping blood onto the floor. Before I can react, however, he wraps his lips around my finger and drags his tongue over the wound. It's insanely personal and intimate and sensual.

And I'm completely frozen. There's fight, flight, and fawn, and I'm a deer in the headlights.

He tongues the wound again a time or two until he releases it. He leans over, tears a few paper towels off the roll next to us and wraps it gently around my finger with a care that feels like reverence.

"You could have anything you could ever dream of having. You would not need The Envelope, you would not need Declan, you could live your days like a princess, if you were mine."

I still haven't found my will to move or say anything, so he continues. "Declan's just the first person with money and influence to show you any attention. I could show you so much more." I bristle at the accusation, but he's not entirely wrong. I've never met anyone with wealth and influence before. I never walked in those circles, or was anywhere a rich person would be. Maybe I am looking at everything wrong.

"I'm not afraid of you," I say, and it's the very worst thing I could have said. I absolutely am afraid of him. But not because of the scar like he implied. And why my brain decided that that was the part of this entire interaction that I need to get hung up on, I'll never know. But I can feel the part of me that wants to reassure him I don't hate the scar, and that his looks don't frighten me. I want to kick the people-pleasing part of me. Thisman could do ungodly things to me before anyone would know I was missing and I'm worried about his self-esteem?! What the fuck is wrong with me?

I need to get out of here.

"You will not last long, Zaya. He likes his pretty little virgins, but once his cock is coated with your blood, he will tire of you. He never keeps his subs for more than a few months. Save that blood for me, and I will make it worth your while. I do not tire of pretty little things, like you. I could give you a penthouse, a car, a driver, marriage..." he lets the weight of his words sit between the very few inches of space between us. The entire conversation, his proximity, his words, the cut, the idea that Declan doesn't want me the way I want him has a wave of hot tears pressing against my lower lids.

A shiver wracks through me and the sheer panic to escape makes my muscles ache.

Adrian watches every minute change in me, analyzing me with an intensity I'm not used to. I like hiding. I'm used to blending into the background. I don't like this attention, and he must see he's pushed me too far.

"Just think about it, little rabbit. I could give you everything."

He turns and walks halfway to the door before calling over his shoulder, "And get a bandage for that finger."

I kneel on the floor, light-headed now that I can breathe again. I rip off the paper towel and squeeze my finger, forcing it to bleed again, as if defying him can take back the effect he has on me, or the doubts he's pressed into my brain.

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