Page 50 of Ruthless King
Regardless, Mischa bought her, and despite how impossible it seems to believe…
His Willow could be my Safiya.
After seven years, the tables have finally turned. With Mischa on her side, my girl has the power to destroy me.
And Hell…I can’t blame her if she did.
17
DON
Nearly three hours pass before I sense the mood in the entire building shift. The place falls silent as if someone flipped a switch. Any chatter drifting from the hallway dies instantly. Hell, no one so much as coughs.
Footsteps approach next, and Fabio opens the door, followed by another man who needs no introduction.
Mischa Stepanov has been a boogeyman for so damn long that meeting him in person, I’m struck by the fact that he is just another man. A tall one, his blond hair hanging loose around his shoulders, his dark eyes cold.
He wears a pair of faded green combat fatigues, eschewing the suit and tie dress code Fabio insisted on. With a sweep of his gaze, he sizes me up without extending his hand in a customary greeting.
“Pakhan,” I say, rising to my feet. Hands in my pockets, I don’t know what to do other than incline my head in respect. “Thank you for meeting me like this—”
“The only reason my boot isn’t on your throat is because my daughter asked me not to kill you,” he says, his accent so thick the pronunciation gives his words an ominous twist.
I grit my teeth just to trap a stupid question in my throat where it belongs.Did she ask verbally?That alone would disprove the theory of her being Safiya.
And assuage my guilt.
I still can’t reconcile the obvious. The way she reacted to the girl’s name. The mere fact that she seemed very intent on driving a knife through my chest. No other reason fits unless I drunkenly laid with the man’s daughter at some party within the past year—and given that she’s been supposedly sequestered at a prestigious conservatory, I doubt that.
Not to mention I know for a fact she’s a virgin.
“I figured you would be begging by now,” Mischa remarks with a scoff. He takes a step, and Fabio lurches as if he means to throw himself between us.
“Shall we sit?” he asks, ever the stickler for protocol. “Please, allow me to—”
“On your knees,” Mischa says over him, his gaze boring into mine. “Rushing to explain why my daughter was found on your fucking property. Naked. Alone. Covered in blood.”
Fabio cringes at the mental image. So do I.
“It was my blood,” I clarify, swiping my finger across my cheek. Days later, the scratch left bytigrehas scabbed over into a thin, scarlet slash. “She attacked me.” Though I don’t have a right to be fucking defensive. Given how Fabio glances at me sharply, I suspect he’s thinking along the same lines. “What happened was a misunderstanding,” I add more softly. “I didn’t touch her.”
Mischa’s eyes narrow, but devoid from them is the rage I figure most fathers would show if they truly believed another man violated their daughter.
“You know that,” I suspect out loud. “I didn’t force myself on her.”
“We both know that there are other ways to force yourself on a woman other than with your cock,” he growls, his upper lip curling from his teeth. “If that is your excuse, I’m unimpressed. And I heard that you were supposed to be the wordsmith.”
It’s a low blow—a dig to my past that dredges up old memories. Like the creative ways I used to describe the many methods I might use to kill a man.
Before enacting them out one by one.
To his face.
With Fabio in the corner of my eye, it’s easier than expected to choke down the insult and keep calm. “There isn’t a poetic way to describe one’s innocence,” I say. “Maybe you should question why your daughter came into my room alone?”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
He starts forward, his hands in fists, a muscle in his jaw prominent. “Are you implying what I think you are?”
