Page 38 of Violent Possession
I think about answering, but nothing I say will top what’s already on the table. The bastard won the round.
Satisfied with my silence, Alexei’s smile widens slightly.
“Answering your question, I want nothing, for now.” His hand slides into the inner pocket of his jacket with rehearsed fluidity. He pulls out a single key, holding it by the rings of a simple black leather keychain.
He dangles it once, his eyes fixed on mine, and then, without warning, throws it in my direction.
It’s a good throw, especially for someone who doesn’t seem to have broken a sweat in his entire existence. My hand goes up and catches the key in the air. Clearly expensive.
“And what’s this?”
“Your apartment. Two floors down, furnished and secure. Under my surveillance.”
So casual it’s indecent.
“What if I don’t want it?”
“And what’s your alternative? Go back to basement fights for two hundred dollars a night, hoping the next man in my family who tries to kill you has better luck than the last?”
A reality he himself created.
He turns to the mirrored bar in the corner of the room. Confidence, perhaps arrogance. He gives me space to decide, to create the illusion of choice.
Alexei takes out two crystal glasses and a translucent bottle of vodka, a label I’ve never seen in any market. He pours half a shot into each glass and swirls the liquid before looking at me again.
“I am offering you protection, comfort, and purpose, Griffin. Take the key.”
He slides one of the glasses towards me, as if sealing the deal.
I could simply turn my back, throw the key in the trash, and run to the ends of the earth, but I know it would only be a matter of time until he found me.
This is an excuse.
A part of me wants to see how far I can push myself before being destroyed.
I hold the glass. The vodka is cold enough to numb my tongue. I swallow it whole, and Alexei replicates the gesture, his eyes never leaving mine.
When he speaks again, it’s in a lower voice.
“No one will touch you there. Not even me. Not without your consent.”
There’s no way he’s serious. He plants the image in my head on purpose: him,touchingme. And then he offers me the illusion that I would have a choice.
He sits on the edge of the table, arms uncrossed and an open posture like someone who has already decided the opponent’s fate and can now enjoy the company.
“Have you ever met anyone like you, Griffin?”
“What?”
He just tilts his head.
What kind of question is that? I think of all the creatures who crossed my path, boxing trainers, gang members, brothel madams, and prostitutes. Men and women patching pieces of themselves together.
“No.”
He smiles. “Neither have I.”
Alexei pours another round.
