Page 11 of Twisted Pact
But she showed up at the wedding anyway. Walked right into the lion’s den wearing that green dress and looking at me like I was something dangerous she couldn’t quite resist.
I down half the whiskey and set the glass on the table. Pull out my phone and stare at the blank screen. I haven’t heard from her since I left that note in her purse. No angry text telling me to fuck off. No polite message declining my invitation.
Nothing.
I know she has my phone number from our previous encounter. I gave it to her then, in case she changed her mind about marrying me. Which means she’s either thrown the note away or she’s thinking about it. Trying to decide if showing up would be the worst decision of her life.
It probably would be.
But I don’t think it will stop her.
I grab my keys and head back down to the garage. If I’m wrong, I’ll look like an idiot who set up a romantic evening for a woman who never showed.
If I’m right, I’ll finally get answers to the questions that have been eating at me for six months.
The safe house sits in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where no one asks questions about who comes or how long they stay. I bought it three years ago under a shell company. I keep it maintained but mostly empty. Perfect for meetings that need to stay off the books.
Or for seducing stubborn women until they finally admit they want me.
I arrive two hours before midnight and start setting things up. The place needs work. Dust covers everything. Windows haven’t been opened in months. The place smells stale and neglected.
I strip the covers off furniture in the main room and open windows to let the cool night sweep through. Find candles in a drawer and set them on the mantle because the overhead fixture is too bright to set the mood properly.
I pour myself another whiskey and survey my work.Not bad.The candlelight makes it feel less like a safe house and more like somewhere I could talk her into staying.
She still won’t come.
Of course, she won’t. She’s smart and educated and determined to escape this world. Showing up here would be the opposite of everything she claims to want.
But at 11:47, I hear a car pull up outside.
My pulse kicks up despite my best efforts to stay calm. I tell myself it’s one of my men checking locks. A neighbor. Anyone but her.
I stay seated on the couch, glass in hand, and wait. Footsteps on the walkway. A knock on the door.
Definitely not one of my men.
“It’s open,” I call out.
The door opens inward, and Mila steps inside. She’s wearing jeans and a fitted black sweater, and her chestnut hair has been pulled back in a ponytail. Minimal makeup.
And completely unsure of herself.
“You came.” I don’t bother hiding my satisfaction.
“Don’t sound so smug about it.” She closes the door behind her but stays near it. Escape route within reach.
“Why not? I left you a note with no explanation, and you showed up anyway. That’s worth being smug about.”
“I came because I want answers.”
“Sure, you did.”
“I’m serious, Alexei.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What was that yesterday? In the garden. What did you want from me?”
I set my glass down and stand. “You know what I wanted. Your body made that clear.”
“That’s not an answer.”
