Page 17 of The Darkness is Calling

“I have my own car,” she replies, waving the key to a Mercedes AMG GT R in front of my eyes.

“Is it armored?” I ask her calmly.

“No.”

I think she realizes she cannot win this battle.

“Then you will use our car, and Dima will drive.”

“Or he can follow behind me in his car, and I can still enjoy driving without someone taking away the pleasure of being behind the wheel.”

Okay.Calm.

My nerves begin to dance along with the voices that take each one of her replies as a challenge.

“That does not guarantee your safety, Ekaterina.” My tone is heavier, provoked also by the cold shivers snaking along the back of my neck. “Until the day of your wedding, you will follow my rules, which are meant to keep you safe. Once you become your husband’s responsibility, you can negotiate with him as much as you like.”

“And why can’t I negotiate with you?” “Because I don’t negotiate.”

“With terrorists,” she says immediately. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the saying. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“And are you a terrorist?”

She smacks those beautifully shaped lips and lifts one shoulder. “I do enjoy terrorizing people, but I don’t have any murderous tendencies.”

Too bad

.

“Although I can’t guarantee that among the works of art my father sends me for exhibition, there isn’t a bomb meant to destroy a few blocks of London.”

She pauses.

“Sent me.”

I notice the shadow of sadness covering her

beautiful face, and those eyes, which until now have looked at me as if nothing could touch her, lower for a moment, heavy with grief.

I adore terror on people’s faces. I adore pain and agony, especially when I am the one causing it.

But I don’t like her sadness, even though normally it would leave me indifferent.

“So there’s no chance I can drive my car myself? They just brought it,” she adds, pointing one finger toward the door.

“We have a large garage where we can keep it without any problem,” is all I tell her, and that makes her press her lips into a straight line.

Except her lips are full and outlined with a transparent gloss that invites you to follow its shine and wonder if it tastes sweet.

I clench my teeth.

“Dima will give you a tour of the house and show you to your room. You can rest for a few hours before dinner, if you wish. Except for my office, you have access to every public area of the house. We don’t have closed doors, especially on the ground floor.”

“But do you have skeletons in the closets upstairs?”

Again, she catches me off guard with a reply far too direct and bold.