Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I grabbed my water glass, watching as it shook a little in my hand as I brought it to my lips to buy myself time. The cool liquid did nothing to extinguish the fire burning inside me.
Jesus, did everyone shake like this around him?
The truth was the best option, or at least a version of it. Another lesson from Dima. To keep your lies straight, and believable, they should be as close to the truth as possible.
"One of my professors has been less than professional and it's making my life increasingly difficult." I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip, not meeting his eyes.
"Less than professional how?" His question a growl that stood the hair on the back of my neck up.
"Not like that," I said, as I reached across the table to touch his hand.
My fingers brushed against his knuckles, feeling the hard ridges there, wondering how many bones they had broken.
The gesture was very similar to the way I used to watch my mother calm my father with just a simple touch to assure him she was there, and it was fine.
"Then how?" The edge in his tone softened, but was still very much there, a blade sheathed in velvet.
"He asked me a question that wasn't part of the reading and when I didn't know the answer, he laid into me. It's fine. It's not the first time it’s happened, it's just—"
"That doesn't sound unprofessional. It sounds like he's challenging you?" His thumb brushed over my wrist, feeling my fluttering pulse there.
Artem may not have meant to imply that I wasn't good enough, but that was what it sounded like. The familiar sting of inadequacy burned in my chest.
"He said the only way I got into the school was by sleeping my way into his class." My cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation. "He constantly diminishes me for being a woman, for being a first generation American-Russian, having community college classes, and other things that just—"
"Tell me exactly what he said," Artem said, his face smoothed into a blank mask of control, all except the vein in his neck that bulged and pulsed, a silent testament to his rage.
I messed up.
Worse, he wasn't going to let me get out of this. Artem was going to get his answers one way or another and it was going to be far easier for me to just give them to him. Because I wanted to know more about how he knew Dima.
So I told him the truth. I told him every horrible thing that the professor had said to me. Leaving out that it was prompted by my distracting thoughts of him, by the memory of his hands gripping my hips, his mouth leaving marks on my skin.
"He's never touched me," I said. "He's just a dick that likes to put down students he sees as beneath him to feel good about himself. He's a bully and an asshole, and after the semester ends, I'm never going to see him again."
I waved it away like it was no problem at all and just a minor inconvenience, though the professor's words still stung like salt in an open wound.
Artem didn't see it that way.
Anger radiated off of him like heat from a furnace. His face was still completely neutral, but there was something in his eyes that was terrifying.
A darkness.
A promise of violence that had my stomach clenching with both fear and, shamefully, excitement.
"What's his name?" he asked and immediately I knew how much I had messed up. His fingers tightened around mine, not painful, but inescapable.
The server came to deliver our food and refill our drinks. She was quick, efficient, and practically ran from our table as quickly as possible, her shoes squeaking against the marble floor.
Part of me wanted to call after her and tell her to take me with her.
Instead, I was stuck. Unless I wanted my professor to get one hell of a beating and know it was my fault, and then regret making everything so much worse, I had to change the subject.
"This looks great. Do you come here often?" I asked, batting my eyelashes, a desperate attempt at distraction. I leaned forward, letting my breasts press against the edge of the table.
Artem didn't move. His face was still an unreadable mask, but his eyes burned with an intensity that scorched me from within. His jaw clenched, a muscle there twitching beneath taut skin.
"I asked you a question, Viktoria. We've been over this." His voice was a deadly whisper. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer."
So much for that.
He stared at me unblinkingly and for a moment, I met his challenge and stared back.
I kept my expression neutral, but I didn't blink.
He didn't get to win every single argument; he didn't get to solve all of my problems just to make more.