Having been acquainted with her personality, I have no doubt she’ll bolt at the first sign of darkness.
She didn’t run from your fucked-up side yesterday. Or the time before that.
I ignore that small voice and mutter, “There’s no need to.”
“Uh, no. That’s not up to you to decide. Although I’m not sure what we are exactly, I am sure we’re something, and the rules say we have to open up to each other. So you might want to tell me or I’ll bug you.”
I raise a brow. “You’ll bug me, huh?”
“To death, mister. You can count on it. I’m nothing short of persistent. In fact, persistent should probably be my middle name.
“Pretty sure it should be brat,” I grumble. She grins and I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. I like that you have a sense of humor, as dry as it is.”
“Did you just call me dry, brat?”
She slaps a hand to her chest in pure mock reaction. “Did you just call me a brat?”
“Watch it or I might start counting.”
She purses her lips, and a slight jerk lifts her shoulders. At least the promise of pain has an effect on her.
For now.
I take a sip of water and stare at the buildings in the distance. “There was a time in my childhood when I nearly starved to death. Ever since then, it’s always felt as if there’s a black hole in my stomach that can’t be filled or satiated, so whenever there’s food, I have this need to just…consume it all.”
Her hold weakens around her fork and she stares at me with puppy eyes.
Innocent eyes.
That I’m tempted to fill with tears all over again.
“Are your parents aware of this?”
“They saved me from that eternal starvation.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t pity me or this will be the last time I share anything with you.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I had no business pitying you, and I didn’t really mean to. Empathizing just comes naturally to me. But I swear to Tchaikovsky, I won’t do it again.”
I have known a lot of people. Some are secretive as fuck, others are fake, some are real, but all of them, without a doubt, hide a piece of themselves.
Annika is the only one who’s been this upfront about herself. What you see is literally what you get—most of the time.
I have a feeling that I can pull out the darkness lurking beneath the surface if I dig deeper and tug harder.
The fact remains, she’s the only one who’d admit to doing wrong without bothering to offer excuses.
And I might like that a bit too much.
She pushes the third dish, pasta, in front of me.
I take it, swallow a salty-as-fuck bite, then lean back on a hand with the plate on my lap. “What’s with you and Tchaikovsky?”
She beams, her face brightening as if she’s meeting her idol. “He’s my god. You know how people worship Jesus, Allah, and Buddha? I listen to Tchaikovsky’s ballets, concertos, and symphonies. They give me the same spirituality that religions strive for. It started when I was maybe four and Mom took me to my first ballet. I legit cried watching Swan Lake and got lost in Tchaikovsky’s brilliance. As soon as we got home, I told her, ‘We need to talk, Mom. I decided that I’m totally gonna be a swan when I grow up, so convince Papa and make it happen. Pretty please.’”
I glide my fork on the plate without eating. It’s not that I hate the saltiness so much, but her storytelling in that soft, energetic voice is more entertaining than food.
That’s a first.
“I assume she did make it happen?” I ask for no other reason than to keep her talking.
“At the beginning? She was totally against it. So, the thing is, and I found out more about this as I grew up from Mom’s favorite guard and best friend, Yan—he happens to be Papa’s least fave, by the way, because Papa can be petty and jealous. Anyway, Mom was like an iconic prima ballerina in the New York City Ballet, but her career ended abruptly. After that, she kind of hated the whole scene and only began coming to terms with her career ending when I was young, which is why she took me to that show in the first place. She has friends there—big-name directors, choreographers, and ballerinas. Still, she didn’t want me to experience that life. So instead of helping me convince Papa, he had to be the one to convince her. Shocker, I know. Couldn’t believe it myself. In the end, it all worked out and she agreed to let me start taking classes a few months after my first trip to ballet.” She sighs and sips on her juice. “I was so sure I wanted to be a ballerina. I even managed to get into several shows in high school and did so well, but Mom convinced me to try college for a year, study art from an academic perspective and see if maybe I like it better than ballet. I agreed more for the adventure than anything, and the chance to leave Papa’s watchful gaze, even temporarily. I’m not sure which one I like the best. I’ll just decide at the end of the year.” She lifts her head, eyes widening. “Sorry about that. I got carried away, I guess.”
“About what?”
“You…won’t say I talk too much?”
“You do talk too much.”
“Oh.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Oh.” This one comes with a grin. “But, you know, I feel like I talk too much around you because you talk too little. Someone has to fill the silence.”
“Why does it have to be filled?”
“Isn’t it human nature to socialize and form connections?”
“Not all humans are the same.”
“That’s true. I didn’t realize your type existed before.”
“My type?”
“Looks like a prince and has the tastes of the devil. Totally caught me off guard and blindsided the hell out of me.”
My lips tilt in a smirk. “The tastes of the devil, huh?”
“Duh, have you seen your face when you inflict pain—wait a minute, are you smiling?” She pulls out her phone and snaps what seems like a thousand pictures, long after I return to my blank face.
Still, she grins, looking pleased with her accomplishment as she scrolls through her phone.
I shift in my place to ease the sudden thickening beneath my belt. “You said you hate the pain. Is that still the case?”
“Totally. Who wants to be in pain?” She’s still focused on her phone.
My jaw clenches and I tighten my hold on the container. I thought she’d come around if I took it easy on her at the beginning, but maybe I’m wasting my time with someone who’ll only want vanilla.
But I couldn’t have mistaken her tastes.
Annika has an inner submissive that peeks out now and again, especially when she’s not paying attention.
“Part of my devil’s taste is that I can only feel pleasure if I inflict pain.”
“Don’t I know it.” She shakes her head in mock reaction. “I’m still sore from yesterday’s stupid punishment.”
“Look at me.”
“One sec.”
I reach out, grab her phone, and fling it from her hold. “When I say to look at me, you look at me.”
She swallows thickly and a red hue creeps up her cheeks. I want to lick that blush, gnaw at it, grind it between my teeth.
I lift her chin with my index and middle fingers so that I’m the center of her attention. “If you think this is a temporary game or experimenting, then you have no fucking clue what you’re dealing with, little purple. I’ll eat your life up for breakfast and leave no leftovers for anyone to pick at. When I order you to do something, you don’t question it, you don’t give me attitude, and you certainly don’t be a brat about it. Is that clear?”
Her lips tremble before she purses them together.
“Where’s your answer?”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about in a ‘yes, I understand’ reply.”
“Nope, I’m not going to agree with everything you say. That’s not how relationships work. There’s give and take and all that stuff. You can google it.”
“Annika.”
She beams even as the tremble remains. “What, Creighton?”
“You’re pushing it.”
“And you’re being oppressive. I’m cool with your dominance in sex, and even with the pain, because it brings pleasure, too, but you’re simply not going to dictate my life or make me live it according to your rules. That’s like Papa and Jeremy 2.0 and I’m not a fan.”
I release her jaw and push back. “That’s one.”
“You can’t possibly be serious?”
“Two.”
“Oh, come on. I can’t express my opinion?”
“Not when you’re defying me, no. Three.”
“Stop counting, damn you.”
“Not if you don’t stop talking. Four.”
“You—”
“Five.”
She opens her lips to say something but promptly seals them shut and glares at me with her arms crossed over her chest.
Seems that I found the perfect method to make her keep her mouth shut.
I finish my meal in silence while she stabs her salad over and over yet barely eats anything. I suppress a smile.
Only Annika would try to make noise, even if solely through her actions.
She opens her mouth a few times, then upon remembering that she’ll add to her punishments, she seals it shut and groans softly.
I watch her struggle for a few minutes, loving the sight a bit too much, before I finally speak, “You have something to say?”
“I hate you right now.”
My jaw clenches. “Six. Next time, think before you speak.”
“I still hate you. I can’t believe I sacrificed my freedom for you last week.”
“Seven.” I tilt my head. “And what do you mean, you sacrificed your freedom?”
“Did you really think Kill, Niko, and Gaz let you leave out of the goodness of their hearts?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t use nicknames. They have names.”
“Oh, please. Besides, that’s not the point. It’s that they thought you burned the mansion, and you were the most likely candidate, too, considering your closeness with the Elites, so to deflect the blame, I told them you were with me all night long. Naturally, Jeremy found out and put me on house and campus arrest.”
I place the utensils and the container on the ground. When I woke up back at the Elites’ mansion, Remi was being hyper, calling me his favorite spawn and asking me not to worry him anymore.