Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Read online

  “You fucking lie!” Oleg hissed. Removing the cigar box in one motion. The scalpel was in between his white-tipped fingers directed at Luka’s jugular in a single second.

  Luka laughed softly, irony singeing the edges as he sighed. “Yes, I killed your father, because he would have rather seen Emily dead than share her. She killed herself because her desire would always be tied to her guilt.” He cocked his chin higher, pressing slightly on the blade, and it produced a thread of red on his wrinkled neck. “So here I am, a dying old man with too many regrets. Why don’t you go ahead and put me out of my misery?”

  In Luka’s eyes, Oleg saw truth, but it didn’t make him want to kill the man any less. Sunlight flooded his face, showing Oleg every scar and wrinkle life as a mob boss had dealt, but the flecks of amber and green in the hazel irises were likely equally as intense now as they’d ever been. Those eyes were full of fury, and yet he remained perfectly still. Those eyes were also undeniably familiar. Oleg backed off, the blade dropping to his side as he tried to banish the revolting thought from his mind.

  Could it be a coincidence that their eyes were exactly the same unique color? Oleg shook his head.

  “I have often wondered the same thing Oleg,” Luka said. “Now that I’ve met you, I’m more convinced than ever.”

  That was all Oleg would stand for. Not another word. He stormed out of the room, taking the stairs three and four at a time. It couldn’t be true. Everything he knew was a twisted lie, covering up an even more twisted reality. Jean Michel awaited him in the valet circle.

  “Home,” he said, though suddenly it seemed the word would never feel like it fit again.

  Chapter 24

  In amazement, Samantha stood in front of the carved full-length mirror and touched the illusion that was her skin transformed. When Paolo said that he would paint her, she had been completely unprepared for the silken dance of his brush strokes igniting every inch of her body. She marveled at the detail of his application, her fingers running delicately over her nose and mouth. Tricks of shadow and contour fooled her to see some kind of otherworldly creature staring back—a lioness with whispers of the woman alive beneath the paint.

  He hadn’t let her see how he recreated her face. That alone had been wicked. He had let her look at the art though, a shameless acknowledgement of his own brilliance putting those dimples of his on full display. In it, Samantha was a pillar of self-awareness, as boldly nude as she had been since arriving, standing straight with her shoulders back, breasts high and proud no matter their small size. She held a leash in her hand, royal blue and striking against a smoky silvered backdrop, its importance not to be missed. The leash in her hand was directed toward the shadow casted over her from an unseen presence, and so too was her gaze. These parts of the painting were well already well-formed, yet the oil paint was still wet. She wondered if he’d been up half the night working on it, and the thought flattered.

  She recalled the work. Newly referenced from her seated position on the floor during the last two hours was the emergence of the imagined creature now before her in the mirror. The creature on the leash was more than a lioness and more than her. It was a perfect blend of both. This was her spirit, exposed and documented. This was her spirit as christened by Oleg. The collar around the lioness’s neck appeared large and sturdy, also royal blue and studded with rows and rows of sparkling studs and a prominent brass buckle. The lioness relaxed on its side in a sated sprawl, languid legs layered one over the other, the dip of a small waist leading to the dramatic incline of a sharp hip. The lioness’s head rested on neatly crossed wrists. It was the position of a well-fed predator at high noon, or perhaps more pertinent, the resting trust of a pampered but dangerous Vegas attraction. Relaxed as the pose might be, the threat was ever present for a sudden turn toward the unexpected. Paolo had asked her to hold her wrist to her mouth. She saw that he intended to portray the lioness as grooming, a natural and nonchalant motion. But it was the eyes of the lioness that were so captivating. The lioness’s blue eyes looked directly at the viewer. Samantha stared at herself in the mirror, seeking just a glimpse of the intensity Paolo had given those eyes. The expression had penetrated her. She wondered if she’d ever truly had that effect on anyone in her life.

  The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. Would you care for some lunch?”

  Samantha had no clue what time it actually was, so she allowed her stomach to answer for her. “No, not hungry,” she said. “But…” Oh fuck it, why not? “After my shower, I’d like a smoke in the library.” She wondered if that was allowed and waited.

  “As you wish. Monsieur Balashov invited you to explore the house at your leisure today.” She paused. “I will prepare a light snack just in case you change your mind.”

  Samantha giggled, realizing that Marjorie must know a little something about the munchies. After hanging up the phone, she stepped back in front of the mirror. Her second day in Oleg’s home, and she had a need to feel more a part of her surroundings, more integrated into their world. She would belong to them for a while after all, but Samantha was starting to feel like more than a possession. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d felt a transformation taking hold. She grinned and toyed with the idea, growling at her reflection.

  “Rawr.”

  Though it pained her to do so, Samantha washed the paint from her body before heading to the library. She was sure Oleg wouldn’t appreciate smudges of gold ochre all over his fine furniture. She didn’t bother with the robe. When she’d been deprived of clothes at the start of all this, she’d decided she didn’t want them. What she did take was her returned messenger bag that held her phone and her earbuds along with her sketchbook and her tin of colored pencils.

  With a Gwen Stefani playlist pumping against her eardrums, she found the library. In the center of the large coffee table sat the hookah pipe, an elaborate hand-painted black and gold affair with a slender scalloped neck and sumptuously curved glass base. A single hose meant it would gurgle and hiss for only one Master at a time. She carefully removed the top of the carved Carrara marble box set next to it and the scent of cannabis filled her nose.

  On her third drag, she remembered that weed did not relax her, it made her antsy. The last time she’d indulged in a joint with her freshman roommate, she’d ended up thinking her mother might have installed cameras in their room. With a huff, Samantha put down the pipe and tried to finish the design she’d started in the barn. She fingered the lines of the vintage keyhole motif that started as a round circle at the bustline and continued as a long, angular opening that terminated at the navel. She’d need to support it somehow so it didn’t gap when seated or kneeling. But what color should it be? What kind of material? She couldn’t concentrate. With another huff, she tossed the book on the coffee table next to the hookah and lay back on the sofa.

  The towering built-in bookcases substituted for walls in this room. She stared at the painted trim work and realized it wasn’t white, but the softest shade of blush pink. Any femininity that shade may have lent the room was dominated by the rustic brown leather sofas and the herringbone patterned natural hide rug. She got up to check out some of the titles. A few she recognized. White Oleander, Memoirs of a Geisha, The Handmaid’s Tale. She pondered a moment over the image of Oleg pouring over these fictional works of contemporary North American authors of what most would call chick lit. The thought raised an eyebrow. There were shelves on travel and other shelves lined with books for entertaining and event planning. The section next to the window seemed to be dedicated to ballet technique and biographies of famous prima ballerinas. Several grouped together featured the first and only American to lead the Ballet de Paris, Emily Sinclair-Laroche. Samantha recognized the name, having idealized the story of the rebellious daughter of a French businessman and an American heiress who ran away to Paris to dance with the historic troop and earned a position as the most revered prima bal
lerina of her time. She’d received one of the books on the shelf as a birthday gift when she was ten and remembered pretending to be the amazing Emily Laroche in ballet class only to go home and imagine running off to Paris to become one of the most desired women in the world. Who didn’t want to be Emily Sinclair-Laroche?

  Samantha took a few of the Emily Sinclair-Laroche books and tucked herself in one of the large linen wing chairs angled toward the window. She refreshed herself on the details of the woman’s life, which in a lot of ways looked a lot like her life. They were both from prominent American families, and though no one would ever say it outright, that America had the same dynastic familial structures of civilizations much older and less squeamish about aristocracy, the Hunter railroad fortune put hers right up there with the Kennedys, the Roosevelts, the Vanderbilts and the likes of Emily Laroche’s mother’s ancestors. The Sinclair name was synonymous with coal, and they were the purveyors of the only source of American energy for almost a century. Hunter trains had run on Sinclair coal, and each of their families had staked their claim in the very small circle of the most powerful, the most wealthy, the most coveted royal court of American nobility.

  There had been a private school for Emily and society dinners, a debutante ball and a classical education that included ballet along with an instrument. While Samantha had struggled with the flute, Emily had mastered the cello, according to the description of her early years. Samantha fanned the pages, looking for her favorite part describing Emily’s debut. A folded note fell into her lap.

  She frowned at it and turned the precisely creased stationary over in her fingers. There was only a moment of pause before she opened it. How could she not open it? If there were limits to her curiosity, Samantha had not yet found them.

  Dear Oleg,

  She stopped. Placed the letter down in her lap and touched her chastity belt. She shouldn’t continue. She knew she shouldn’t, but that letter burned in her fingers. This was a clue about the man she wanted to figure out. How could she not read it?

  Dear Oleg,

  There was a time when I looked in the mirror and saw a woman who would make a good wife, a suitable mother. I saw a woman capable of love and loyalty. I believed that I would find as much happiness in your father’s arms as I would on—

  The next word was blurred, the blue script bleeding into the shape of a single drop of liquid. Samantha studied the smudged ink and decided the ruined word was “stage”.

  I’m sorry, my beautiful boy, because now I can’t even look in the mirror at all.

  Samantha slammed the letter down into her lap again. She shook her head at no one but herself. How could she read this? She couldn’t. No.

  Just no.

  Fuck curiosity. This was never meant for her eyes. She folded the letter, taking as much care as she could to match the original order of the creases. But she fumbled at it and had to unfold it and start again. Just as she started to unfold it, it disappeared from her hands. She turned to see Oleg looming above the chair, peering down at her over the high back. His mouth was moving. Her mouth was open.

  Chapter 25

  Yanking out her earbuds caused a tinny, low-fidelity version of one of Gwen’s colorful riffs to spill into the otherwise silent room.

  Oleg seemed to be waiting on an answer.

  She stared with apologetic eyes. She didn’t know what he’d said, but no matter what it was, the only response that could fit was the one she meant from the bottom of her heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what you are doing in here?” Samantha decided he’d repeated himself and she scrambled her brain for an answer. Why had she decided to come to the library?

  “I…uh…” She stood up and looked back over the room, where shelves were no longer in neat stacks. Books littered the floor and coffee table, open and tossed in disarray. “How long have you been here?”

  “Answer me!”

  “I wanted to try your hookah…and then…I saw these books about Emily Sinclair-Laroche. I’m really, really sorry.” She scurried to leave, but he grabbed her by the shoulder as she tried to pass him.

  “Did you read this?” he asked, the paper fluttering in his hand.

  “I… I shouldn’t have.” Samantha started to perspire and shiver at the same time. She was scared, and it wasn’t for her safety. She was scared of the look of disapproval in his electrified eyes. Her fear was rooted in regret, and the sensation was new and unwelcome. “I am so sorry.” His eyes darkened and she bowed her head. “Please.”

  He didn’t answer her single-word request for forgiveness. She stole a peek and saw he was now reading the letter. His fiery eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared with a sharp intake of the still air. She was frozen in place, drowning in the depth of sadness that overtook the corners of his mouth, suffocating on his jaw-locking pain. No one should have to read a letter like that from their mother, and especially not the pillar of strength in front of her who looked like he would soon be on his knees.

  On instinct, Samantha took to her knees, because she didn’t want to watch him falter, and yet she didn’t want to leave him. On her knees, it would be easier for him to hold himself high, higher than anyone else in the room at least. She hated the idea of him being alone with the pressing weight of the tear-stained words written in shaky script on flowery stationary.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated and was grateful when he didn’t banish her out of the room.

  His hazel eyes blazed with untethered fury. “Because of her, I don’t know who the fuck I am.” Shoving the letter into his pants pocket, he grabbed her by the back of her neck and pushed her to the wall. “Did you know that your role model was a fucking whore?”

  He moved away and cast a shadow in the room as he crossed in front of the window.

  “Don’t move,” he growled at her, and she listened, though she spotted the whip in his hand even with her head pressed to the wall. When she’d seen it on the display stand behind his desk, she’d known it wasn’t merely decorative.

  He cracked it at her thigh, and it stung like the largest needle pricking her skin. She buckled slightly, mostly from the sheer surprise of it, so fast, so deadly precise. But she didn’t hesitate to rise again and spread out her arms. This was instinct, pure unthinking instinct.

  His shoes scraped the floor as he retreated across the room. “No. No, no, no… I’m not thinking straight. This is not safe for you.” She turned to look at him. He’d coiled the whip, pacing like a tiger. “Fuck!” The guttural growl of his bleeding soul ripped through the air. “Get out! Go! Now!” He tore his blazer off and shoved it toward her. “I’ll call the car to take you home.”

  She took the finely tailored jacket and folded it in half, respectfully draping it on the nearest chair. Samantha didn’t know why she was crying, or maybe she did, but it didn’t make sense. She was crying for the boy she’d never known, and the man she still hardly knew paying so dearly for his pain. She cried for how much she wanted to help him absolve that pain with her own. No, her tears made no fucking sense at all, but nothing was going to hurt more than walking out of that room.

  “No, I’m staying. I’m staying because you need this.” Her whole body trembled as if a runaway train was rushing past only inches away. Her heart thundered against her rattling chest. “I’m staying because I need this.” She returned to the wall, spread her arms and legs and waited for him to say something, to do something.

  Finally, he spoke. His voice was a raspy and feral version of itself. “Your safeword… Scream it loud. Scream it at the top of your fucking lungs, because I need your screams today for all the wrong fucking reasons.”

  He cracked the whip again, and it snapped her shoulder blade with the thinnest of cuts, sounding like a gunshot, feeling like a hornet’s kiss.

  “If I hurt you…” he said.

  She turned around, and her gaze locked first on his trembling hand and then his tortured eyes. “I will survive you.”

  “If you survive me, then yo
u can have me, because truly I belong to no one else. The whip cracked above her head. “Turn the fuck around!”

  When she did, he snapped a sideways strike across her ass. Her flesh lit with fiery agony. She balled her fists and inhaled deeply, trusting his control over the nine-foot length of braided leather.

  Then a loud thud sounded, and a crash followed. She turned around to see Oleg stalking toward her, his whip strewn across the floor next to a broken vase.

  Heavy, billowing breaths blew past his lips. He scratched his chin and then rubbed the back of his head. One last swallow, and he steadied himself. The worst of the storm had passed and she’d survived. In fact, she’d more than survived. Samantha had stood in the eye of the storm and remained on her feet.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded, grabbing both of her shoulders, shaking her once, though she was certain he wasn’t concerned with the name of her hometown.

  She didn’t flinch. His hold on her was nothing to fear. Then his thumbs swiped at the teardrops on her cheeks before he decided to sip on them instead. She melted right there. “How did you find me?” she asked the same unseen knower of all things.

  God, how badly she wanted this man inside of her. She pawed at the chastity belt, angry at it so suddenly. Danger wafted off him in invisible waves, unspoken, ultrasonic, undeniably magnetic. The beautiful, broken monster had revealed himself, raw, untethered, and she devoured his anger, his pain. It had given her peace even as she hungered to know the limits of his pain, to be at the sharp edge of his despair with him. But why? What could be found in dark, bottomless pools that made her want to jump in? She’d been asking herself that question all her life and still didn’t have an answer.