50
IVAN
Slices of every imaginable cake combination are laid out on the glass counter in front of us, but Cora hasn’t touched a single one.
I lean in close, voice low and tight. “You basically made love to a lemon curd cheesecake two nights ago. Maybe drum up a fraction of that energy for this cake.”
She doesn’t move. She is a glacier next to me. “Things were different two nights ago.”
“We were pretending then and we’re pretending now. Nothing has changed.”
I know the words are a lie. Cora knows it, too. Two nights ago, we were out on a date, with the possibility of something swirling alluringly between us.
Now, I’ve gutted those hopes. One cruel word at a time.
I saw her in the doorway to my office. The shock etched into the lines of her face. The hurt. I thought the gut punch I felt then was the worst it could get.
Until now. The fire in Cora has gone dormant, replaced by an icy indifference I can’t seem to thaw.
That hurts worse.
The baker emerges from the back. “How is the happy couple?” The woman is beaming at us, too thrilled with her good fortune at having been chosen as our baker to even notice the schism widening before her eyes. “Are there any flavors you particularly love? I can bring out more samples or whip up different combinations if there is something you want to try that isn’t here.”
Cora keeps her eyes on me. “Order whatever you want, dear.”
What the fuck did she expect? She told me the night we met that she had no interest in this world. Even if I had told Yasha what I was really thinking, what I was really feeling, what would have changed? Sure, I could have said that Cora is different. That she brings color to the monotone drudgery that is my day-to-day life. That my pulse quickens when she enters a room and when she leaves it. That I fucking dream of her.
But even if I told him all that, nothing would have changed.
We still wouldn’t have a shot in hell of being anything more than what we are now: two people pretending they have a future that doesn’t exist.
I hold her gaze for one second, two, five, ten. Then I spin back to the baker. “Leave. Come back when I call for you.”
The woman’s smile fades. “Oh. I—Do you need—?”
“I need you to leave,” I grit out. “Now.”
Even as the baker stumbles back towards the kitchen door, Cora doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. The only sign she’s even conscious of what is happening around her is the way she flinches as I spin back to her.
“If you’re mad, say so.”
She lifts her chin. “I’m not mad.”
“Like fuck you aren’t. For someone who hates masks, you sure love to hide behind one.”
She snaps her attention to me, eyes flaring. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Since when?”
“Since always!” She throws her arms wide. “The only reason I’m here is because you demanded it. Because otherwise, my friends and I would be killed and you wouldn’t do anything to stop it. I never had a choice.”
I’m looking at Cora, but I don’t see her; instead, I see Katerina Sokolov standing in front of me, hands shaking around a champagne flute as we toasted.
I see my mother, head bowed as she over and over again resigned herself to her fate.
This is not like that.
I’m not like that.
“You think you don’t have a choice?” I spit.
She lifts her chin. “I know I don’t.”
I slide a plate of lemon raspberry cake between us and swipe my finger through it. Pink buttercream and berries drip down my finger as I hold it to her lips. “Try it.”
“No.”
I lean closer. “I thought you said you didn’t have a choice.”
“You know damn well that’s not what I was talking about, Ivan.”
“So you have a choice in some things but not others?” I press. “It’s a wonder you have freedom at all if I’m such a monster. That must be why you were trembling in the shower the other night. You were afraid of me.”
Her jaw clenches. Color rises high in her cheeks. She’s remembering exactly what happened.
The way she begged me to fuck her. How much she wanted me to touch her.
Suddenly, she sits forward on her stool and wraps a hand around my wrist. Her green eyes are locked on mine as she leans forward and parts her lips.
The moment she wraps her full lips around my finger, I see my mistake.
I feel my cock growing in my pants. Achingly hard. Painfully hard.
We’ve shattered through the wall of ice, but now, we’re at the other extreme. Heat burns between us, scorching every other thought and worry out of my head.
I shift closer and palm her thigh. I just need to ground myself to something real, something tangible. Because with every second that Cora’s mouth is on my fingertip, the likelihood that I throw her on the counter and devour her like the cake we’re supposed to be tasting grows exponentially larger.
Her lashes flutter closed. She tightens her hand around my wrist, twisting as she swirls her tongue slowly around my finger. It’s impossible not to think about where I wish her tongue was instead.
Then she moans.
Holy fuck, she actually moans. I feel the vibration in my bones.
Her cheeks hollow out. She sucks every possible drop of frosting from my finger. Her tongue flicks the end of my finger once and then again.
I’m shaking with lust. Stuck in a trap of my own making.
Then her eyes open.
And the moment shatters apart.
The house lights come on. The curtain parts. The fantasy we’ve been living in for days dissolves like the paper dream it is, and I force myself to pull my finger free of her mouth.
Her mask is gone. All that’s left is stunned fear and crushed hope.
Cora blinks at me, her eyes darting around in hopes of some kind of escape. Then she jolts up, almost knocking her stool back in the process. “I need to use the restroom.”
As she sprints away, I adjust my pants and consider the choice now before me: do I pretend I don’t give a damn and let her go?
Or do I follow her into the bathroom and show her exactly how much I care?