Arranged By The Bravta King

8

Maria

Our conversation flows effortlessly from there, moving from art to the city. I'm careful not to reveal too much about myself, but I can't help but be drawn to him. His charisma is intoxicating, and I find myself flirting with him more than I ever have with anyone before. I can't help but let myself be swept away by the possibility of falling in love. Maybe not with him—he's still a total stranger—but I want it to happen one day.

Mikhail is nothing like the high school boys I know, and I feel embarrassed for being so eager when Trevor's hands were groping me at the party. I inhale as discreetly as I can when he looks away for a moment.

In New York, I can create myself, just like a work of art.

"There's something about Kaori's art that transports a person into another world," I say breathlessly as we finally walk away from the painting and move on through the gallery. "I'd love to be in her world, even for a moment."

Mikhail nods as he smiles knowingly and leads me over to a self-portrait of Kaori. The soft brushstrokes bring to life her features, and her eyes seem to follow us as we approach.

"She captures the essence of her subjects with minimal lines." Mikhail focuses on the painting. "That is very talented."

I find myself stealing glances at Mikhail as he talks, admiring his effortless cool and how his dark hair falls over his forehead. Each time he catches me looking, he smiles at me playfully. And each time he does that, it causes my cheeks to burn.

There's something about him that makes me feel understood and heard. And the fact that he's so good-looking makes it that much easier.

But I can see something else on his face. There's a familiar haunted look nibbling at the corners of his eyes, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's a look that I've seen so many times with Dad.

"She should paint a portrait of you," I giggle. "I would come here every day."

His eyes search mine. "I can say the same about you."

I turn away, blushing, as my heart leaps in joy at his words.

I turn and catch a glimpse of the ornate clock on the wall, suddenly shocked at how late it is. Outside, the sun has already set without me realizing. Crap! Mercy will be expecting me.

"I should get going," I reply, aware I'm monopolizing his time. "It was really nice meeting you, Mikhail."

He steps closer. "Let me give you a ride."

"Really, you don't have to," I back away. I'm touched by Mikhail's concern, but I'm unwilling to impose further.

"I insist," Mikhail says, his voice brooking no argument.

I can't help but think that maybe he has a point. So, I nod, unable to turn him down as he walks me out to the curb.

A black limo suddenly pulls up to the curb, and an alarm goes off in my head. Suddenly, I'm reminded of the familiar haunted look at the corners of his eyes. In fact, this entire moment feels a little too familiar. His grip on my hand tightens, and the determination in his eyes makes me feel apprehensive.

I may be sheltered, but I'm not dumb. And there's no way in hell I'm going to get inside the limo of a stranger like Mikhail—even if he is too good-looking for his own good.

"I can walk." My voice wavers as I try to pull my hand away from him, but to no avail. "Or take the subway."

"Maria, it's getting late." His voice is iron-hard now. "I want to make sure you're safe."

A man as tall and built as Mikhail steps out of the car from the driver's side. He's dressed in a black suit and wearing driving gloves. His short blond hair is tucked under a chauffeur's cap. His cold blue eyes lock on me as he steps forward and opens the passenger door.

"No, really." I attempt to sound firm, even a little rude, but it does nothing to loosen his grip on my hand.

"You're coming with me." His grip tightens more, and fear starts choking at my insides. "End of discussion."

"No, I'm not," I protest. I can't believe how quickly things took a dark turn. I thought he was one of the good ones. Not whatever the hell this is.

"I'm not asking, Maria." There's an unnerving edge to his voice. "Get in the car."

I wrench my hand tightly, finally freeing myself from Mikhail, and spin on my heel to run. My breath comes in shallow gasps. There's a police officer leaning next to his patrol car, and I race toward him, stumbling to a stop in front of him.

"Officer, please," I plead, glancing nervously over my shoulder at Mikhail, who stands by his limo with the door wide open. "That man won't leave me alone. I think he's trying to kidnap me."

The officer frowns at me and then looks over at Mikhail. His expression softens slightly when he turns back to me. "It's all right, miss. Let's go talk to him together."

What?!

Talk to him together?

I stare at the cop, but he doesn't skip a beat as he gently takes my hand and leads me back toward Mikhail. My stomach churns at the thought of confronting Mikhail, and I feel my feet moving on their own even as my mind screams at me to break free and run.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could I be so stupid!

"Apologies, my pakhan," the cop dips his head out of respect toward Mikhail. "This one was trying to get away."

Blood drains from my face and my ears start ringing at the words I'm hearing. Is he ... handing me back to Mikhail? Does he know him?

What is happening?

My mind blanks as the cop bows before departing. Mikhail guides me into the limo and then slides into the back seat behind me before I can do anything.

"Trust me," he says, "this is for your own safety."

"Are you going to r**e me?" I ask him, my murmuring voice hardly louder than a whisper in a storm.

Fear turns to surprise, and surprise transforms to anger when Mikhail throws his head back and laughs at my question as if it's the funniest thing in the world.

It's so enraging that I forget our circumstances—that he just forced me into his car, and that he's taking me somewhere of his choosing—and try to hit him without thinking.

He intercepts my wrist, and the look in his eyes freezes me in place. The grip tightens until I can barely move. I don't know if I should plead with him or struggle to break free. But the strength of his grip keeps me rooted in the seat — pliant and obedient to his every whim.

Scenery blurs as we race along Fifth Avenue, and it feels like we're traveling under a cloak of darkness to a place where I know I will never escape.

To stay sane, I think about the painting—the single chrysanthemum suspended above the water, symbolizing the beauty of isolation. It feels like an ironic reminder of the life I'm trapped in, torn between love and guilt.

What is going to happen to me? Panic grips my throat and I shake in my seat, staring out the window as buildings rise around me like the bars of a prison.