10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 13

One look at Ariel’s dress and I know she’ll be in my bed tonight.

Part of me wants to say fuck all this song and dance; let’s get to the main event. But another part, a wiser part, counsels, Patience, patience. Half the fun is in the hunt. And this hunt will be short enough as it is. No point in rushing it along.

I lick my lips as I watch her emerge from the limo I sent. Red-tipped feathers on her dress catch the dying sunlight. A warning sign. Nature’s way of saying, Danger—Do Not Touch.

Too bad I’ve never been good at following rules.

The dress hugs every curve like a second skin, setting my imagination on fire while revealing absolutely nothing at all. Not that I need much in the way of inspiration. She’s covered from neck to collarbone, but I still have no problem picturing how easily I could grab Ariel by that delicate throat and teach her what happens to little girls who play with danger. Show her that no amount of demure smiling can hide the fact that she’s mine now.

Because that’s what this display is about, isn’t it? It’s an act of rebellion disguised as surrender.

The perfect daughter. The perfect date. The perfect wife-to-be.

I’m almost sad that she looks so meek, so submissive. I wanted more of an outright fight, if only so I could snarl in her ear, Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.

If she’d shown up in oversized sweats, at least I would’ve been justified in hauling her to the bathroom and shredding them off of her.

But fine. If she wants to yield this easily, I won’t say no.

I extend my hand as she climbs the steps. When she’s close enough, she places her fingers in mine.

Like a princess at a ball.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Ms. Ward.” I let my gaze strip her bare, watching pink bloom across her cheeks. “You look stunning.”

A smile curves her lips—modest, timid, everything she wasn’t at the gala. Everything I know she isn’t. “Please. Call me Ariel.”

“Ariel it is. I’m glad you could join me.”

When I straighten to my full height, her eyes skitter away from mine, but not before I catch the heat in them. Those quick, darting glances tell me everything I need to know. Up my body, across my shoulders, to my face and away again.

Hungry. Desperate.

Good. The craving hasn’t left me since our last encounter, either. Since I bandaged her hand and imagined wrapping it around my cock instead.

“Shall we eat?” I gesture toward the restaurant’s doors, even though what I really want to say is, Shall we stop pretending?

Patience, Sasha. Patience.

I hold the door and guide her inside. The maître d’ practically trips over himself at the sight of us. “Mr. Ozerov! We’ve been expecting you. Your usual table is right this⁠—”

“We’ll take the corner booth,” Ariel interrupts.

Both the maître d’ and I freeze. I turn first, but when I look at her, Ariel just smiles in the same easy, pleasant way she did when she first emerged from the car.

My gaze shifts to the maître d’. His face is pale and stricken. He knows as well as I do: No one contradicts me in my own kingdom. This is my territory, my empire in miniature, where everyone from the sommelier to the busboys understands exactly who holds the power.

Everyone but my date, it seems.

Her smile takes on a sharper edge, dripping saccharine poison. “Unless you’d prefer to stare at the scaly little lobsters in the fish tank all night long, darling?”

I nod once, teeth grinding. So be it. Let her have this small rebellion.

It’ll make breaking her that much sweeter.

I give the man a slight nod and we’re quickly shepherded in a different direction. The serving team hustles to transplant a crystal bucket over to this new table. It cradles a bottle of Krug champagne, beads of condensation rolling down its neck like tears.

“With the compliments of the chef,” the maître d’ murmurs, bowing so low I half-expect his nose to scrape the floor. “Please enjoy your evening.”

I help Ariel to her seat, watching her sink into the velvet cushions like she belongs there. Like a queen ascending her throne.

My queen—whether she likes it or not.

Her lips twist into that perfect smile again. “Who said chivalry is dead?”

“Not dead. Just unpopular nowadays.” I settle into my own side of the booth, adjusting my tie. Her eyes track the movement carefully before she drags her glance away.

“Can’t say I disagree. The last guy I dated took me to Chick-Fil-A.”

The casual mention of another man touching what’s now mine makes violence surge through my veins. I want to replace this worthless piece of shit and explain exactly why that was a mistake. Preferably with my fists.

Patience, Sasha. Patience.

Instead, I grit my teeth in what could generously be called a smile. “I’m sure they can replace a chicken to fry if the food here isn’t to your liking.”

Something hot and defiant flashes in her eyes—there you are, little spitfire—before that perfect mask slides back into place.

The server approaches with a respectful nod. “Sir, madam, it is a pleasure to have you joining us this evening. May I⁠—”

“Five of those.”

Ariel again. It’s not that she’s barking orders—on the contrary, her voice is so sweet and feminine and fucking princess perfect that it’s a miracle I can even replace it in me to be offended.

But something about the way she keeps lunging in just when I expect her to sit back and be waited upon pricks my irritation.

The server is every bit as taken aback as I am. “I’m sorry—five of what precisely, madam?”

“Those.” She points a manicured nail rather rudely at the next table over. The couple there are both in evening attire that would’ve been “old school” a century ago. They must be pushing ninety years old at least. They blink at her in slow confusion.

“Five… osetra caviar portions?” the server struggles to clarify.

“Is there a problem with that?” she asks.

He shakes his head in a hurry, glancing over at me. “No, no. Of course not. I will be back momentarily with that.” He’s gone in a flash, leaving me to look at my date and wonder just what exactly is going through her brain.

“I intended to order for us,” I rumble.

“I wouldn’t want you to go through the trouble!” she says. “I mean, not that it’s not so gentlemanly of you. What woman doesn’t dream of a big, strong man to pull out chairs and order for her?” Her voice drips honey, but there’s an ocean of vinegar underneath it. “How would I manage those things all by my dainty, ladylike lonesome?”

The challenge in her tone makes my dick throb. Makes me want to bend her over this table and show her exactly what kind of man she’s dealing with.

But that would be… uncouth. And I am nothing if not a gentleman.

At least until the bedroom door closes.

“I lead an empire. I can handle ordering your dinner.”

“Oh, an empire, hm?” She leans in and grins, all teeth and no warmth. “Tell me all about it. Got any big emperor’s plans cooking? Parades? Grand balls? Maybe a big, round spaceship to destroy enemy planets?”

Something’s off. The fire I saw in her eyes at the gala—the defiance that made me want to break her—it’s here and there, present and gone, dancing around faster than I can place it. And when it does disappear, it’s replaced by this sugar-sweet parody of fawning submission that sets my teeth on edge.

Was her stubbornness that night just an act? Or is this the act?

One thing’s for certain: by the time this night is over, I’ll strip away every mask she’s wearing until there’s nowhere for her to hide. I’ll replace the real Ariel Ward underneath.

And then I’ll tame her properly.

People think romance is complicated, but it isn’t. It’s an equation, the simplest one of all: wine, dine, fuck. That three-step routine has won me way more hearts than I ever wanted, especially when all I was interested in was a night with the body that hosted them.

So why shouldn’t Ariel be the same?

Why shouldn’t she fall at my feet like every other woman before her?

Ten days is about nine and a half more than I need.

The waiter comes back with a heaping platter of caviar and sets it down in front of us. “Five portions of the osetra⁠—”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ariel tuts sadly. “This isn’t what I wanted! I meant those.” This time, she points at a completely different dish on a completely different table. The three blind mice wouldn’t have missed by that far of a margin, but she shows no sign of confusion. Just that smile again.

I can’t decide whether I want to laugh or fuck it out of her.

“Er… Ma’am, I just want to be sure I’m…”

“Those are tarts, right?” She eyes the man. “That’s what I want! So sorry about the confusion!”

The server looks hopelessly at me. I shrug. If she wants to make a fool out of herself, I won’t stop her. It doesn’t change how this night will end: a moan in my ears, a ring on her finger, an army in my pocket.

In the meantime, I’ll sip my champagne and wait.

She picks her nails absent-mindedly as the waiter once again vanishes into the kitchen in search of her tarts. To his credit, he doesn’t take too long, though he brings backup this time. Another server to carry over two plates of hors d’oeuvres.

“Fig and goat cheese tarts,” the poor bastard explains. “Paired with a glass of our best Chateau Pétrus. 1920 vintage. An excellent year.”

The dish is a work of art: plump figs dripping with honey, goat cheese whipped into clouds, all of it paired with a Merlot that’s heaven on the palate. I wait for her to eat, if only because I want to see what ecstasy on her face looks like before I show her just how much more her body is capable of feeling.

But Ariel takes one delicate bite, then sets her fork down like it’s burned her.

“Not to your taste?” I ask.

I shouldn’t care what she thinks of the food. Shouldn’t notice the way her throat works as she swallows.

Her smile is sugary enough to rot teeth. “I’m not really a fan of goat cheese.”

Liar. There’s no fucking chance that a Greek princess doesn’t like goat cheese. Hell, she probably nursed on the shit from birth.

But fuck it. I won’t waste time with this petty bullshit. If she wants to play this game, I’ll let her. Let her pretend she isn’t ravenous for more than just food.

I take a slow sip of wine, watching her over the rim of my glass. Her eyes follow every movement I make.

“What a shame,” I remark, voice pitched low enough to make her shiver. “I had such plans for dessert.”

Ariel shrugs and giggles like a wind-up Barbie doll. “Oh, no!” Then she signals for the waiter to come back over.

From there, it’s like a fucking montage of pickiness.

A salad arrives: almonds and peas and the most inoffensive greens ever made. I’ve never met a woman who doesn’t gorge on rabbit food. Surely she won’t have anything to object to this time.

And yet…

“What now?”

“I have an almond allergy,” she explains prettily.

No, you don’t. I had a file put together on you. If you so much as sneezed at cats, Feliks would have found out. “Pity.”

The voice in my head urging Patience is starting to grow hoarse.

The duck: “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says with a remorseful glance at the duck confit drizzled in cherry compote. “Duck reminds me too much of my childhood pet. I had a duckling named Sir Quacks-a-Lot.”

Steak tartare: “Is the chef trying to give me parasites?”

Again and again, she dismisses everything brought to her, and again and again, I can’t help but feel like something’s off about this whole performance. The brattiness comes and goes like a tide, rising whenever the waiter approaches, falling when we’re alone. Her body betrays what her mouth denies—the quick flash of her tongue when each new dish arrives, the white-knuckled grip on her wine glass every time I lean close.

I catch her staring at my hands as I slice through the tender meat of the short rib course. Her pupils blow wide when I bring the fork to my mouth, a flash of heat lightning in those green eyes before she remembers herself and looks away.

Oh, she’s not immune. Not even close.

I spear another piece of perfectly-cooked wagyu, watching her push food around her plate like a child avoiding bedtime. “Something wrong with the sauce?” I ask as she scrapes it carefully off her fifth untouched dish.

She glances up through those thick lashes, radiating fake innocence like a nuclear reactor. “Just not a fan of mixing fruit with meat.”

I set down my knife with deliberate care, metal clicking against bone china like a bullet being chambered.

Alright.

Fuck patience.

Time to end this little charade.

I signal the waiter. “Bring the lady’s dish back to the kitchen. Remove the sauce.”

Around us, the restaurant goes quiet. In the decade I’ve patronized this place, I’ve never sent back a dish. Ariel’s cheeks flush pink as nearby diners turn to stare.

But she says nothing.

Maybe there’s hope for the little filly after all.

When her new plate arrives, I watch her with dark amusement. “Better?”

She takes a bite, unable to refuse without making a scene. “Perfect,” she manages, but her voice has gone husky.

I lean forward, close enough to catch the scent of peaches on her skin. Close enough to imagine tasting it. “I thought it might be.” My voice drops lower, meant for her ears alone. “I always know exactly what a woman needs, even when she fights it.”

The fork trembles slightly in her grip. She’s not playing with her food anymore, and we both know why. Her little games have only made her more appetizing.

That’s when the lightbulb finally goes off.

She isn’t just trying to be difficult. She isn’t turning her nose up at the food because she doesn’t like it.

On the contrary… she’s ready for dessert.

And so am I.

I catch her wrist as she reaches for another glass of wine. Her pulse flutters against my fingertips like a trapped bird.

“I want to show you something.” The words come out rougher than intended.

“What kind of something?” she squeaks.

“The view from my penthouse. It’s spectacular.”

She hesitates just long enough to maintain her little charade of virtue. Just long enough to make me want to shred it to pieces.

“I’d like that.” Her voice trembles. With desire or fear—at this point, I don’t fucking care which. Both will get me what I want.

I rise and extend my hand. When she places her delicate fingers in my palm, they’re shaking.

We cross the lobby and go to the elevator doors of the attached hotel. The doors slide shut with a soft ding. In here, shut close together, that smell of peaches is stronger than ever.

Something primitive unfurls in my chest. Something that wants to pin her against these walls and fuck her until she forgets every man who came before me.

But there’s something else, too. Something that makes me wonder if I’m still the hunter here. If I ever was.

Then I dismiss it. She’s a rabbit and I’m a wolf. What happens next will be messy, brutal, and brief. But it will get the job done—that’s for fucking certain.

“Ten days” ends tonight.