A Wicked Proposition

CHAPTER ONE

FICTIONAL MEN AND REAL PROBLEMS

Nadia Moreau

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The blood refused to come off.

I'd been scrubbing my hands beneath water that had long since turned cold. Dark traces remained around my fingernails and in the creases of my fingers. I reached for the nailbrush again, ignoring the sting.

My uncle was dead in the sitting room downstairs.

I'd imagined his death more times than I cared to admit. Sometimes it was an accident or an illness. On terrible nights, I'd imagined doing it myself. I'd never believed I actually would.

I heard footsteps outside the bathroom and looked up at the mirror.

He stood in the doorway, still wearing the dark coat he'd arrived in. His gaze settled on my hands before travelling to my face.

“I thought I told you to wait in the car,” I said, turning back to the sink.

“You did. Then you stopped answering your phone.” He came inside, glancing at the discarded towel on the floor. “I found him downstairs.”

I gripped the edge of the sink. “Then you know what happened.”

“I know he's dead. I'd rather hear the rest from you.”

There was no accusation in his voice, which made everything worse. I'd expected anger or disgust. Instead, he waited while I struggled to explain what I'd done.

“He laughed when I told him I wasn't afraid anymore,” I said. “He thought I'd come to beg him to leave me alone. Even when I took out the knife, he kept laughing.”

I remembered his face when he finally realised I meant it. For years, he'd made certain I understood how powerless I was in his house. I'd almost forgotten what anger felt like.

“He didn't attack me,” I continued, looking at him through the mirror. “I need you to understand that. I brought the knife, and I used it.”

He approached slowly and took my hand away from the water. His thumb rested against my wrist while he examined the blood still caught beneath my nails. I watched his expression change, expecting revulsion.

Instead, something disturbingly close to admiration appeared in his eyes.

“You've spent years telling me you wanted him gone,” he said. “I knew you hated him, but I never thought you'd actually do it.”

“Neither did I.”

He looked at my hands again, and I realised he wasn't trying to determine whether I was hurt. He seemed fascinated by the evidence of what I'd done.

I pulled my hand back. “Would you please stop looking at me like that? I've killed someone, and you're behaving as though I've done something remarkable.”

He didn't immediately answer. His attention moved over my face, lingering there long enough to make me uncomfortable.

“Perhaps I never understood just how much you were capable of,” he admitted.

There was something almost reverent about the way he said it. Before I could decide whether to be offended or frightened, he stepped closer and caught my face between his hands.

I saw where his gaze dropped, understood what he wanted, and reached for his coat before he could close the remaining distance.

His mouth met mine in a rough, demanding kiss. I pulled him closer, forgetting the running water and the ache in my hands. He kissed me as though the blood had made me more desirable, not less, and the realisation sent an uncomfortable thrill through me.

His fingers tightened against my waist as I—

My phone rang.

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“Oh, for heaven's sake.”

I stared at my laptop, irritated. I'd finally got that chapter right, and somebody had chosen the most interesting moment to interrupt me.

Hi, I'm Nadia. Welcome to my world.

For the record, there were no dead uncles in my apartment. There was a half-finished coffee, a neglected proofreading assignment, and a novel that had been three chapters from completion for two weeks.

My phone continued ringing.

I found it beneath a notebook. Isabelle was my best friend and literary agent, which gave her two legitimate reasons to interrupt my work and no hesitation about doing so.

“Please tell me this is about my manuscript,” I said when I answered.

“Good afternoon to you too, darling.” Isabelle sounded amused. I could hear traffic in the background. “Have you forgotten we're going out tonight?”

I looked at the calendar beside my desk. The word Sumerki was written across today's date in purple ink, accompanied by an unnecessarily large question mark.

“I haven't forgotten. I was hoping you'd forgotten.”

“Not a chance. I even made a reservation for us.”

I rubbed my forehead. Dr. Mikhailova had suggested small exercises to help with my social anxiety: ask for something a shop might not have, make a request without rehearsing it, learn that hearing no wasn't a catastrophe.

Isabelle, naturally, had decided these exercises lacked ambition.

“I'm still not convinced asking a stranger to be my boyfriend is a sensible idea,” I told her. “There are considerably less humiliating ways to practise rejection.”

“Of course there are. But you agreed to try this one, remember?” She paused, and her voice softened. “Listen, we can forget the challenge if you're uncomfortable. I'd still like you to come out with me.”

My fictional characters were waiting, and I had enough work to justify staying home. I'd used that excuse before.

“No, I'll do it,” I said. “I just reserve the right to complain about your terrible ideas.”

“You've been doing that for years. I'll see you at eight.”

We talked briefly about where to meet before Isabelle reminded me to eat something and ended the call.

I returned to the manuscript, but the cursor blinked after an unfinished sentence while I thought about tonight.

What kind of man would I approach? Would I remember how to speak?

At least the rejection itself should be straightforward.

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By the time I reached Sumerki, I'd considered going home on the metro and again outside the pub, where I pretended to check my phone because I couldn't convince myself to open the door.

I wasn't frightened of pubs. I was frightened of embarrassing myself before a stranger. Inside, people enjoyed themselves beneath amber lights, unaware of the question I was supposed to ask one of them.

Isabelle waved from a table near the bar, looking lovely in a black dress, her pale hair loose over her shoulders. Seeing her helped, although I still gripped my coat tightly.

“You made it!” she said as I sat opposite her.

“Barely. I spent five minutes outside trying to remember why I agreed to this.”

“You could have called me.”

“And admitted you were right about me getting nervous? Absolutely not.”

She laughed and pushed a menu toward me. My water was already waiting. Sumerki was warm and comfortable, with dark wood, leather seating, and music beneath the conversations. Under different circumstances, I'd have liked it immediately.

“Have you eaten?” Isabelle asked.

“Not since lunch.”

“Then we're ordering something.”

I tried to read the menu, but I kept looking toward the bar. I could speak to a server when I knew what I wanted. Approaching someone who hadn't invited a conversation was another matter. What if I interrupted him, or he assumed I was making fun of him?

After we ordered, Isabelle asked about my manuscript. I told her I'd finally rewritten the confrontation with the uncle.

“Please tell me something terrible happens to him.”

“Something terrible happens to him.”

“You're still making me wait until the first draft's finished?”

“Three chapters left. You'll survive.”

We talked about books, but I kept noticing people pass our table. When I lost track of what Isabelle was saying for the second time, she stopped.

“Still thinking about the challenge?”

“Constantly.” I leaned closer. “What if he's waiting for somebody? What if he laughs? I know that's the point, but I don't think I can stand there and hear it.”

“You don't have to do it,” she said. “We can finish dinner and go home.”

She meant it. Knowing I could leave made staying easier. I'd moved countries and built a career, yet I'd spent all afternoon dreading a ten-second conversation.

Isabelle's attention shifted past my shoulder. “Actually, look over there.”

At the counter stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black shirt. Dark hair fell past his collar, a full beard framed his face, and tattoos covered his forearms and climbed his neck. He was laughing with the bartender, looking so comfortable with himself that I felt awkward just watching him.

“He looks like someone straight out of your books,” Isabelle whispered.

I looked away before he caught me staring. “That's precisely why I'm not approaching him.”

“Why not?”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes. That's why I pointed him out.”

He was gorgeous and so completely my type that it seemed unfair. My face warmed. I rearranged my cutlery to keep my hands busy.

“He could have a girlfriend,” I said.

“Then he'll tell you.”

“What if he laughs?” I asked, beginning to sweat.

“He might. But I'll be right here.” Isabelle squeezed my hand. “And you can change your mind.”

I sat another minute, rehearsing the question. I'd started these exercises because I wanted to stop letting embarrassment decide what I could do. The worst likely outcome was a no, followed by a long walk back to this table.

“All right.” I pushed my chair back before I could talk myself out of it.

“Please don't watch,” I added.

“I'll try.”

I left my phone beside my bag and walked toward the counter. A server crossed in front of me, and I was absurdly grateful for the delay. There was still time to turn around. I could tell Isabelle I'd tried and found the wrong moment.

The man looked up. Up close, he was even more attractive. I couldn't remember whether I'd meant to introduce myself first.

“Hello,” I managed.

He smiled. “Hello.”

His Russian accent was unmistakable. I glanced toward Isabelle, who was doing a very poor job of pretending not to watch. Then I turned back to the stranger and tried to ignore how hot my face had become.

“Would you like to be my boyfriend?”

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RUSSIAN GLOSSARY

Sumerki (Сумерки): Twilight / dusk.