His lips twitched. “I can’t remember the last time someone made me coffee.”

“Not even at Starbucks?”

He didn’t answer, just sat at his desk, still eying the coffee, like he was afraid to drink it.

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I turned back to my work and continued reading through the thick folder of case studies and patients when I felt him.

I glanced up into hypnotic brown eyes. “Yes?”

Nikolai held out his coffee. “It’s cold.”

I arched my eyebrows. “I made coffee for you to be nice not because it’s my job.”

“Right.” He full on grinned this time. “But things always taste better when someone else makes them.”

“Why do I get the feeling you just don’t want to press a button?”

“I strained my finger last night.”

“Highly doubt that.”

Shadows lingered beneath his eyes. And for some reason, I felt guilty. It was just a cup of coffee, and it wasn’t worth arguing over. I gracefully stood, grabbed his coffee and went over to the Keurig to make another.

By three in the afternoon I’d had five coffees, Nikolai had drank the one I made him then left in a hurry, speaking in hushed tones into his phone. I stood when he left, meaning to ask him what else I was supposed to do but he gave me a warning stare that chilled me to the core.

I nearly fell out of my chair trying to sit back down then stared at the computer screen until my eyes started to blur.

At lunch time his secretary brought in a Wendy’s bag with a hamburger and fries with a vanilla frosty.

Groaning in pleasure, I went for the ice-cream first. Funny because I’d always hated anything cold. Ice cream had made me cry as a child but once I hit high school I couldn’t get enough of it.

Every single time I had a test in school, I had to have ice cream first; otherwise I was anxious.

When I graduated, I celebrated with more ice cream.

It was an addiction I couldn’t quit; one that, when I thought about cutting out sugar or dairy to lose weight, actually caused full on panic attacks, like I would somehow die without it. Which was too stupid for words, but there it was. My one vice.

“Break time,” a deep male voice said from the door. I looked up to see Nikolai holding his own Wendy’s bag.

“Cute.” I rolled my eyes and pushed away from the desk. “I thought you hated Wendy’s.”

“Yeah, well,” His grin was smug. “Thought it would make you smile after staring at the computer screen for hours on end.” His eyes darted to the milkshake. “You’re eating dessert first?”

“Yup.” I licked the spoon “Think of it as a stress reliever after such a long day, you’re lucky you got the flavor right.”

Something dark passed over his face before he shrugged and started digging into his own bag, pulling out a fry. “You seem more vanilla than chocolate.”

My entire body went numb and heavy. “Excuse me?”

“Vanilla.” The way he said it had my eyes blurring like some sort of spell was being cast into the air in front of me.

“I,” My arms started stinging. Slowly, I looked down at my wrists, nothing was there except for the scars from the car accident I’d been in at sixteen.

“So,” He was still talking, but his voice had changed, into something hypnotic, soft, seductive, painfully commanding. “Vanilla, has it always been your favorite?”

“My favorite.” I repeated, blinking up at him through lowered lashes.

“Yes.” Nikolai leaned forward, tilting his head to the side. “You’re favorite ice cream.”

My hands twitched, and then I cracked my knuckles, a nervous habit and he was making me feel… nervous, unsettled, like I’d just been drugged.

“Yes.” I finally answered.

Nikolai nodded. “Butterscotch.”

My blurry vision cleared.

“I’ve always been a sucker for butterscotch but they only have it at select places and since you were so keen on Wendy’s.” His smile was easy.

And just like that, I felt like I was normal again, back in my own body. I could count on my hand how many times I’d felt that way in my life, always during simple conversations, and always with my father.

Unnerved, I stood and started packing away my food.

“Is something wrong?” Nikolai’s voice was concerned but something about the rigid way he was sitting rubbed me the wrong way.

“Yes. No.” I shook my head, my gaze falling to his left hand.

The black sickle tattoo mocked me.

“Tell me,” I pointed to his tattoo. “Does it bother you that he marks you too?”

“Pardon?” Nikola’s jaw clenched as he stood.

“My father. Does it bother you that he marks you as well?”

“He touched you?” Nikolai’s brown eyes were crazed. “Maya… don’t lie to me. Did he touch you? Ever?”

“Not where anyone would see,” I finally said. “And sometimes, those are the worst kinds of pain, don’t you think? The scars you can’t prove are usually the ones that hurt the most.”

“Maya—”

“I uh…” Suddenly feeling nauseated, I stumbled back. “I need to take a longer break. Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Nikolai walked me to the door. “Why don’t you go for a walk and grab another coffee?”

“Hah!” I nodded. “Maybe it’s the caffeine that did it to me in the first place?”

“Did what?” He asked.

I popped my knuckles and lied. “Nothing.”

I settled myself in front of the office computer again. After going for a half hour walk and grabbing a coffee, I felt seriously better, finally able to pour all my nervous energy into something. Though honestly, the fact that my dad’s mark was on Nikolai’s skin, didn’t sit well with me. Turned my stomach, in fact. I hadn’t been unaware of their loose association, but seeing that mark was a bleak reminder that caution was in order.

I had to wonder, if I couldn’t give Nikolai whatever he wanted from me—because I couldn’t for a second believe he was offering me a job out of the goodness of his heart—would he kill me? Or hand me back to the father who sold me in the first place?

Would I turn into one of the desperate girls with soulless eyes that went to his clinics at night?

Suddenly things started clicking into place.

The men outside the door were body guards.

The girls… I’d already guessed they were prostitutes, I must have been right.

I knew my dad owned several businesses, many of them… shady. Did he operate a prostitution ring? A chill ran the length of my spine. Did Nikolai help him?

Right. No questions.

It was hard to focus on the computer when my mind was coming up with all sorts of possibilities, and my head hurt from trying to put two and two together, because nothing was adding up. Nothing.

“Maya?” Nikolai entered the office, his face void of emotion as usual. “How has your first official day on the job been?”

Strange. Odd. Freaky. “Good. Not what I expected,” I lied.

“It’s a trade.” He sat and leaned back against the leather chair, one of two in my office. My eyes searched his perfect face, his pristine clothes, looking for anything that would even hint of him working for my father in a more... violent manner. Most of the men I’d met who worked alongside my father were large stout men, men who you wouldn’t see in the ring at a UFC fight, more like the ones reffing it, and he never had bloody knuckles, black eyes in the tabloids. I shivered. He was a doctor for crying out loud. Was I seriously trying to find hints that he was a contract killer?

“You work for me during the day, I give you everything you could possibly need to not only finish your thesis but become world renowned and you help me… at night.”

I snorted and changed the subject away from me. “Right, I help you help… other women at night? Is that what we’re going to call it?”

“What I do at night makes it so you’re able to sit your nice ass down in this office and actually conduct research,” he snapped, yet again reminding me who held the power to my future.