Beastly Passions (6 page)

“Why?” she whispered now. “Why would you do this?”

His brows furrowed. “Feed you? Was I wrong in thinking that was why you came?”

Asha bit her lip to keep from screaming and shoved away the tray. “Have them take it back.”

The air of confusion shrouding him only seemed to grow. “Is this not the meal you—”

“Send. It. Away.”

The confusion melted into frustration. “Woman,” he growled. “My chef—”

“I don’t care!” Asha practically roared slapping the table with her hands. “I don’t care what you had your chef do! I don’t care about the comfort of your home or the stability! I don’t care about this view! I don’t care about the next words resting on your tongue! I want this food out of my sight and replaced within the next few seconds or by my gods
I will throw it over the side of this patio!”

Taras watched her for a moment before nodding. “As you wish,” he retorted with a calmness that she hadn’t been expecting. Over his shoulder, he called out something in Russian. Their server suddenly reappeared and a rapid exchange of words took place before the young woman looked at her with sympathy. A cloth napkin materialized and was held out for Asha. It wasn’t until then that she realized that her face was wet.

Her cheeks burned with the weight of embarrassment and she couldn’t get the lump in her throat to depart. She thanked the girl and looked away as the tray disappeared from her line of vision.

“Would you like to explain the tirade or should I prepare for another?” her husband queried after a beat of quiet.

Asha wiped her cheeks clean, furious at herself for the show of weakness. “Are we moving to Bengaluru anytime soon?”

“You know this is not possible.”

“Malur? Chettinad? Magadi? Nagamangala?”

“Cannot even pronounce the last city name properly,” he responded, setting aside his newspaper.

“Then do not
ever
present me with the reminder that my home is thousands of miles away and out of my reach,” Asha snapped. “It’s cruel, even for you.”

His face shuttered. “You think me capable of purposely hurting you.”

“You want softness? Not here. Dewy stares that say I sympathize? Not. Here,
” she repeated in an emotionless tone, reintroducing him to the words he’d spoken hours ago. “What I
think
matters very little to every significant figure in my life, husband. What I feel or want matters even less. Why pretend this is any different?” Waving a hand between the two of them, she shrugged and easily stated, “I’m a glorified courtesan. One that you decided to buy
permanently
due to whatever satisfaction you gain in doing so. I don’t desire to know your reasons any more than you desire to express them. Allow us to be clear on one simple thing,”—she leaned forward—“in much the same way that you told me to look no deeper, I am telling you that you cannot charm me with pretty things or coax me into the illusion that this is real. You have no comfort to give, correct?”

“Asha—”

“You have no comfort to give, correct?” she spat out between clenched fangs, her beast beginning to cloud her reason.

“This is what I said,” he replied, his expression grim.

“Then you can keep your parlor tricks of familiar meals, and whatever else you’ve thought to concoct, to yourself. I don’t want it.” Suddenly tired, she stood.

Taras sat back in his chair, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “Leaving after such pleasant conversation?”

Asha tossed down the napkin. “I’ve lost my appetite.” She went to move past his chair but he caught her firmly by the wrist. Naturally she assumed this was where he thoroughly informed her of what her place was and how she should tread to it with the grace of a swan. The reprimand never came. He did nothing else but keep her there, his fingers on her skin. She hated that the unnaturally warm touch made something unnamed flare within her belly, seeking him out.

“All I want is for you to see the best,” Taras said in a low tone so quiet that it was almost as if he were talking solely to himself. “And even in this, you see the worst.” His hand squeezed her briefly. “Irony.”

She didn’t speak, just remained where she was standing.

“You will tell Magdalena what it is you like and she will prepare,” he stated. “I do not wish to witness you this way over breakfast—or any meal—again.”

Looking at him then, Asha found sincerity in his face. He’d been trying, in his own way, to please her. Why, she didn’t know. But that
had
been his purpose, for her to see the best. It made her hate him a bit more. How could she continue to blindly judge him if he behaved this way?

“You tell me to look no deeper and then you do things like this, why?” she queried, unable to make herself walk away.

“Do not have an answer for you.” His voice was gruff.

She was able to remove her hand. “Then all I’ll
ever
see is the worst.” Asha didn’t wait for a response. Quick and quiet was her exit.

***

Work.
That was to be his focus currently, and yet… Taras abruptly dropped the tools in his hands, annoyed with himself. Annoyed with Asha. Annoyed that this was only the second day of their marriage and as opposed to spending it in a decadent location off the coast of some island shrouded in palm trees and the scent of coconut milk, he was tinkering away in his basement while his wife brooded on another floor of the house.

He thought himself to be doing something kind for her, charming even. How wrong he’d been. All his approach had done was incense her; a response that he wasn’t expecting. His intent had been to…well he wasn’t particularly sure of his intent, only aware of the actual outcome—which consisted of yelling and tears. The yelling he could handle. The tears however, only served to disturb him. Taras wasn’t accustomed to emotional extremes. Rarely did he witness a crack in the facades of others and when it took place, it was due to him pressing a knife into some vulnerable area of flesh, not a breakfast meal that he’d researched for
their
enjoyment. Asha hadn’t been pleased and if they’d been in their shifted forms at the time, whatever he offered her would have only garnered twisted ears, a lashing tail and wide-open eyes full of aggression. All of which would have ended if he’d chosen to pin her. In this instance, he knew better. Dominating his wife would do no good here. One did not simply dominate a female predator and continue about his days with both eyes and all-important limbs. Cuddly and sweet could only be titles claimed by the wild dogs and pandas. A tigress? No. His spouse was no different. Her mild manner and succinct, blatant approach to conversation belied the steel beneath her skin.

“In much the same way that you told me to look no deeper, I am telling you that you cannot charm me with pretty things or coax me into the illusion that this is real.”

Pretty things. She didn’t want pretty things. Well fuck if he had much more to offer. When he told her to avoid looking deeper, he’d done so for reasons that he couldn’t—wouldn’t
—
examine. He feared that if she did, that if
he
did, a disgusting and useless thing would sprout—hope. Taras wanted no parts of this. He’d learned as a cub to bypass that fruitless bit of drivel. Hope was not for children who’d witnessed the things that he’d been made privy to. It wasn’t for boys made to embrace the animal within; boys who’d been pushed into becoming more beast than man on most days. He didn’t want that here. The odor of disappointment already permeated the air enough. Why test the waters?

Fuck hope. It had never done a gods-damn thing for him aside from teasing him into believing that someday fickle, selfish gods would bless him with all his young, naïve ambitions. That the prayers he’d released after witnessing the horrors of death and betrayal would be answered. That his chants of faith and optimism would find their guileless way to a source strong enough to turn the tides of his crooked path.

He’d been stupid enough to believe himself capable of nobility, having realized that he may have been a bit too harsh the night before. Taras hadn’t wanted Asha’s despondency or resignation. He desired her fight. What he’d seen in her during their first introduction when she’d told him that she would gladly make his eyes drink garnishes for her own amusement. Where had
that
Asha disappeared to? It seemed that the moment she realized her fate, all the battle within had dismissed itself. At least until this morning during her angry snap of words. He only wished it hadn’t come with a sadness that pierced him. He couldn’t make this any better for her. Taras didn’t know how. He was a hard, unforgiving, immovable man. That was all the world knew, that was all
he
knew. He could be nothing else. And because of that, Asha would discover soon enough that all she really would ever see was the worst in him.

There were skeletons in his closet that he never wanted to see again; things that he’d done that he could never face. His father’s cruelty had known no bounds when it came to raising his only son. Taras had received his focus, his plotting. Why that was, he would never know.

Perhaps he was a sadist. Perhaps he wanted to punish them both. Himself for falling into the manipulative, grasping claws of his father when he should have known better,
done
better. Asha because she represented another life—another destiny—that didn’t involve being the pit bull of your family; a life that was inches away and still out of reach.

He’d only ever wanted to salvage what was left of his name, one that he’d made legitimate through a host of practices long before Grigoriy had taken it for his own purposes. Those purposes being that of someone who could not sufficiently intimidate on his own so he used the beast he’d worked so hard to create. And when that beast no longer wanted to heel, he did what he needed to break it. Taras had been cracked and rebuilt so many times that he’d lost count of his fractures. And just when he thought he could finally walk away from it all, he’d found out that the old bastard had opened several unsanctioned enterprises in Taras’ name, defrauding companies and compiling a record of each.

If Asha felt forced or trapped into their union, she was not the only one. Taras hadn’t fought for her on his own volition despite his desire to do so after meeting her. No, Grigoriy had pulled the puppet strings with a simple threat.
“You tie yourself to girl, you make us all one large happy family of cats, or I will be more than glad to anonymously drop tips to the proper authorities about your shameful and unethical proceedings. You will lose it all and I will take joy in watching as it happens.”

What he couldn’t understand was
why.
What did the Shankurs have to offer that Grigoriy needed so badly? And why did they—he and Asha—have to be the pawns in this game?

Taras glumly eyed his latest project, wanting to smash it just to release a nth of his frustration like a little boy slapping the controls of a toy car that had lost its ability to entertain him properly. Before he could sweep his arm across the desk and leave crushed bits of metal and tools in his wake, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Who?” he barked out in Russian.

“Alexei,” a gravelly voice answered.

He shoved off the table to go answer. On the other side stood one of the very few people allowed to interrupt his frequent, and often times unproductive, toiling. “You have something for me?”

“A great portion of it consists of unanswered questions, but yes, I have something for you.”

Taras overlooked the perpetually dry tone of the other male tiger and backed away. Alexei closed the door behind himself and tossed a floppy disk onto the table. “Look.” At Taras’ raised eyebrow, he added, “
Please.”

Knowing that the man wouldn’t dare bother him with bullshit, he picked it up and inserted into the drive of his personal computer before he thumbed through what looked to be a jumble of letters, numbers and symbols. “What, exactly, am I gazing at?”

“Do you not recognize it?”

Taras examined it closer. “Where did this come from?”

“Mail pile at parent office in the city. No name on the box aside from yours. Mischa thought it may be a virus so she ran tests but there was nothing aside from what you’re seeing now. Everything is strangely clean.”

He finally looked up. “And
that
is because this isn’t virus but encrypted data written by someone who understands coding and knew I would be able to analyze the message.” Taras scanned the content, his mind beginning to put together what had been sent to him. Taking a piece of paper, he quickly wrote down account names and numbers and then stopped as it finally occurred to him what it was. “These are the figures you showed me yesterday,” he told Alexei, showing him what he’d managed to jot down. “The ones associated with Igor’s stealing.”

“Yes,” Alexei confirmed not bothering to look. “But what else is there?” he questioned, pointing at the numbers.

He lifted his eyes. “You know I am not fond of mysteries.”

“You are not fond of much of anything, because you are ornery, cranky man who often times behaves like cub that needs nap,” his friend kindly informed him. “However, if you gave it the effort, you would see that
these
figures vary from original account of what your father handed me.”