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“I hate you.” “I think about you.”
“You want to know why I don’t touch you?” I shook my head. “Because if I did, I wouldn’t stop. Not until I’d snuffed out that pretty fire in your eyes.” His gaze flashed. “Don’t shut yourself in a room with me again, Gianna.”
“Say something in Russian.” “Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina kotoruyu ya kogda-libo videl.” “What did you say?” “You’re annoying.”
“What do I taste like?”
“Kak moya.”
“Kak moya,” I said, smoothing the gloss on my lips and watching her in the mirror. “What does it mean?” She stopped at the door, assessing me with a look. “It means, like mine.”
“I’ve thought about you so much you’re mine now.” It was a growl that lowered into a threat. “You’re lucky you didn’t let him touch you, Gianna, because I really don’t like it when people touch my things.”
“What if someone arrests me while you’re in the bathroom?” “I’d bail you out.” “If you couldn’t?” “I’d be locked up beside you.”
“Would you visit my grave if I died?” His eyes grew dark. “I’d die before you were ever in a grave, malyshka.”
“You’re not even Catholic!” “I’m whatever you are.”
“Haven’t you heard? Love is an obsession. Some would even say . . . the maddest obsession.”
“How about because I love you, Gianna? Because I think I have since the moment I saw you? Because if you weren’t in this world anymore, I would find a way to take myself out of it?”
